Blade Storm

Confidence. Of the three things I personally consider most important in an FPS, it is one.

Set it next to the other two—judgment and aim—and plenty of people will wonder whether it really belongs in that company, whether it matters enough to be spoken of in the same breath. My answer doesn't change. You can have the best aim and the best decision-making in the world, and if you have no confidence, you shrink. You cannot play up to the skill you actually have.

If aim is the body and judgment is the brain, then confidence is the mental. In a game like Project A, where every single round comes at a brutal tempo, the mental outweighs everything else. Even in the pro scene, Project A is a game that can be over five seconds after the round begins.

Back when I was still active, the line I heard most from Coach was play with a little confidence. That alone should say how much of the game it carries.

I had taken three kills. I also had fifteen health left, and in the end I gave the last one away to the Jett rotating onto C.

"Ah. They're coming out through there..."

They had dug me out of my corner on site, but the enemy never climbed out of a two-versus-four. The numbers held.

The flash cracked white. Phoenix's double kill closed the pistol—the round that mattered most—and we took it.

"Nice~!" Fade called.

"Good— man, our entry is reliable as hell," Omen said.

An entry with five kills, a pistol round in our pocket, and then the second round. We didn't pinch a single credit. We armed as hard as the buy would let us. Everyone but Omen pushed C Main—C Long, as the map labels it—loaded with 1,600-credit Spectres and 2,050-credit Spectres.

Smoke and Tailwind, and I was in. C site was empty. Not a single enemy inside.

"C's clear. Plant, go go," Fade said.

"They must be stacked A," Omen said.

A stack—that's when the defense piles bodies onto one site. They were trying to beat a gun disadvantage with numbers, and A was where they'd chosen to do it.

But we had walked onto C, and their gamble came to nothing.

The orthodox play was to set up on site and wait for the retake. I didn't. They were saving for rifles next round, which meant pistols now—the defaults, and nothing else. I walked the C connector into CT, the defenders' spawn, and went to meet the team sprinting over from A.

"Jett, you really don't have to force it!" Fade said.

The worst version of this was forcing for no reason, dying for free, and handing them a gun. I was sure that wouldn't be me.

Their Jett clearly hadn't imagined I'd run all the way into CT. She was coming in with a knife out.

She never got a shot off. One helpless kill, handed over.

From that Jett's side of it, the bomb was down on C, and the team that should have been hoarding its guns had pushed all the way into CT. Same as the Sova last round. I had done something that made no ordinary sense, and it rattled her.

It's fine. I don't understand why Apas plays that recklessly either.

When I was the pro known as Galaxy, my last match before I retired was the PCT LOCK//IN semifinal against Lord. Apas, Lord's entry and ace, had smothered us with play so aggressive it barely looked sane. The kind of thing that turns into griefing the moment you slip—impossible unless your faith in your own skill is absolute. Our team had been badly shaken by an Apas like that.

And the one forcing this hard right now, playing this aggressively—maybe it isn't even about leaving an impression on the people watching.

If I had just played with a little more confidence back then, would anything have been different? Maybe this is only me refusing to let that go.

Ah.

"Ah, I spaced out for a second..."

When I came back to myself, I had already pushed into the middle of CT. All thirty rounds were gone. Someone peeked me mid-reload, and I simply handed the kill over.

Honestly. What am I even fantasizing about?

Running that hypothetical now wouldn't change a thing. I had retired right afterward, anyway. And because the agent under my hands was Jett—the one I had used most in my pro days—the old life kept surfacing whether I asked for it or not.

But in this world, the name of the pro gamer Galaxy has been erased. Of course the semifinal against Lord, my last match, has become something that never happened.

So I let it go. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The person still standing here was not Choi Eunha the man, the Project A pro.

Now I was Choi Eunha the woman—a streamer whose game was Project A.

To knock myself awake I slapped both cheeks with my palms, hard enough that the smack cracked.

"Hoo. I'll focus."

I had died, but I had taken three with me, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with the gap in the guns, round two ended with nobody else on our side dead. Omen, who hadn't bought a weapon at all, picked up the Spectre I dropped. Every gun we had actually paid for made it out. You could fairly call it a flawless.

"Jett, want me to buy you a Spectre, at least?" Omen asked.

He had credits to spare from skipping the buy last round, and he was ready to spend them on me. I turned him down.

"Ah. Got it," Omen said.

Three kills on the pistol, three more in round two before I died. Seven ultimate points in all. Enough for Jett's ultimate. Enough for Blade Storm.

Blade Storm puts five daggers in Jett's hands. Left click throws them one at a time. Right click throws every dagger you have left. The thing that defines it is simple: the knives never spread. Not under any condition.

In Project A, move even a little and your bullets bloom everywhere, so before you shoot you almost have to kill your own momentum—what players call a brake. Blade Storm doesn't need one. Jump while you throw, strafe while you throw, and the dagger still flies dead center of your crosshair. Stack that on the mobility that is already Jett's whole identity, and the two things sing.

"They've got long guns. Let's crash B one more time," Omen said.

Round three. They had played an eco last round, pinching every credit, so this round the M4s and AKs were coming out. Our Spectres were the worse guns, plainly. That was why we wanted B, where the fights were short.

"Huh? They're going to be holding an angle from B, though..." Omen said.

"Someone's definitely holding one angle, you know?"

My read put a Trademark in Garage—C Warehouse, on the map legend—and Chamber on B, holding the window. Even if we were allowed onto the site, a Chamber could always slip out clean on Rendezvous.

I took the updraft, jumped high, and peeked B entrance. My eyes met the Chamber holding us from site. His barrel was aimed at the floor. He heard the updraft a beat late and tried to drag it up, and he was already too late.

I was already aimed at the place where Chamber had to be.

Blade Storm's damage doesn't care about distance. Fifty to the body, forty-two to the leg, and a headshot of a monstrous one hundred and fifty—enough to delete someone in a single shot to the head even through a medium shield. I had thrown two daggers just now. Kill with a left click, though, and the ultimate refills you to five. I still had five in hand.

"Nice! Smoking right now," Omen said.

The instant we hit site, we met the Snake rotating off C.

A Blade Storm one-tap, and Snake was gone.

Snake had tagged me too. I was down to seventy health, but it hadn't been the head, so I wasn't dead. Fighting a Jett with Blade Storm up means shooting at the air, or the top of a box—places you never have to aim in an ordinary gunfight. Of course the odds of a headshot fall.

"You just have to practice a lot."

Chamber and Snake were dead, and B was empty. We planted at once.

I had already spent Tailwind getting onto the site, but the two kills had reset it. I primed the dash and watched A connect, wary of anyone rotating off A.

The moment Raze showed in A connect, it was a one-tap. Then I ran on Tailwind, so whoever peeked next wouldn't get the trade. I had thrown the dash with the other possibility in mind, too—in case the one-tap on Raze hadn't actually landed.

I peeked A connect again, hunting one more.

This time I didn't find the head, and they killed me the other way.

"Ah. That wasn't the head..."

It didn't matter that I was dead. Three of them were already down, the guns had been the difference, and we had picked up Snake's rifle and Chamber's. There wasn't even a gun disadvantage left. Two against four. In the end they chose to save, just to keep the two rifles they still had.

From their side of the server, round three was a round they were not allowed to lose. They lost it. The first half was already halfway to coming apart.