Chapter 96: Han Seongun, Nebula

Genius.

By the dictionary, it means someone born with a gift, a talent beyond other people. A word for the one who stands out in a given field.

"Our Seongun—"

And I had been called a genius for a very long time. The reason was simple enough. Kindergarten, wasn't it? The teacher handed me a worksheet. I finished every question, and they called me a genius.

After that I only ever moved the way my parents and my teachers told me to, the way they taught me to, and every time I did, they called me a genius again.

The world, it turned out, was not that easy. I trusted their honeyed praise and walked into the entrance exam for a school for the gifted with my chest out, and only after I failed did I understand. I'm not as much of a genius as I thought.

I had believed I lived without paying the word any particular mind. Apparently I had been minding it quite a lot. The moment the people who used to look at me with awe changed their attitude, the disappointment was larger than I expected, and watching them turn those disappointed eyes on me hurt, a little.

My parents never let it show, but they must have been disappointed then too. They had believed their own child was the genius of the century, and he wasn't. Fair enough.

Failing didn't change my life. Even after I entered middle school I was still educated far harder than anyone my age, and I still sat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the top of the grades. Study once I got to school. An academy once I left it. Self-study at home after the academy, then sleep.

A tedious life turning like a hamster wheel. It was while I was repeating that life that an acquaintance urged me into computer games, and of all of them the one that caught me hardest was Project A.

A first-person shooter you could play on instinct, with no room left for stray thoughts, and at the same time a complicated game that demanded nimble chess through space and information.

It was the first time in my life I had touched the thing called games, but it seemed I had a talent for this too. Finish the tutorial, watch a Project A newbie guide on K-tube, and that alone was enough to beat most ordinary players without any trouble.

Back then, in Korea, Project A was treated as a dead game nobody played. What skilled users there were had already moved to the Asia server, so the level on the Korean server wasn't especially high. I used a VPN, made an account on Asia, and kept playing there until I climbed all the way to server rank 1.

Of course I didn't hold first for long. The Asia server was full of skilled players, and I was juggling school, so I was bound to lose on sheer number of games. Even so, once I reached the top, people called me a genius. They hung a grand title on me. The greatest prospect of all time.

When they asked why I didn't just debut as a pro, I saw my parents and my teachers laid over them. The ones who used to call me a genius. And I was afraid. Afraid I would be made to realize, all over again, that I was not a genius of that size. Built up and up—you're special, you're a genius—and then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠told, later, that actually you aren't very special at all. That you're exactly an ordinary talent.

So I thought about it. Debut, or live an ordinary life. I decided to enter the Platform Exhibition so I would know my level. So I could see how far I could go in an event where most of the former pros were playing.

The result was a success. I didn't take Finals MVP, but I stood as one of the two pillars of the team and put a meaningful gap between myself and former professionals. And at the same time I felt a kind of fun I had never felt before. Finishing a goal that looked impossible, together. Achievement.

The day of that final, the first time I felt it, I persuaded my parents and decided to debut as a pro. To prove that I was a genius. And to feel that achievement again.

A team was easy to find. Unlike the first division, where the season was about to start and the rosters were already locked, the second division still had time to spare. The team I chose was a club H Group had recently acquired, and the first one to scout me after the exhibition ended. A major company behind them meant capital enough, and a coaching staff with the vision to climb into the first division and even look at a championship.

Win the second division here, go up, win the first division too, and then the world...

"Eunha."

To do that, I needed this person's help. The person in front of me didn't look interested in going pro ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at all. She had more than enough to live on without ever debuting. I asked anyway. Selfish as it was, because it felt as if she had to be on the team.

"I'm not joking. I mean it. Maybe you and I, together—"

Won't you debut pro with me?

"Stop."

"So if you've got those ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kinds of feelings for me, you'd better give up."

"I'm going. See you next time."

…What?

The conversation ran off in a direction I had no way to steer, and Eunha was gone before she gave me a single chance to explain.

"No—why won't you hear a person all the way out..."

I could guess where she had misunderstood me. She must have thought I was about to confess. If it had been anyone else I would have written it off as a terminal case of princess syndrome, but Choi Eunha had earned the right to think that way. A cold face set against a bright personality, a young voice and a grown air, and the odd little strangeness she showed now and then. All of it turned into charm by looks overwhelming enough that any guy would feel his heart kick at least once.

I myself had simply been looking at her play, not her face.

"I should... say something, shouldn't I?"

See you next time wasn't a hard no. Clear up the misunderstanding, and we could go back to how we'd been.

Not long after Eunha left, the door rattled open.

"Hey, Seongun. Where'd Eunha suddenly run off to?"

The one who came in was Spax.

"Uh... she said she's heading home first?"

If it was Seungtaek hyung, there was no real need to hide it. No real need to say it, either. If KZ, the org he belonged to, was already eyeing Eunha, keeping quiet was the smarter play.

"Oh... yeah?"

"Think she'll be all right? It's pretty dark out."

"She'll be fine. She goes around with her own driver."

I hadn't seen it myself, but according to the rumors going around school, Eunha traveled with a fairly expensive car and a driver both. So it would be fine.

"Yeah? Then we should get going too."

"Oh, Seungtaek. Mind if I tell today's story on stream?"

"Sure, I don't care. Just leave out the part where Eunha tried to order a drink."

"Yeah. A minor trying to drink is a little much."

The moment we stepped out of the room, dozens of eyes from the security detail swung our way at once. I had already been through it once and I still wasn't used to it. I dropped my gaze so I wouldn't meet anyone's and carefully made it out of the place. And they'd gotten here before we had. They were still eating.

"Seongun, where's your place?"

"Ah, I'll just call a taxi."

"All right. Get home safe."

Teammates, each heading back to his own house. No. I shouldn't call them teammates anymore. Youngest and Oldest ended for good with tonight's afterparty. The people I could call teammates were somewhere else.

When the call ended, the name saved on Han Seongun's phone was six characters long.

Coach Kim Sangho.

The team house of SC, a second-division pro team. For a club stuck in the lower league, the dorm was large and frankly too nice, and yet only two people were in it.

One was Kim Sangho, newly appointed head coach of SC.

"The more I look at it, this dorm really is something."

The other was Nebula. Han Seongun, signed to SC.

"Is it that different from a first-division team house?"

"Night and day. Unless you're Gen or P1, even in the first division you'd better not dream of a place like this."

Kim Sangho had ground through the first division long enough to know the insides of a pro org. Player salaries only climbed as time went on, and scraping money together from every direction to plug the red ink was part of what he knew.

"So. How'd it go?"

To clear up the misunderstanding, Han Seongun had sent her a long message. What he had meant to say then. What he had decided. The unread mark beside it was gone, so Eunha had read it.

"No answer yet. If we wait a little—"

It had been a short time, but they had talked plenty, and he prided himself on knowing her a little. The Eunha he knew wouldn't even open a message if she didn't mean to answer. If the mark was gone, a reply was coming.

A chime.

"Oh. It's here."

"So. YES or NO?"

Two characters. An apology for the refusal, and not a crack of hesitation in it.

"...It's a no. Guess it really won't work."

"Told you, didn't I? It wouldn't. Give it up and just practice. Leave the rest of the roster to us."

"Okay."

Pushing any further would only be a burden on the team. Thinking that, Han Seongun set the phone down and went to the computer in the practice room, to get ready for the PCK first division starting in a few days, and for the PCK second division that would open a month after the first division began.