Someone's Memory

Fan.

A person who adores, to the point of fever, an athlete or a professional in some particular field.

I still remember it. A stadium with the crowd packed in shoulder to shoulder, and there in the middle of it a player receiving the Golden Mouse—the mark of a third championship—hoisting it high in both hands as he roared back at the cheers. It was a historic moment. Watching it, I felt joy, and a bright electric thrill, even if the whole thing was nothing but secondhand satisfaction for a victory I hadn't earned myself.

Those feelings never once let up. Not even when War of the Stars went down in a match-fixing scandal and a new board was set under the name Legend of League.

There was a bleak stretch of years when Europe and North America led the meta and we chased after them, straining. Then came the glorious moment we clawed our way out of that dark age—the first time a team from our country reached the Legend of League World Series and took the title. We won the World Series two years running. Our own teams met in the finals and announced to the world that the LCK was the strongest league alive. A squad even came along and made it three titles.

Every one of those moments was a joy to me, and every one of them was another reason my love for the players kept growing.

Soldier had been a member of a World Series championship team just like that.

The ban-pick phase begins.

We were red side, set in the upper formation, with the later picks. I had the fifth slot in the order—the one players want most—and Soldier had the second. Red side locks the first and second picks together, though, so in practice we had to choose our champions from the opening moment.

So I typed.

"Hey, quit the bad-faith hate! Do you have any idea how brutal the counterpick war is in top? Handing top the later pick is a gain for the whole team. That's the only reason."

"Quiet! Anyone short on top-lane sensitivity, go study!"

I smacked them down with that pearl of wisdom and got the ban-pick underway for real.

Champions notorious for outrageous performance were banned, and the enemy's first choice showed itself.

"Seto. Hmm. The odds do lean toward top, but still..."

It wouldn't have looked the least bit strange as a support or a mid, so I held off on a verdict. Our first pick took Ezriel, and Soldier, just as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd told him, took Jargan. The turn swung back to the enemy: second pick Ashe, third pick Thresh. We answered with LeBlanc, and with Molgana, the time-honored counter to hook champions. A decent choice. Now all that was left was to watch the enemy's final selections.

They stalled for a bit, and then Rishin and Lisandura appeared. A Lisandura pick, the sort that shows up now and then as a counter to LeBlanc. With that, the enemy top was locked in as Seto.

That was the moment my fan's heart shattered, spectacularly, into pieces.

Doing my best to ignore the delighted viewers, I took Timong's leash and opened the jungle on a reverse clear off the red buff.

Bot would sell a standard-buff start for as long as they could, but at this level of play there wasn't a soul left who'd fall for something like that. Which meant the moment of decision had arrived.

Counter-jungle. Obviously.

The choice that would squeeze every last drop out of Guillotine Match 4.

I dropped a bold ping and pushed in toward the enemy blue. A look at the lanes: mid was a LeBlanc with a weak early push, already eased a step back, and top was Timong firing poison darts without pause, shoving Seto in. He'd taken Timong for the mission, but Soldier had never been someone who belonged in this bracket to begin with. Even on a for-fun pick, he'd pull his own weight and then some. I folded the worry away, planted a ward in the brush beside blue, slipped back out, and waited past the wall on the mid side.

Before long Rishin appeared on a sonic wave, and through the ward I watched him start fighting the blue buff.

Hoo...

A flicker of nerves. A smite fight was precision work of the highest order—the kind of thing where even famous pros made mistakes. You had to predict and calculate the damage of your own skills, the damage of the enemy's autos and skills, and even the timing of when they'd use them.

Inside that tension, the power of Guillotine Match 4 woke. A tingling current ran through the joints of my fingers and drove me on. Right now.

"...!"

I charged in from beyond the wall, spear leading. The timing blew Rishin's expectations apart completely, and the Smite that followed was flawless, smooth as running water.

The fight wasn't over.

Stealing blue—the original goal—was done, but every one of my skills was down, and Rishin's cooldowns were just about to return. Sure enough, the instant we'd traded two autos apiece, he threw his Q.

"Not a chance!"

That blatant movement only gave him away. The senses stretched razor-sharp by Guillotine Match 4 made the call in a heartbeat and slipped me clear of Rishin's sonic wave.

From here it was a race against time. In mid, Lisandura was fast; in top, Timong was close. I'd already come out ahead, so I didn't force it—I slipped upward, cleared the krugs, and that was level three.

Rishin had probably taken his gromp, but with blue stolen he'd still be level two. The topside scuttle, then, was naturally mine. I claimed the crab with relish, cleared the raptors and the wolves, and hit level four. The bottom scuttle tempted me for a second, but bot lane's situation wasn't good, so I gave it up cleanly, finished my own blue and gromp, and recalled.

Purse stuffed thick, I cracked the merchant across the cheek and walked away with boots and a weapon. A pink ward came as a bonus. I swapped my trinket for a sweeper lens and got ready to plunder again.

The first raid had ended lightly, with nothing but a blue. This time I meant to take something that mattered more.

The enemy's life.

Quietly, secretly, I vanished into the enemy jungle.

It's boring.

More than five thousand people watching live, and even when a hundred-dollar mission went off, I felt nothing much at all. I just tossed out whatever line happened to leave my mouth and played the game on mechanical hands.

Since when had it been like this?

It hadn't felt this way at the start. Right after I quit as a pro, the novelty—and the thought that I was taking on a new challenge—had me working with everything I had. But once about a year had passed, even that effort turned out to be an illusion.

This is fake.

The real me is still tied to the past.

The most intense memory in twenty-eight years of life. I still can't forget it.

And then I wake from the dream, clutching a right hand that trembles, faintly.

One single year. A truly short prime.

A pro gamer's prime is short to begin with. Pros ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in their thirties are almost impossible to find, and get past the middle of your twenties and you're all too likely to hear that your mechanics have fallen off. My ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠debut had been late from the start. I was two or three years older than my teammates, so my prime ended even faster, and when the team failed to reach the World Series the following year, I took the responsibility and announced my retirement.

The streamer's road I walked after that. By luck I found a place to stand, and I was even hearing that I'd done fairly well. But that was nothing but empty ornament. It meant nothing at all.

The true me had been wishing for something else. The thrill of the World Series, felt only once in a lifetime. The sensation of that time. Some new experience that could let me feel anything close to it.

"A Timong mission? All right. I'll show you properly this game."

Today, too, I was waiting—aching for it.