The Pro Offer
Games were way too easy.
Anyone else might have found that obnoxious, but to Yeongho, Rewore didn’t seem all that much harder than Baea.
I’m not using anything illegal, but this is getting close to making me feel guilty.
Of course, that was partly because Yeongho’s abilities happened to be especially broken in Rewore.
Just having that special vision that let him detect things clearly from hundreds of meters away gave him a huge head start over everyone else.
On top of that, other people could pick a few main champs and grind hundreds of matches and still struggle to control their champions as naturally as their own bodies.
But if Yeongho so much as decided, I’ll do it this way, he could make microscopic adjustments on the fly. His movement was on a completely different level from the start.
When he entered a state of total concentration, he could break down an enemy’s motion almost frame by frame and react to it, which made it possible for him to dodge nearly every attack even while taking on two or three opponents alone.
From Yeongho’s perspective, the quality gap between his own performance and everyone else’s was so absurd that it felt like he was cheating at a fundamentally unfair game.
Everyone else was running with shackles on their wrists and ankles, while he felt like he’d been injected with some kind of performance-enhancing drug.
“You’re already level 5? If this keeps up, you’ll hit 30 in just a few days.”
— The win streak bonus is carrying you pretty hard.
— He’d probably level up fast even normally if he played games all day lol
— If you count how much time Godfather Gamer actually streams... maybe five days, give or take?
— Are you thinking of wrapping it up soon?
“Five days? Well, I’m not completely done with Baea either, so I’ll be coming back to it now and then. Taking that into account, maybe a week to hit level 30.”
— Holding my breath till Godfather Gamer comes back to Baea! Hup!
— Stream a little longer~
— You’re doing one more match, right?
“Yeah. I’ll play one more and then call it a day.”
In the next match as well, Yeongho crushed the enemy bottom lane as the ADC, then used that growth to roam through the enemy side with relentless momentum, showing off overwhelming carry power.
“Then I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
After a few modest donations and some goodbyes, he ended the stream.
He was taking a short break and wetting his throat before heading home when the manager approached him with a strange look on his face.
“Uh, Hyeong-nim. I think you should take a look at this.”
“Hm?”
Wondering what he wanted him to see, Yeongho looked over and found the manager holding out a pad covered in tiny print.
When he took it and looked closely, he realized it was formatted like a contract—the sort he’d seen plenty of times back when he worked at a company.
“What is this? It looks like some kind of contract from GS, something about working together...”
“This is a pro recruitment offer for you, Hyeong-nim.”
“...Excuse me?”
It took Yeongho a moment to understand what he’d just heard, so his answer came a beat late.
“GS. Ghost Squad, apparently a Baea pro team that plays in the North American second division. I checked, and it’s not some fake or impersonation—it’s a real recruitment offer.”
“Wait a second.”
His mind was so blown that he had to stop and gather himself for a moment.
So now a guy in his late thirties had been sent a contract asking him to join as a pro player?
So North American leagues really were on a different wavelength, huh?
It’s bold, I’ll give them that.
His head was spinning with all kinds of thoughts.
There was no denying he’d already set a record in Baea that nobody had ever come close to.
He’d reached the highest tier with an undefeated streak.
Even so, the idea that someone would seriously consider bringing a battered old man into the pro scene was surprising—and kind of flattering. It left him feeling oddly proud, almost acknowledged.
Separate from the advancement of VR and the massive expansion of the game market, and even from the commercial success that followed,
gaming was still not widely viewed as a respectable profession.
Maybe that was because the whole world was aging, and there were still plenty of adults who felt awkward about accepting new things.
Even so, the weight carried by the word pro wasn’t light.
This was an era when VR sports had been added to the Olympics, the Asian Games, and various other major competitions.
Even elderly people who’d normally scoff and ask whether “gamer” was really a proper job would clap and say, “Well, I don’t understand it, but at least they’re bringing honor to the country!” when they heard someone was a pro player competing in tournaments.
“Looks like it’s a one-year contract, with the idea of renewing depending on your performance. Given your age, that’s probably the only option they’ve got.”
“Hmm. What do you think, Manager? A pro offer at my age—doesn’t that sound ridiculous?”
At Yeongho’s question, the manager thought for a moment before shaking his head.
“You’ve got a successful stream going. There’s no real reason to throw that away and jump into this, right? If it were a first-tier team, maybe. But a second-team player...? Honestly, when you think about the prize money from a second-division title or the salary a player gets, it’s more like a loss.”
“Salary... yeah, that’s definitely the biggest issue.”
Yeongho agreed. It was the realistic problem.
If he went pro, he wouldn’t be able to focus on streaming anymore.
Without any guarantee of being called up to the first division, it was hard to justify tying himself to a minor league just because of the title pro.
When salaried workers changed jobs, they did it for better conditions—not to choose something that paid far less.
And this wasn’t even a domestic league; it was North America.
He couldn’t just leave his family behind now and become an overseas gamer, living like a father who only existed on weekends and holidays.
“Please turn them down. I think it’s better to just let this pass as an amusing story.”
“That’s what I thought too. It’s a fancy box with pretty wrapping, but the contents are pretty thin.”
“Yeah. If some domestic team ever offers me a first-team spot, then maybe I’ll think seriously about it.”
That last line was mostly Yeongho joking around in his own way.
Overseas, and only in a second division at that, they might try out a washed-up old guy just to see if he could be used like a foreign import.
Once he reached the first division, though, that kind of thing would probably stop being realistic.
Even if his skill was proven, doubts about his career longevity would cling to him day after day.
Industry standards existed for a reason, and first-team players were expected to receive contract fees in the hundreds of millions of won as a baseline.
It wouldn’t make sense to shell out that much for a player who might retire after just one season.
“Of course. It’s just that no one’s sure how to handle this because it’s such an unprecedented case. I bet even domestic scouts are starting to hear your name by now.”
But when Yeongho had meant it as a joke, the manager answered with a face full of sincerity.
“Huh? Haha... I mean, it makes sense that Baea would be interested after I hit Predator so fast, but wouldn’t they drop the report the second they found out my age? If I were a team official, I’d probably do the same.”
“Maybe they would, for now. But would they keep doing it forever? In my opinion, Hyeong-nim, you’ve got something shining about you that goes beyond age.”
“......”
“The fact that you might not be able to play professionally for long? Then even if you only play one season and retire, you just have to become the kind of player whose salary doesn’t feel wasted. Hyeong-nim, you’ve already set what looks like an impossible record in a single game—Baea.”
Watching the manager speak with such fierce enthusiasm, Yeongho stayed quiet and listened.
“Would that kind of skill suddenly fall apart in a pro league? I don’t think so. Just keep writing your legend like you are now. Then eventually the guys who were sitting there doing calculations and debating the numbers at the club will be the ones begging you to come and play for them.”
“Hmm... I’ll do my best.”
The fact that he was being met with such wholehearted trust was almost embarrassing.
Did the manager really believe it was possible?
That at an age when he should already have retired from active play and be working as a coach, he might one day stand shoulder to shoulder in first-tier pro league with players in their absolute prime?
Honestly, even becoming a streamer and receiving this much cheering from so many people had felt like a miracle to him.
If he just kept playing games well enough, would the day really come when he could even be considered worthy of stepping onto the stage that thrilled tens of millions of gamers?
It was hard for Yeongho to feel real to him, but Choi Pinam had said similar things, and now the manager was saying the same.
Once he realized what kind of expectation these younger people were placing on him, his shoulders felt heavier, but at the same time, a strange excitement began to stir somewhere in his heart.
Could this odd ability I have... really work in the pro league too?
It was a question he’d never seriously considered before.
He knew his abilities in VR were absurdly overpowered, but maybe because he’d spent his whole life as an ordinary person who never got noticed.
Without meaning to, he’d treated the pro world as something separate—a mysterious place with a wall standing between it and his own reality.
He’d already made a huge leap just by becoming a streamer, so he hadn’t even dared to think about another world like the pro league.
But in truth, crossing a line is hard only the first time. After that, the second and third times feel strangely easy.
Maybe... there’s no reason I couldn’t? If that really happened, I’d definitely shock a lot of people. A man about to turn forty debuting as a pro player, haha!
It still felt ridiculous, so he laughed it off in his head like a joke.
But deep inside Yeongho, a tiny spark of possibility—something he’d never once considered before—had begun to flicker to life.
* * *
“I’ve got another piece of news for all of you.”
The next day.
As always, Yeongho started the stream and, before beginning the game, shared an announcement with his viewers.
“Right. It’s not bad news. I’m no longer a partner streamer.”
As the viewers hesitated, wondering whether this was the moment they should all get angry on his behalf, they suddenly seemed to realize something and stared at the screen with wide-eyed suspicion.
“Yep. I’ve become a partner streamer. They said the change should go through sometime today.”
He’d gotten a call earlier that morning from Assistant Manager Seo Yunju.
The partner contract proposal had passed, and she said it would be processed by the end of the day.
She also told him that she herself would be the staff member in charge of him going forward, so he replied that he’d be counting on her.
She seemed like someone who got things done, and there was no harm in staying on good terms with her.
Originally, there was no way he should have been eligible for a partner-level contract yet, but thanks to the goodwill shown by the other side, he’d apparently been fast-tracked at rocket speed.
At this point, he almost felt like he should send them a separate gift or something.
Anyway, the contract had come in electronically, and he’d signed and sent it back without hesitation.
He had no intention of moving to another platform, so there was no reason not to sign.
After taking a little time to bask in the congratulations, he went right back to doing Rewore general matches with viewers, just like the day before.
He still had to grind ordinary matches diligently if he wanted to reach the level needed for ranked play.
Ranked hadn’t even started yet, and already there were missions piling up that required him to hit certain tiers.
There was no room to get lazy if he wanted to clear them.
Of course, even without the missions, he genuinely enjoyed game streaming and had no intention of slacking off even a little.
It would probably be about a week before he reached the ranked-entry cap of level 30.
For that period, he thought, things would likely repeat the same way every day—no special events, just ordinary routines.
But that prediction didn’t come true.
On his way home from work—
Just after he stepped out of the studio, something unexpected happened to Yeongho.
“Huh!? Yeongho!”
“Hm?”
A man passed by him, then turned back with a doubtful expression.
His face lit up all at once, and he came hurrying over, calling Yeongho by name with complete certainty.
Yeongho stared at him for a second, trying to place him, and found the face strangely familiar.
“...Wait. Jae-yong?”
“You punk! Hahaha! It’s been how long!”
It was the face of an old friend, someone who had stuck to him like glue for more than ten years, from elementary school all the way through high school.
An old best friend they’d gradually stopped contacting after marriage, until at some point they’d ended up living as strangers who’d forgotten each other existed.
Meeting by pure chance with such an old bond, Yeongho felt a complicated wave of emotion ripple across his face.
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