APGD 04

Chapter 4

99th Year Pro Gamer

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I laced my fingers together lightly while checking the kill log that popped up on the monitor.

‘As expected, no matter how perfectly I set things up at home, something always feels a little off.’

In the most recent patch, LeBlanc had been buffed along with most of the AD carry champions.

Even considering lane matchups, the situation was heavily in LeBlanc’s favor.

Yet the result? My Nine-Tails Fox had come out with a clean victory.

If the environment had been a more familiar one—like a tournament venue or practice room—the gap would’ve been even more overwhelming.

‘Still, this should be enough to get my point across.’

Whether it was Park Yong-won himself, who played mid against me, or the others watching from the sidelines, just one game should’ve been enough to feel the massive difference in skill.

‘His LeBlanc mechanics are sharp, but his mind games are a bit lacking.’

Thinking about his champion mastery reminded me of memories from my previous life.

To be precise, my very first impression of Park Yong-won.

When he first joined the team and played his debut match.

Honestly, my first impression was… both awe and disbelief, in good and bad ways.

• [How the hell is a jungler’s pathing this messy?]

• [Wait, is there even such a thing as “pathing” here? Isn’t this just playing everything by instinct?]

And at the same time—

• [Whoa, he actually pulled off a counter-kill from that situation?]

• [How does a rookie have mechanics and execution at this level?!]

In short, he was a player with world-class mechanics… and basement-tier brains.

‘Yeah, Yong-won’s impact really was insane.’

If I were to be honest, purely in terms of raw mechanics, I thought he even surpassed Yoo-sang Esports’ legendary Na Kang-han.

So why did I take Na Kang-han instead of Park Yong-won when challenging the Golden Road?

Because, like I said, Park Yong-won lacked the “brains” side of things.

And more importantly—I had a strict time limit.

What use was infinite regression when each cycle only gave me less than three years?

Considering the time he’d join the team, I’d barely have one year to raise him properly.

No matter how much potential he had, it was impossible to make full use of it.

So, I had no choice but to pick the safe option: Na Kang-han, who lacked neither mechanics nor game sense.

‘But this time is different.’

A lack of game sense?

This time, I had the luxury of time to cover that weakness.

If I could bring him on board from the very start of this cycle, I’d have more than a year to shape him.

And unlike the early cycles, I now carried far more experience and refined expertise.

If I could erase the flaws and maximize the strengths?

Then Park Yong-won would become a “razor-sharp spear,” capable of standing toe-to-toe with the world’s top-class junglers.

‘Yeah… If I polish him well, Yong-won could easily surpass even Na Kang-han’s potential.’

He had another advantage too.

He was what you’d call a “big stage player.”

Even back in his rookie days, he never showed a hint of nerves—his mental fortitude was absurd.

If anything, the bigger the stage, the more his tension and performance soared exponentially. He had the makings of a superstar.

But honestly…

Just the fact that I’d get to play pro alongside him again was enough to make me tear up.

Unlike Na Kang-han—whose very name was enough to give me PTSD—Yong-won felt like a kindred spirit.

Looking back, Kang-han’s personality was completely incompatible with mine.

How much had I suffered dealing with him all those years?

‘This life, at least, looks like I can finally play “Battle of Legends” with a bit of happiness.’

I was lost in thought when a new message popped up in the in-game chat.

Looks like Yong-won’s “friend” had taken that loss pretty personally.

Change champions?

There’s no way a Challenger-tier player didn’t know the matchup between Nine-Tails Fox and LeBlanc.

‘Wait… did he check my match history before saying that?’

Back in this era, I barely played LeBlanc.

In fact, I rarely played mid at all.

The only time I touched Nine-Tails Fox was when the matchmaking system forced me into mid.

Otherwise, I only queued support.

Yes, my natural style suited mid, but back then I was dealing with “aftereffects,” so I had no choice but to stick with support—the role that relied least on mechanics.

But after my contract with the demon, those aftereffects had completely healed.

And from that point on, I’d been stuck in this cycle of “proving myself,” spending most regressions playing mid.

Meaning—my past match history didn’t represent even a grain of what I was truly capable of now.

Just as I thought.

Dragging in the “tournament excuse” felt a little petty.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter to me.’

I gladly accepted.

What they didn’t know was this—

Across all my lifetimes, I had played LeBlanc at least 700 times.

And my overall win rate? Easily above 90%.

‘They’re definitely going to regret this.’

I entered the new game lobby.

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The second match ended much faster than the first.

As befitting Nine-Tails’ theme, a sultry, alluring death cry rang out through the speakers.

The game’s narration followed immediately.

LeBlanc’s crisp skill combo had cut down the Nine-Tails with ease.

This time, though, Nine-Tails wasn’t played by TacticMaker—it was Kang Woo-seok.

“Ah, f—ck!”

Woo-seok blurted out a curse, then clamped his mouth shut, suddenly aware of all the people around him.

‘What the hell kind of kill setup was that?!’

Staring at the grayed-out screen, Woo-seok ground his teeth in frustration.

The anger and humiliation boiling inside him showed no sign of cooling.

Meanwhile, the teammates behind Yong-won couldn’t contain their excitement.

“Damn, did you see him calculate the minion death timing and land the snare right through the gap?”

“Yeah, I saw! That wasn’t just Nine-Tails vs. LeBlanc—this guy’s just insanely good!”

“Wow… his mechanics are unreal. Isn’t this basically pro level?”

They tried to whisper out of courtesy, but their voices stabbed right into Woo-seok’s ears.

Yong-won patted him lightly on the shoulder in consolation.

“Good effort.”

Woo-seok turned his head briefly toward Yong-won, then looked away again. His pupils were trembling.

Two games, both lost in complete domination.

Even after swapping champions, the result had been the same.

‘…’

In short, he had been crushed purely on skill.

There wasn’t the slightest room for excuse.

And Woo-seok knew it.

The problem was—he couldn’t figure out how.

‘Where did the match start to tilt? Did I even make a mistake that game?’

Unable to let it go, Woo-seok immediately downloaded the replay.

Click.

He replayed the final kill scene over and over in slow motion.

But no matter how many times he watched, there was no “lucky fluke” or “cheap shot.”

It was nothing but flawless, precise superplays.

At this point, he wasn’t even angry anymore—it was just absurd.

“Unbelievable…”

A hollow laugh escaped his lips.

LeBlanc had always been his pride and joy.

Based on sheer number of games alone, he considered himself one of the deepest LeBlanc mains.

Yet TacticMaker’s LeBlanc play had shaken him to the core.

Game knowledge, trade timings, skill trajectory, mind games—everything.

In every aspect of LeBlanc, TacticMaker outclassed him.

‘For me to spot a kill window like that… how much more grinding would it even take?’

He bit down hard on his lip.

If the opponent had been another long-time LeBlanc main, he could’ve accepted it.

There’s always a higher sky, after all.

At least then he wouldn’t feel this much frustration.

But then a thought struck him.

‘Wait a minute!’

A sudden suspicion surged within him.

‘Could that account not be his main?’

At first, he had only checked win rates. But now that he thought about it, the actual number of games wasn’t that high.

It was entirely possible he had another account.

Woo-seok slowly nodded to himself.

‘Yeah. There’s no way some support player is this good on LeBlanc and Nine-Tails.’

With that assumption, all the pieces fit together.

Almost as if reading his mind, Yong-won spoke up seriously.

“How does it feel? Pretty clear this guy isn’t just a Master-tier, right?”

“Dude, no way he’s just Master. I’m thinking his main role isn’t even support—it’s definitely mid.”

Yong-won nodded quickly.

“Exactly. Just from his movements, you can tell he’s on another level… Who the hell is this guy?”

“At this point, even Grandmaster-Challenger mids would get stomped in lane. Feels like he’s hiding his real account.”

“You don’t think he’s some pro smurfing as an amateur for laughs, do you?”

“Come on, don’t be ridiculous. Why would a pro waste time on us? What are we, nobodies?”

Even Yong-won admitted that Woo-seok’s logic wasn’t entirely wrong.

Of course, 1v1 lane duels weren’t the same as full 5v5s.

It only showed lane dominance and champion mastery—not everything a mid needed.

After all, “Battle of Legends” was a team game.

Why was mid lane called the “royal role” and considered the most important position?

Because the midlaner anchored the central battlefield and dictated the pace of the match.

Modern mids needed more than lane skill—they needed map-wide vision, the ability to draw up macro strategies, precise decision-making, and strong shotcalling.

All of those were crucial indicators of a mid’s true strength.

But—

‘This guy’s lane skill alone is so overwhelming, it makes all that irrelevant.’

What TacticMaker had just displayed wasn’t just strength—it was brute force so absolute it eclipsed everything else.

Which meant—

‘I have to recruit this guy!!’

There was nothing more to discuss.

Yong-won’s chest was already burning with certainty.

“I finally found him!!”

With that shout, he clenched his fist, eyes gleaming with fiery determination.

“Found who?”

“What else? The solid midlaner who’ll be the backbone of our team!”

“Wait—hold up! You’re not seriously thinking of adding him to our roster, are you? What about the guy I introduced earlier?”

Yong-won answered firmly, his voice unwavering.

“Woo-seok, sorry… but can you tell that guy to find another team?”