Chapter 48..
“Oppa! Amazing! That was seriously amazing!”
Round of 16, quarterfinals.
After finishing all the matches and stepping out of the VR capsule, Lee Ji-han’s body was drenched in sweat.
The intense concentration inside.
Maybe it was that immersion—he peeled off his soaked T-shirt.
“Hey! At least don’t just strip in the house!”
Thump!
A pillow flew and smacked into Lee Ji-han.
He gave an awkward smile at his sister, Lee Ji-hye.
“So, what’s going on?”
“Oppa, the group chat is going crazy! Is this some kind of big tournament?”
“Big tournament? Nah, I don’t think so.”
A tiny cup tournament, hosted by a streamer.
That was all this so-called ‘Beginner’s Cup’ really was—Ji-han explained as much as he knew.
But Ji-hye’s expression was odd.
“…Really? Doesn’t seem like such a small tournament to me.”
She came closer and showed him her phone. Ji-han realized that his clips were being shared nonstop in her group chat.
“Huh?”
“This is my college group chat, and everyone’s talking about you!”
“Sure enough, there are a lot of my clips.”
Most of them were today’s highlight reels—“Cheonma” Lee Ji-han overwhelming his opponents, forcing them to their knees with unstoppable force.
Ji-hye pulled up the video of the Round of 16, Match 2 against Dodoripyo.
He himself barely remembered, having been in a hyper-focused state then…
Pow-pow-pow! Crack, swish!
“Oh, right. That’s how it went.”
Dodoripyo didn’t fold in the second match.
In fact, he came at Ji-han even harder, trying to make up for his earlier loss.
But in the clip, Ji-han stood his ground without hesitation.
At one point, he even beckoned with his finger…
“Is this really you, oppa?”
“…Honestly, I don’t even know why I did that. Haha.”
His ears flushed red. He couldn’t even watch the clip properly, just shook his head in embarrassment.
Ji-hye kept shoving the phone at him, giggling at how funny her brother looked.
Then came the fast rush, the piercing fist—Ji-han deflected, sidestepped, and spun into a back-spinning elbow.
Crack!
The heavy blow snapped his opponent’s jaw sideways.
Of course, in-game health bars don’t drain that easily, so Dodoripyo didn’t collapse like in real life.
“Wow… I never knew you could fight like this, oppa. No wonder people say you should never mess with someone who trains.”
Her awed voice made his ears burn even hotter.
“…Don’t say stuff like that.”
He fanned his face with his hand. Ji-hye only smirked more mischievously.
“Anyway, the viewers love it, right?”
Each time Ji-han’s fist landed in the clips, the group chat reactions soared sky-high.
A rush of dopamine—expressed through lines of text cheers and emojis.
“I still can’t believe you’re getting this famous among my friends.”
“Want me to take a picture for you or something?”
“A picture? Out of nowhere? Oppa, what are you even saying?”
Ji-hye burst out laughing, looking exasperated.
But Ji-han was serious—he was genuinely wondering what he could do for his sister.
“I mean, you haven’t told them I’m your brother yet, right?”
“Right. But honestly, there’s no real upside to saying it.”
“Hm? Why not?”
“Even if you revealed your face, people might figure out personal stuff about you—like where we live, or details about our family.”
Her sincere concern made Ji-han smile faintly.
Instead of bragging about her famous brother, she was more intent on keeping things private—for his sake.
“…I don’t mind, though.”
“I don’t either, oppa. Peaceful family life comes first. Recognition is nice, sure, but still.”
She stretched, then tucked her phone away.
“Actually, it feels kind of thrilling to have a secret only I know.”
Her words eased his heart. She made it sound like she enjoyed the situation.
Ji-han chuckled warmly.
“Haha, yeah. So, what can I do for my little sister?”
“Oh, in that case…”
After thinking for a while, Ji-hye grinned.
“Let’s order chicken for a late-night snack. You’ve been grinding in that capsule—you need your protein.”
“Protein’s good, but eating at night…”
“If you’re going to do mukbangs someday, you’ll need practice eating at night too!”
She joked as she pulled up an app and ordered boneless chicken.
“I actually prefer bone-in chicken, but since you’re too lazy to deal with the bones, I’m getting boneless just for you.”
“…Haha, you’re the best.”
Streaming had brought the siblings closer together.
Ji-han wanted to hold on to this peace.
“Don’t forget the cola. And sides too.”
The man once called Cheonma of Gangho Geomrok smiled softly.
“Yeah. Order everything.”
It was the line he most wanted to say.
He wanted to give his sister whatever she wished for.
He felt guilty that she had sacrificed so much when he had started training.
‘Now I could order a hundred servings of chicken at once and still have money left over…’
Once, he’d only earned minimum wage.
Now he could say he had enough to spend freely on his family.
‘Streaming really is… fun. And a good thing for me.’
Still smiling, Ji-han sank into the sofa.
“They said it’ll arrive in 30 minutes.”
“Good. Just hearing that makes me hungry.”
“If it’s just the two of us, Mom and Dad will wake up and make a fuss.”
“Yeah, but it’d be weird to wake them up.”
“Of course we’ll eat in secret, dummy oppa.”
Surprisingly, he felt no nerves about tomorrow’s semifinals.
In fact, being in this warm moment made him feel even more at ease.
While waiting for delivery, Ji-han pulled up clips of his next opponent.
His eyes sharpened—focused like Cheonma himself.
Namgoong Hyung, watching clips, couldn’t hide his unease.
Crack!
Relentless violence, clean finishes.
Lee Ji-han was undeniably gifted.
‘Talent in gaming? Of course. That much is obvious.’
In both physical and mental acuity, he was ahead of anyone Hyung had ever seen.
But the most frightening thing was something else.
He had no hesitation in attacking people.
Sure, games and reality must be separated—and it seemed Ji-han did keep that line clear.
After matches, he’d show respect to opponents, scratch his head with a shy smile.
In those moments, he looked like nothing but a pure, innocent young man.
‘But once he focuses on the game…’
He turned into a completely different person.
‘There was no hesitation.’
VR games naturally create a sense of distance.
But Ji-han’s lack of hesitation was like a truck with broken brakes.
That was his terrifying gift in fighting games.
The quarterfinals proved it.
His opponent had been rated fairly skilled—a true dark horse.
‘Then again, almost all his opponents were dark horses.’
Despite being called the “Beginner’s Cup,” the tournament was stacked with physical monsters and ex-pros.
And in that mix, Ji-han stood out like a blade among pebbles.
His quarterfinal opponent, the streamer “OllyMolly,” was a cerebral player—someone who memorized frame data, punished with precision, and mastered reactions.
At first, Ji-han’s attacks seemed blocked.
But then he struck in a strange way.
‘No, not strange… Maybe that was the straightforward way?’
It was both orthodox and absurd at once.
That was Ji-han’s style.
Swish! Bam!
Punches launched before reactions could even process.
Too fast for frame captures.
No wind-up, no rhythm—just sudden, blinding fists.
OllyMolly crumbled.
Utterly helpless.
Ji-han’s relentless, unpredictable physicality stabbed from every angle—terrifyingly sharp.
‘Could I have avoided those?’
Hyung rewound the clip, thinking hard.
No matter how he imagined it…
‘Even I probably couldn’t respond.’
His absurd reaction time, reflexes—combined with his utter lack of hesitation—meant his fists went straight through any defense.
In a brutal world where a split-second hesitation meant defeat, Ji-han looked like a superhuman optimized to survive.
“Sigh… It’s like I’ve raised a monster, not a student.”
Of course, Hyung hadn’t exactly trained him directly.
Just a few casual tips—and Ji-han soaked them up like a sponge.
“…Yeah. He really is a monster.”
Hyung smirked bitterly, eyes locked back on the clips.
Right now, Pretzel was in a golden age of fighting games.
Before this, Zombreath’s story mode had been the trend.
And at the center of it all was streamer Lee Ji-han.
Joining the Sparring Showdown—originally just a small event to decide who’d be his mentor—turned out to be the best decision.
“Tomorrow’s the semifinals.”
Hyung checked the schedule.
“Wonder if it’ll go all the way to finals.”
That’s how tournaments work—the deeper you go, the tighter it gets.
Best-of-3s could easily stretch to five matches.
But still…
“…I’m not worried about my student at all.”
Something told him Ji-han would bulldoze straight through his opponents.
Even in the clips, Ji-han was rampaging like a mad beast.
Unfamiliar with the concept of defeat, forcing every warrior to kneel—embodying Cheonma itself.
“I wonder what new surprises he’ll pull out.”
Click, click.
As he replayed the clips, his bitter smile softened into one of pride.
“Whatever it is, he’ll give viewers a performance way beyond their expectations.”
That was Hyung’s honest assessment of Ji-han—prodigy, rising star of the fighting game world.
The man called Cheonma.
