Chapter Text
Minseok has a bad feeling about this fight the moment they hit the Rift.
They’re all patched up for their fifth clash, the deciding factor- great Ao Shin, it really shouldn’t have gone this far, and now they’re cornered.
And the thing is, he’d be lying if he said he enjoyed this fight. He hates it. It tears him apart inside. He hates having to look into his old carry’s eyes every time him and Minhyung go for the skirmish. Every burst of magic he conjures from his soul hurts him a little more than it usually does.
He’s worried for his teammates. Reliable, stoic Sanghyeok, so battered by this series, barely managing to defend himself from his particular enemy’s aggressive nature- they’re all so young. Fresh blood. Except for each team’s respective captains.
Wooje, barely an adult, still wielding the largest pair of scissors he’s ever seen with onyx edges sharp enough to cut the very air, has his work cut out for him defending against the demon that is Kingen. Blades are nothing against the juggernaut when his wings burst from his back. Minseok has to be extra alert when that happens.
The tension between both organisations as they stare each other down boils over, toes inching over starting lines. DragonX Guild is intimidating. They weren’t supposed to be on the highest stage, yet here they are. And they’re taking T1 to clash number five.
“Best of luck,” Sanghyeok says, deigning to speak with his mouth, bowing his head to the well-postured figure that is DragonX’s captain. Even in gore and viscera he stands tall, every scratch and bruise barely detracting from his presence. “Shall we begin?”
Deft nods, the rifle swinging from his shoulder to land gently in those capable hands. “Good luck,” he replies, his dark eyes pointed; he doesn’t look at Minseok. That makes him feel less than human.
He doesn’t even realise combat is beginning until a veil of Hallowed Mist falls upon him, Wooje’s lightning-quick reaction time blocking a pure blast of golden energy. The first attack is thrown by BeryL, of course, their ‘playmaker’- he doesn’t know what would’ve happened if that had made contact.
Minseok brings a shield to life when their jungler charges forth, massive curved pike in hand, bearing down upon them like a warhorse. Its recipient strains to counter- Hyunjoon, their own monster expert, tendrils of Black Mist making themselves known around his titanic zweihander.
The struggle isn’t very long, since T1 are so, so wary of Kingen, and he knows to back away himself. The Rift was gracious in its environment- copses of trees, brambles and rocks mar the area, leaving room for ambushes and places to recuperate. He thinks back to two years ago, where it was nothing but an open plain.
Well, honestly, he shouldn’t even be thinking about that now when he has to fight. Him and Guma, against the world, as per usual. He doesn’t even care that they’re facing Deft anymore. He just wants to win so badly.
You said you’d give him that Cup, his mental reminds him, so even if you lose you’re fulfilling your wish to him. That would just add insult to injury. He doesn’t want to keep that promise anymore.
It takes a moment for him to charge the mighty blast, a furious flame that burns blue and leaves the indent of a snowflake, and it hits the ground where the enemy carry had just stood. Deft’s eyes round; he can sense the adrenaline emanating from the rifleman. He’s not ruminating on the feelings of old anymore. Whatever it takes to win.
They stumble back from the fight once Hyunjoon reports the sight of Pyosik stalking through the nearby marshes, because Minhyung insists upon not getting run through by that pike. That’s a smart idea, he feels the same.
He’s obviously not got his head entirely in the game, though, because his carry pulls him behind a boulder. The sounds of battle rage from far, far away.
“Stay focused, yeah?” he says gingerly, as if Minseok is a fragile glass doll. The support feels his brows crease instinctively- how is this guy, his junior, telling him what to do?
“I am,” he snaps, perhaps a little more harshly than intended, and gathers a sphere of energy in his hands. When he projects it over the rock, he hears the satisfying shout of surprise.
The duo sprint it through the trees, tracking their way up the landscape towards where Sanghyeok is calling for assistance. They can end this battle if they all work together, as a team.
“Okay, so,” Hyunjoon’s voice rings true through their minds, “I think we should go for an ambush play around Nashor’s Arena, make it look like we’re planning something there, but we hide. I’m not sure if they’ve scouted that area yet.”
“They’re probably heading up past the Dragon’s Pit now,” Minhyung contributes. “It could be risky, though. We don’t know about whatever they have in store for us.”
“Well, whatever it is,” Wooje says irritably, “we haven’t got all day to decide.” Just atop the river boulder they usually come across when navigating this region, the scissor-wielding fighter catches sight of them and drops down into the shallow water.
Nashor’s great ivory and stone head rears itself hideously above the Rift, its many-eyed mandibles and teeth a sight to behold- the greatest of the Void, they said, among titans like the Herald and Bel’Veth. He remembered studying that as part of an assignment. The ‘big three’ of the Void. A shame that information is useless now.
It’s just a statue, though, no need to be afraid. Yet.
They’ve all agreed on Hyunjoon and his agile, slithering Shadow Mist form being the ‘bait’, ascending the statue that can really never be completely scaled, and waiting just below. Surely DragonX will see him then.
It’s quiet waiting in the bushes, each reed tickling his nose and mouth, but he’s learned to hold back any sneezes. Perhaps it’s a privilege to have his captain beside him too, in full golden glory, helmet having snapped into place at the beginning of the fray. He holds his staff like a god. Minseok supposes that’s what he is, really. A god of the Rift.
The moment the shackled figure of their battlemage steps forth, away from the brush into the opening, Wooje sends a needle hurtling his way. It sinks like an arrow through one of Zeka’s chain links, pinning him to the boggy ground- not the greatest surface, but it’ll do.
A thundering form rallies itself at the prime of the hill, pike streaming with ghostly energy- lo and behold, he has his duo here with him. Minseok doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this much emotion before. It all used to be love and care, but he’s really so tired. It’s easier to hate than love.
He ducks the initial peacemaker of a shot, probably would’ve taken off his head if he hadn’t dodged, and brings a massive influx of a shield onto all five of them. Really, that’s his duty… it’s not like he can really do anything more once the fight begins. Each tether, each burst of flame, BeryL and his platforms will heal it all away.
Sanghyeok glances at him, and he glances back, and it’s a millisecond of decision making that prompts them to move in fluid synchronisation. Except, of course, gods are far faster than demigods, and Faker is no exception.
The wall of golden soldiers surges from utter nothingness, throwing the oncoming onslaught of Pyosik backwards to his allies. Bullets zing against their shields- it’s Deft, again, of course.
“He’s out!” Hyunjoon says, almost frantically, “took the ult and booked it. Do we fight? I think we can take it.”
Minseok was pretty sure the fight was reliant on eliminating Zeka while his team wasn’t around, but he digresses. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. He’s bloodthirsty. He just wants to end it all. He watches his AD fire a plume of icy energy into the woods beyond, catching the tips of leaves and failing to hit anybody out there.
It’s all quiet again, now that the ambush was foiled. This is really beginning to get on his nerves.
—
They move as a unit, occasionally stopping to drop some wards and give themselves information, or have a power snack courtesy of the Rift’s delicious berries. They’re all dead quiet, too. Not like they really need to talk, since the Rift grants them their own built-in voice calling app.
“Where are they?” Wooje pops the question they’ve all been wondering.
Their captain glances precautionarily around, narrowing his avian eyes. “Probably doing the same as us. Skulking around,” he chuckles. “Keep your eyes open.”
As soon as he says it, the raucous cry of birds fills the air from leagues away, and they all freeze. It’s the unmistakeable sound of something problematic, or disturbing. Something is definitely up.
“They’re hunting us now,” Sanghyeok spits. “We need higher ground. We can’t see anything from here.
Hyunjoon looks disturbed. It’s probably some monster instinct of his, since he works with them all the time. “There’s a crag southwest of here,” he says.
They all know what he would’ve ordinarily said- I’ll climb the Baron again, it’s okay- but it’s far too dangerous now that they haven’t a clue what’s going on. If any of them could fly, it would be so much easier.
T1 crosses over a murky bulge in the ground, a muddy clump of logs plastered together by mulch, hightailing it towards the home territory sector of the map. Minseok’s not all that familiar with the Rift and how it could change, the land is moreso his jungler’s perspective… but he knows that they need to defend somewhere, or else their functionality as a team comes into question.
He spurs his team on with spiritual energy, imbuing their bodies with faint jade light. Minhyung, at least, looks thankful for that. He doesn’t really like exploring- that’s more of a melee member’s thing.
The journey may be quiet, but it is tense, as if DragonX will burst through the foliage and skewer them through at any second. The support has a reserve of energy ready for that occasion, too. He hopes his teammates aren’t too stressed- that emotion doesn’t make for a good fight.
They don’t really need to communicate a lot, either- looks do everything for them. They’re just following their jungler at this point, who seems to be so, so aware of the Rift around him.
Eventually they arrive at the base of a small, rocky mountain. Gold veins streak some of the stones… if he weren’t fighting for the greatest honour the Rift has to give, he would coo over them. Is taking home something from the Rift’s environment even allowed…?
“Spread out,” Sanghyeok commands, already beginning to scale the mountain with cheetah-like agility. “Any sight, report in.”
The AD jostles Minseok on the shoulder cheerfully. “Stay near me, okay? I can protect you better then,” he says, a ray in the darkness that is the rest of the team’s current disposition. Minhyung is always light-hearted, and when he’s not, sunshiny at least.
He finds himself nodding easily, and the other ravenette smiles. He pats the smaller figure on the back and sets off, bending around the right side of the mountain.
“I think I see one, actually,” Wooje hums into their headspaces. “Their support. Whatever’s happening, they’re coming this way.” There’s a bit of rustling from Minhyung beside him, before the top continues, “Definitely coming this way.”
“Care,” their captain warns. “They might climb the mountain fast. Look to scale further.”
Scale, Minseok thinks humorously, grasping a higher ledge and heaving himself up. He didn’t climb the Rift just to drag his way up an entirely new mountain. This is so lame.
But the moment he appears into the clear, the hairs on his neck stand straight up, and a chill runs down his back. He looks up, slowly, to see the red insignia of a target atop his head.
He’s already mustered a lot of his energy to shield them for the speed, and he’s hanging from a ledge, so he drops down. He has to get behind something- he can only imagine just how fatal getting hit in the head is from this distance.
“Enemy AD ulted me,” he reports, his voice quivering, “I don’t have cover, I can tan-”
The gigantic bullet whistles through the air like a blazing comet, and he instinctively tries to duck away, closing his eyes and covering his head with his limbs. But even when the shadow falls upon him, it never hits.
He opens his eyes again, blinks owlishly, and Minhyung stands just in front of him. He releases a guttural hiss, one of his hands gravitating to his back. “Fuck, that hurt,” he snarls vocally, but there’s no regret in his tone.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Minseok says anxiously, bringing his replenished wealth of energy into his palms and pressing his fingers to the wound in his bare back. It’s lucky that his outfit isn’t too covering or armoured.
Blood seeps through and pools in the pocket of his hand, colouring his palm lines a flat scarlet. He feels all of that pain, tries to take some of it back into his own body- but his AD tampers it back, rejects that way of healing.
“I can take it,” Minhyung growls, sounding very much like he cannot take it, “you stay healthy. Don’t need more depletion.”
“I’m not fucking weak, let me help you,” the support fires back viciously. Despite those words, soothing energy flows from his limbs into the carry’s muscular back, and he feels his friend relent.
But, since that happened, DragonX know where they are now. They’re probably ascending the mountain while they stand there. They need to get on the move, and fast.
He pulls one of the blue silks from his shoulders, curling it around the archer’s body and tying it tight around the back to staunch the minor bloodflow. “Let’s move,” he orders, resorting back to their more secretive way of speaking, and Minhyung looks almost relieved to be given that command.
The sound of footsteps on rocks below attract his attention; he peers down to see the terrifying sight of Zeka ascending the mountain. He flings out a thick, tarnished bronze chain, pulling himself up at a blistering speed- and he’s coming for them.
They’re at the top within minutes, spurred on by adrenaline, and Minseok knows all too well that being caught out by the battlemage means certain death. “We need to hold this position,” he says, breathless.
The archer stations himself atop a rock, bowstring drawn back with a shimmering arrow in place. “How far are you guys from the top, he calls to the rest of the team.
Hyunjoon’s voice chimes into reality from just behind him. “Just here,” he says cheerfully. “Wooje said he’d back us up, said he was warding.”
A humming fills the area as their mid laner begins his usual ceremony, bringing forth a disc of golden metal from thin air to keep their position safe. It never fails to awe the support- he really is a god. But it’s not like those fiery blasts will do much against demons, or magicborn.
The first volley of arrows thunders forth from his carry’s bow, finding their marks in some little yellow and white things summoned by the enemy support, whom sink to the ground and disintegrate. It’s retaliated in another piercing metal bolt that shatters the ledge he’d just clambered over.
Sanghyeok raises a soldier from the dust. “He’d better get here fast, then,” he says flatly.
Pyosik’s equine charge appears long before he does, an onslaught of shadows that surges over the edge of the mountain path. It meets another wall of soldiers summoned by their mid, a few more of the units hurtling forth to damage the chain-wielding battlemage.
It’s not dynamic, it’s not quick, but it’s exciting- he’s just the artillery, after all.
A light, nimble form leaps up, causing Minhyung to scramble back from his position and fire another dark arrow, which the man tanks without any difficulty. If anything, he rips it from his shoulder and smiles.
The Sun Disc glows, imbuing them with energy, and Minseok throws a ferocious blast at the enemy top. He’s a scary one, they know, but he doesn’t look it. The attack, though, does serve to knock him back off the rock.
Blood spatters the flat stone- where did that come from?
The support cries out upon being struck in the shoulder by a stray bullet, caught off guard. He clutches at himself, backing away for a few quick moments, spurring himself to heal faster. He feels Hyunjoon’s comforting hand, squeezing his healthy shoulder, before the jungler throws himself at the oncoming pikeman.
The sound of a last metal breath screeches through the area as Kingen launches upwards, growing larger with every inch he travels. Hexagonal wings burst from his back in a spray of molten metal; four long, straight bloody cuts burn orange in his chest and sides. With a start, the mage realises Wooje’s signature slashes.
“Where’s our top?” Sanghyeok glowers aloud, evidently realising the same as he does.
The demon’s eyes burn bright with some unusual, unnatural blue. He snorts, white sparks flying from his nostrils. “Burning to cinders.”
A plume of neon blue and white flame bellows forth from somewhere on the neighbouring side of the mountain, blazing deep into the sky, and Minseok feels his heart grow cold. He feels something in his body gray over.
Kingen laughs. He swings his massive, pulsing blade from his back, every inch of his human form blown into the wind. “I thought he was just your clothes-trimmer, though.”
Hyunjoon throws the enemy jungler back and whips towards the top, Mist chaotically spinning around him like a helix. “The Dragon,” he breathes, every inch of abhor evident in his tone.
“Not our fault you guys can’t consider anything else but a fight on the map,” Pyosik retorts. When he smiles, dragonfire burns, licking through any gap in his teeth where it will be let through. Minseok’s shoulder burns even more now that he realises what he’s been hit with. It’s eating away at his flesh, the wound, like an ember that won’t die.
The enemy jungler’s grin falters upon sighting him and his wound, and a look of- perhaps concern?- sweeps over his face. Minseok hates it. He hates that two of the people he’s fighting are so important to him. Why couldn’t they just have won it all two years ago?
A thunderous grumble rips apart the earth when Kingen throws forth chains that look like they’re made of magma, Sanghyeok barely able to dodge away. A Sand Soldier bursts from the ground nearby, stabbing one of his amber wings clear through and pulling him back.
Alabaster-gray rocks swirl and morph when a golden portal surfaces at their peak, belching forth the enemy support and his carry, whom lands lightly on the ground nearby Pyosik. His gaze is as unreadable as ever. Look at me, Deft, Minseok thinks desperately, but the rifleman isn’t a mind reader, and that rifle is pulsing with a lot of draconic energy.
“So, here we are,” Kingen rumbles in their ears. “May the best team win.
They have nowhere to run, can’t leap down the mountain now, not when Kingen is tugging his wing free of the Soldier’s spear and shattering it with a swing of the greatsword. Not when Zeka finally reaches the plateau, forehead slick with sweat, but with fury in his posture.
The demon surges forward, bringing his weapon down onto Hyunjoon, whose zweihander buckles under the mighty weight. Its green energy wavers frantically, sparks flying from where they meet. The support grants his jungler a bit of strength, bringing a shield to life that slowly but surely forces Kingen back.
Minseok almost finds himself decapitated by another peacemaker, hurling a fiery blue blast at the rifleman that had shot it. “Gotcha,” he shouts to his mid, shielding him from a shot that would’ve blasted clean through the armour on his neck.
Fighting Deft reminds him of just how oppressive he can be. Ten years in the game, after all, nobody really knows it better- except maybe Faker, god to sentinel.
But there’s not enough space, not enough room to do things. Out of the corner of his eye, the marksman lines up, something none of them really can stop, because they’ll die if they try to get anywhere near him.
The target lands on his head again.
Cold and calculating, Deft’s fingers play across the gun. His face is a porcelain mask; he thumbs over the trigger.
He’s going to kill me, Minseok realises.
The expanding bullet hits him when he’s not prepared. There’s nothing, just the feeling of something making contact and carrying him back, and then his shoulder explodes in a blossom of pain.
He’s thrown into a collection of boulders with a cry, the cold feeling of adrenaline a contrast to the dry neutrality of the dust and pebbles, and the hot blood coursing down his arm.
Cruor drips to the ground and forms a puddle long before he has the mental capacity to struggle to his feet, seeing his carry leap to his defense, standing before him and firing arrow after arrow at their enemies. But they have no frontline. There’s just Hyunjoon, sword raised in pathetic defense, one leg snarled in a vicious snapping metal trap that mangles his own flesh just as much as Minseok feels about his shoulder.
But he didn’t kill me, he realises. If he wanted to kill me, I would be dead. I’d be ashes on the ground. I’d be a grease spot.
There’s a seed of hope in his heart, like his former carry is going to spare him, keep him around, just like the old days. That perks him up, at least. But the two bullets embedded in his body are determined to drag him back down to the ground.
The Disc falters above them, every hit Sanghyeok taking chipping away at its magical defenses. It rumbles, plaintively, beginning to crumble; its edges are falling away. The solar energy is flooding out of the support’s body, leaving him feeling weaker than ever before.
He needs to run, needs to get out of here, but his team are caught. He can’t leave them behind. He made a promise to them. He said he’d never let them down. Guess he really is the master of making promises he can’t keep.
A distance away, the hideous sound of the last air escaping somebody’s lungs rattles through the air, his jungler crumpling to the ground in a frantic swirl of Black Mist. They’re losing. They haven’t taken down a single member of DragonX. He’d come into this fight so prepared, so confident, but he realises that they’re about to lose.
No. Surely, he and Guma and the legendary God-King himself could eke out a victory? Minseok forces his gaze away from the disintegrating swordsman and turns his attention back towards the archer, whom has his hands full holding off both Zeka and Deft. He’s by no means losing, really, leaping from rock to rock in order to dodge the shots, but he’ll fall soon.
Holding a hand to his tattered shoulder, the support shoves back the grief in his heart, desperation sickly like rotten fruit in his insides. Just in front he hears Sanghyeok yell, every ounce of fiery power burning from him- they can all feel that raging heat.
One of his soldiers powers forward, and in a swift movement, runs Kingen through like a skewer. A wave of golden-armoured fighters follows, tossing the writhing demon off the surface of the massive mountain. But the victory is short-lived; the mid has to dash away to avoid the oncoming force that is Pyosik.
Something whizzes past Minseok’s ear. He glances back, destructive energy gathering under his fingertips instinctively, only to see that it’s Deft. His gaze is impassive; the barrel of his gun is risen, ready to fire again.
Sudden, hot fury seethes through the support; out of pure rage he gathers the strength to project a ball of flame forward, making a burning rift in the ground that the enemy carry simply weaves around. He doesn’t shoot at all, despite his aggressive demeanour, the rifle coming to rest on his shoulder again.
“Watch your step,” he comments airily, and the mage glances around himself quickly to see that the edge of the plateau is drawing ever nearer. Aurum-toned light nearly blinds him when he looks the other way, however; he’s just in time to see Sanghyeok sink to his knees, the massive sword sticking clear through the middle of his chest.
He looks shocked, staring at the sword that protrudes through his golden armour, viscera beginning its steady flood down the cracks and crevasses of his gear- then, when Kingen tears his blade free, he falls onto his side.
Even after seconds, he does not disintegrate. The Rift pulses with a solemn, sinister energy- a tribute to the fallen god.
The great circular monument breathes its last, coming apart completely, turning to dust just before it makes contact with the fighters. They’ve all stopped moving, too, their battles all forgotten in order to witness the Unkillable Demon die.
Then, and only then, Deft’s gaze turns back to him. Minseok feels well and truly underdeveloped when he tries to return that piercing stare.
He breaks into a walk, which turns into a bit of a stumbling sprint, ducking behind a spire of rock before the shot pierces the back of his head, breaths causing his chest to rise and fall rapidly. He can’t get away. He can’t get away, and there’s nobody else, and they’re going to lose, and they’re going to fall so far.
He’s scared, he’s so scared.
His AD is probably backed into a wall, about to be flayed alive. Minseok isn’t there to protect his carry. He’s failed.
“Knock knock,” says the voice, some part of his tone making the support feel so, so heartbroken. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Primitive instinct kicks him into fifth gear, and he’s off, the rocky craggy landscape opening up as he traverses further down this path. There are caves; stalagmites; even limp trees somebody could use as a slingshot to leap off. But he’s in no state for that.
Something tears open his side in a burst of sanguine red. The magus loses his footing, his stumble morphing into a crumbling series of limps, where he collapses onto the surface of a boulder.
The sound of battle has dimmed in his ears. He hears the blast of Dragonfire, of cheers, and he knows his Guma is gone now. He’s the only one left.
Minseok’s brow scrunches. The ground is growing closer. His head feels so heavy- it’s dipping, even as he tries his hardest to get up, get up- and then a cold barrel gently meets the centre of his forehead.
There’s something so familiar in the gesture, when the tip of a gun feels like soft fingers rubbing at congealed Void essence and dirt that’s stuck to his skin. For a moment he wants to pretend. It’ll make it hurt less, maybe.
He doesn’t really know that well what he’s doing when he throws a hand out, blood spattering over the rocks as he fires a pulse of karmic energy into the chest of his former carry. That gives him enough of a window to spur himself on. He’s a candle, burning down, inevitably fated to sputter out- but he can’t stop, his body won’t let him.
It looks like he’s going to get somewhere, a mad dash for cover, and he’s cheering himself on- before the horrifying crunch of something resonates in his ears. Well, whatever, probably a clump of dried grass or some long-dead skeleton.
When he looks down, he sees two sets of jagged jaws sunk deep into the mangled flesh of his ankle.
Something else propels him hands-first to the ground, where his shoulder has finally had enough and buckled under the weight of himself as well as the heavy net bogging him down. A strangled cry tears itself from his vocal cords; only then does he begin to tear up, when the brutal realisation hits him.
Minseok puts his back to the rock he’s putty against, sweat and blood and dust plastered to his cheeks. He’s wide, doe-eyed as Hyukkyu tears his attention away from the smouldering hole in his uniform and directs it towards him.
“No, nononono,” he whimpers piteously, trying to scrabble back out of sheer fear and crying out when the trap’s teeth only dig deeper. “Please. Please don’t hurt me! I’m your friend!”
Saying that only serves to visibly cut Deft deep, in the form of the faintest involuntary twitch of a brow. He pauses a few feet away, a guardian and an executioner all the same. “Sorry,” he says.
The support tastes blood in his mouth; he realises he’s bitten his lip enough to send a carmine trail rushing down his chin. He raises his healthier hand like a guard against harsh sunlight, as if that would do anything to stop a headshot. “Don’t hurt me,” Minseok repeats, barely anything but a whisper.
The wiring whirs.
He closes his eyes.
—-
They’re sitting on the rose-red bridge together, swinging their legs and giving the painted koi names they’ll forget.
“That one looks a little like you,” he says. “It has a fringe.”
“Fish don’t have fringes, little idiot,” his companion says, though not unkindly.
Minseok tosses the crumb of his prawn cracker into the water, where it promptly dissolves. He doesn’t really know what he was expecting. “That one looks like Changhyeon, it’s fluffy.”
“And it has a smaller companion,” Hyukkyu agrees placidly. “Unanimous agreement. The small one is a bit scrawny, and ugly, so we should name it Keria.”
The support gasps in faux-outrage, pushing at his carry’s shoulder playfully. “Rude!” he exclaims, flexing his hands as if he’s going to make an attack. “I’ll push you into the water. Then I can say, ‘oh, look, an alpaca fish, I’ll call it Deft!’.”
“Show some respect to your seniors,” the rifleman comments. It would be intimidating if he wasn’t already used to the other man, or if he wasn’t smiling broadly.
With a laugh, Minseok shakes his head like a wet dog, before sweeping his arm across to chuck his scrawny AD off the ridge that is their seat and straight into the creek. The koi, luckily, scatter in time.
Unluckily, Hyukkyu is a pretty decent swimmer despite being so lithe, and he resurfaces with a mighty splash- as well as a decent, heaving gasp. “You did fucking not!” he yells, looking a bit like a wet cat now with his ebony hair plastered to his scalp. “That’s it. That’s it! You are so dead.”
They end up running around in circles for a good dozen minutes before the support finally gives in, probably so that his carry can get the satisfaction of winning, since he’s cute like that. It does end in his own clothes getting soaked, though, as Deft tosses him right into the water- before following him in gingerly, like a gentleman.
“Stop,” he wails after the fourth wave of water smacks him in the face, gurgling up some mixture of pond liquid and river vegetable, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
Hyukkyu’s agile hand, usually so careful with bullets and weaponry, now messes up his waterlogged hair without a care in the world. “Yeah, whatever,” he scoffs endearingly, but he grabs onto Minseok’s dripping hand all the same. “Come on, you’re gonna catch a cold.”
Back at DragonX Den, he gets a firm towelling-off. It’s so funny trying to make his stoic AD carry smile and laugh; all the support has to do is smile and scrunch up his eyes like a chubby little quokka. Now that he thinks about it, he really does like it when the veteran rifleman smiles every now and then. Because he’s old, a crusty old fossil with no sense of humour.
But, senior or not, Hyukkyu always puts his Minseok first. On the Rift, though, it’s a different story- Keria takes every chance to tank shots and support his Deft. They’re simply the best, and that’s a fact!
“Now go get some dinner,” the AD says, and in a disapproving undertone, “dumbass.”
The mage pouts, but roughly adheres to the order. He’s looking forward to whatever their chef has prepared for the evening- maybe it’s spicy pork hocks, or broiled peppers. Maybe raw ones. He knows a certain someone on the team who enjoys the raw ones.
He must be standing there appearing expectant, though, because Hyukkyu speaks up again. “Quit waiting, I’ll be there in five.”
“Yeah, okay,” Minseok agrees, giving his head a precautionary pat to soothe down irritated locks of black hair and glaring balefully at the rifleman, whom tilts his head cheerfully back. He’s so happy. It may not look all that exciting to anyone else, but he knows his carry so well by now.
“You know,” he says suddenly, “I could get you that Cup.”
The carry sweeps at his neck with the white towel, before pausing his actions. “Come again?” he responds.
Oh, well, might as well power on. “I’ll win the Championship for you,” Minseok continues dutifully. “I promise. I’ll get you a trophy.”
In his oversized house clothes, hands behind his back, he looks like some reserved little maid in an anime. He feels that way too. It’s obvious that Deft is finding the little spiel all the more amusing.
“I think you hit your head in that river,” he replies genially. Then, with a more serious tone, “But, really. Don’t get yourself hooked on all of that trophy glory. You’re not gonna be doing any winning for me when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”
He swings the towel around a finger, dropping it neatly onto his right shoulder. “Cute kid,” he remarks as he passes by, ruffling the locks the support had worked so hard to immaculately comb back into place.
The praise has himself glowing with a jovial energy, and he buries his face in his hands. That was embarrassing! But, at least he said what he wanted to say. And that was worth it.
Now, he should really get after that dinner…
…
The surface of the water breaks like pulverised glass as he slams into it, powered by the mighty rage of the explosive Rift. It’s not playful. It’s not fun. And there is certainly no Deft-hyung to save him this time.
Does he really want to carry on anymore, though? The battle has made a hole in his heart. It’s like he’s been pierced by one of Sanghyeok’s soldiers, clean through.
Blood streams from his flank and ankle as he struggles back to air, to survival, kicking up towards the light with his good foot. Everything was going so poorly today. He could’ve at least landed in a stable, oxygenated area.
With a ragged gasp, Minseok draws breath into his lungs the moment he’s in the clear, taking dark droplets of water and moss alongside it. He splutters, chokes, splashing like a madman… but he’s alive, and that’s what counts.
His clothing, ragged and tattered as it may be, is weighing him down. Get off! he wants to yell, but that would sap at his strength. Where is the shore? Where are his friends? He needs to stop floundering like a dying fish, and help them.
It’s too much. He can’t do it.
Now, that’s just pathetic, his inner Hyukkyu says critically. But he is. He is pathetic.
His training gets the better of him- eventually, he remembers that he needs to go into a starfish float so that he doesn’t sink even lower. He’s still bleeding out, though. He’s getting weaker by the second.
A roaring sound fills Minseok’s ears; he startles, struggling again in the water, until a wave grasps him firmly by the body and carries him inwards. He doesn’t try to fight it anymore- it is what it is.
Footsteps thunder on the sandy shore, far away and really near simultaneously, but the combination of exhaustion and blood loss is causing him to see double. Two trees at the edges of his view; two rolling waves of water; four people, rushing towards him.
The support groans, barely managing a whispering rasp in the back of his throat.
I’ve never felt so weak, he reflects self-pityingly, trying to move his muscles and finding that he just can’t. I’ve never felt like I’m going to die before. Is this it? Is this the feeling?
Ordinarily, he’d thought there’d be some white-winged angel there to guide him off to heaven, say some poetic words with gun in hand and unimpressed look plastered over, and he’s definitely not missing the person that just crushed his hopes and dreams now.
But strangely enough- the only thing he feels is a whole lot of pain.
“Aaagh,” he verbalises eloquently, his eyes scrunching up as a wave of agony travels through him. “Nn… ngh… nnn…”
“Stop that,” says a cross yet concerned voice, and Minseok places it as his coach. He tries to glance up- maybe say sorry, or cry, but Bengi stoops to lay his head down on the wet sand again. “Just relax. Stay still, right?”
Hot, salty tears find purchase in his rapidly blinking eyelashes. He’s not sure whether they’re the results of pain or despair.
“He’s stable,” somebody says, a vague voice beginning to blend back into the background, “but he’s slipping now. We have to get him to a healer; out of this country and its shitty medical bills as fast as possible.”
Haha, that’s funny, but he can’t muster a laugh- everything is freezing up again. Minseok really wants to close his eyes and slip away. But whenever he’d watched movies or read books about people just wanting ‘a wink of sleep’, they died.
He doesn’t want to die.
“That’s the whole team, then,” the ex-jungler replies. “Let’s get moving.
Suspended on a stretcher- heck, he’s usually the one doing the stretchering- Minseok feels oddly vulnerable. He needs to get out of here, or something like that, but the other person at the rear of the stretcher must be a mind-reader, because he laughs.
“You’ve fought enough,” he says, a sad undertone rippling beneath his empathetic words. “Rest now, c’mon.”
That sounds appealing. This person’s just said he could go to sleep, right?
And, of all his talents, Minseok is good at following orders.
—
The Rift burns hot with white fire the second the light really leaves his former support’s bright eyes.
The rifleman stands there, cold and quiet, the butt of his gun coming to rest against the ground. If he’s just won the most important thing of his life, the thing he’s coveted for ten years, … why does he feel so empty about it?
His net disintegrates just as an excited whoop fills the air, edged with a hint of chaos, Kingen’s demonic state having declined to fade from his physical form. The hellion’s massive sword is coated in enough visceral matter to fill up another body’s veins- it would usually sicken Hyukkyu, if he weren’t so numb.
“Did you see all of that, then?” his top laner laughs. His rough, metallic skin shines with a new silver lustre- it’s probably the Rift and Dragonfire meshing together. “Mighty T1- couldn’t even beat the bottom feeders of their own league! What a fucking joke, huh?” Wildness congeals in his fiery red eyes; he raises his greatsword, as if he is to plunge it down into the slowly fading form of Keria.
The moment it comes down, a guillotine, it stops midair as if suspended by nothing- but it’s not nothing, it’s the thin barrel of Hyukkyu’s rifle, which is just as indestructible to anyone else on DragonX as Kingen.
He’s never felt such a confusing mix of emotions as he says, “Don’t do that.”
It’s evident, the clash in his juggernaut’s body, combat between the raging Darkin soul and the well-mannered laner he usually knows. The struggle appears to be won by the latter as the holographic wings fold inwards, disappear into nothing.
And to his credit, he does pull the sword back too- in time for the both of them to watch the fallen mage become dust in the wind.
“Sorry,” Seonghoon utters, sounding genuinely regretful. His mechanic exterior whirs, glows, crumbles down and melts back into his skin as if it were never there, suppressing every bit of that unhinged violence. “Sorry. Got caught up.”
“Fine,” Hyukkyu replies, even when it’s pretty evidently not, and claps his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, back to the team. Rift’s waiting for us.”
It makes him feel so old and creaky when the top laner, evidently abashed by the encounter, scampers away at breakneck speed. Or maybe he’s just less excited than he should be. He wasn’t expecting to win today, in all seriousness- but they did.
No time to be sorry, the marksman thinks, scaling the rocky wall of the path by hand just to make the journey quicker. I’ve earned this. Earned the right to be happy. Why can’t I be happy?
It hits him even harder when the five of them stand there, either buzzing with excitement or cheering or simply basking in the afterglow of the win, or in Hyukkyu’s case retaining a stone mask. The trophy is beautiful, it’s massive, probably so expensive… and he gets to wish now.
He’s put so much thought into a wish that it’s hard to pick just one, honestly, they all seem pretty good to think about.
Deft, the cup hums first, BeryL, Pyosik, and so forth until their names are all emblazoned onto the massive artifact. It strikes them all with awe, silences any words they might have wanted to say.
O mighty trophy, do I have to make a wish? he thinks, almost sarcastically. He thinks he’d like to, but it’s a tough job deciding.
The very ground trembles under his feet as the Summoner’s Cup chuckles, low and deep. Dear Deft, it says in a voice ancient as time, you know what you want. All this fighting. It’s been ten years, gracious Summoner. Ten years of pain, of ecstasy. Ten years of hoping. It’s finally in your hands.
Do you talk to everybody? Hyukkyu wonders. He doesn’t get a response. But the Rift’s words have only served to boost his morale.
As he closes his eyes, everything fades into a brilliant display of lights. He stands on an entirely new, empty stage, black and transparent; the world shuffles below him at a snail’s pace.
I know what I want. It’s finally in my hands, he repeats to himself, giddy with the rush of oncoming joy.
I’ve finally won.