Fenrir Translations
"Nice to meet you, Gambit," I greeted, my voice calm but firm.
"...It's the first time we're meeting in a setting like this. Not on the battlefield, but on a public stage. It feels surprisingly reassuring... or is that just my imagination?" Gambit responded, with a light chuckle.
Clear Sky’s Gambit.
Digging through my memories, it didn’t take long to remember him. Was it fate or bad luck? The first time we crossed paths in-game was also on the Atakaia Volcano Island, and now, we were meeting again as winner and caster on the same map.
In a broad sense, it was a connection, regardless of how we defined it.
The chat, predictably, had exploded despite my earlier threats.
The chatter was relentless.
But that wasn’t the point. This special broadcast was—on the surface—meant to focus on the participants. Any feedback about gameplay was more of an unspoken request, not officially on the table.
So, this "official" feedback I was about to give? Consider it an act of goodwill. And the reason I called it that... well, because the recipient might not necessarily enjoy it.
With that thought in mind, I spoke.
"If you’d prefer a simple interview, please let me know now. Myself, and Casters Liquid and Meerkat, would be more than happy to ask appropriate questions for a champion like you."
"No, no. That wouldn’t be right," Gambit replied firmly.
His refusal wasn’t unexpected.
"I’m sure there were plenty of people who wanted to be in my position today. Personally, I’d really like to hear your feedback, Yujin. Not just for me but for the 1,600 others who tried to stand here today."
"You don’t have to make it sound so grand," I said, smiling faintly.
"Ah, really?"
With the chat full of chaotic banter, I decided to shut it off completely. After that, I received Gambit’s session data, neatly collected and displayed before me. The information sparkled like a jewel, but it was really just a dense cluster of statistics. Waving my hand, the data floated in the air: movement paths, number of engagements, MOA (Minute of Angle) stats, first-shot accuracy, movement patterns, missed bullets, time spent in specific areas... everything.
But the evaluation? That was mine to make.
I’ve always had a knack for data analysis.
Let’s begin.
"Based on the data collected, you secured five kills, which is above average. Your engagements were mostly concentrated in the early and late game. It seems like you secured kill points early on, then stuck close to the kill zone, avoiding unnecessary fights. A pretty standard but effective strategy."
"It’s one of the most trusted tactics, and... I’ve learned the hard way what happens when I overextend," Gambit said with a sheepish laugh.
I chuckled briefly. Of course, that was partly my fault.
In the past, while playing this map, the lava flowed unexpectedly in an unusual direction, deviating from the projected path. I had to quickly maneuver to escape the newly marked kill zone, only to be shot at during my retreat.
The shooter? The very man standing before me.
The result was predictable. To corner him, I rammed into the wall, but the eruption caused a shockwave and earthquake, weakening the structure until it was as fragile as glass. So when I smashed Gambit against the wall, it collapsed entirely. Lava surged through the alleyways below, and… well, Gambit was vaporized into a polygonal mess and ejected back to the lobby.
I barely made it out after a ten-minute sprint.
That’s the gist of it.
Taking a deep breath, I continued.
"In AP solos, the strategic meta is relatively fixed. Get early kills or hide, then survive until the final ten. It’s still a valid strategy. So, I’ll be shifting my focus slightly."
"How so?"
"I’ll be dissecting your combat data."
At that moment, more data streams appeared. This time, it included information on the weapons Gambit typically used in PVE and PVP, as well as every firearm he wielded in this session.
It was time to point out what the analysis system couldn’t catch.
"When not looting weapons like in AP, you typically favor the HK416. You’ve added extra weights to the grip and loaded the front with several accessories. You’ve also modified the gas regulator to increase the fire rate—a rather unique setup."
The increased fire rate meant more recoil, which Gambit compensated for by attaching extra weights, a suppressor, flashlight, and laser sight near the muzzle. His grip favored CQB (Close Quarters Battle), allowing for better control.
He didn’t carry a secondary weapon, using the freed-up weight for more ammo and grenades.
The nanomachine defense wall—exclusive to Icarus operators—was something Gambit had tailored his setup to break through efficiently.
"Opting for certain suppression in exchange for accuracy isn’t inherently bad. But how do you train for the opposite scenario?"
"Hmm, about a third of my solo AP sessions, I use semi-auto weapons like the M1A or SR-25. Sometimes I even practice single-shot drills with carbines when necessary."
I nodded, then added.
"There’s one small but easily overlooked detail."
"Oh? Really?"
"Let’s watch the next clip."
A series of videos began playing. Not one or two, but several—at least seven. Some weren’t even from this session, but that wasn’t the point.
The footage was quickly broken down to extract key data, this time measuring the RPM (Rounds Per Minute) of single shots. At first, it was hard to tell, but eventually, it became clear: even during single-fire mode, Gambit’s bullet consumption was unusually high. The more I watched, the more it confirmed my suspicion.
The algorithm tied to Gambit’s playstyle—frequent suppression fire—was conflicting with his efforts to practice single shots.
When the non-session clips faded, a decisive moment appeared. Gambit, out of bullets at the critical moment, found himself on the receiving end of a brutal counterattack.
The number of rounds expended and the RPM were displayed clearly.
"It seems like this happens to you often."
"...."
He didn’t say anything.
But the confusion on his face said more than words could.
I pressed on.
"One of the things I’ve learned from coaching others is that single-shot firing speed is factored into the behavioral correction algorithms. It doesn’t work in isolation but instead creates a pattern based on your playstyle."
This wasn’t just something I noticed with Harmony, but even with the SSM players I’d trained. As I broke down their gameplay mechanics, I’d learned that the game’s algorithm gradually shaped itself to match the user’s habits.
In Gambit’s case, his algorithm wasn’t syncing with other aspects of his playstyle. While the algorithm wasn’t built for burst fire, his consistent use of it had influenced other areas.
"It’s great that you’re practicing something opposite to your usual style, but single shots can’t match the firepower of full-auto. To compensate, your single-shot speed has increased—perhaps more than necessary."
And that speed had become ingrained, hardwired into the algorithm.
After explaining this, I summarized:
"As your single-shot speed increased to compensate for the firepower gap, the algorithm adapted to that, cementing it in place. It’s a small variable that normally wouldn’t be noticeable, but when it leads to situations like this, it’s a problem that needs fixing."
It’s a strange problem, unique to games.
But even in a game, weaknesses had to be addressed. If something like this happened during the KSM or Asian qualifiers, elimination would be almost guaranteed.
Real-life combat wouldn’t have this kind of algorithm-driven issue.
I briefly glanced around after wrapping up my explanation.
"...Why is everyone so quiet?"
<CroqueMonsieur donated 10,000 won.>
"Yujin, you’re really something else… What the heck is all this?!"
"Has Yujin lost her mind?"
"Fact: She didn’t prepare this in advance. This is happening in real time!"
"I don’t even know anymore, lol."
"At this point, I’m just giving up."
"As expected…"
Why were they all staring at me like this?
Even Liquid, Meerkat, and Gambit, who was receiving the feedback, had looks of awe and disbelief on their faces, half admiration and half shock.
Finally, some comments came through.
"Yujin, this is amazing!"
"...How did you figure all this out so quickly?"
"Wha… I’m not even sure how to describe this… It’s insane!"
Uh…
I was the one who was stunned. Maybe I was too detailed?
Sensing the need to steer the conversation away, I quickly moved on.
"Well, I think that wraps up this part. Let’s move on to the next."
"The next!?"
"Oh, dear."
Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted this invitation as a special caster after all.
But what’s done is done. At the very least, I wouldn’t be accused of half-heartedness. Since this was Gambit’s first and likely last time receiving public feedback, I felt obligated to deliver as much useful information as possible.
And so, the interview, which was really just feedback in disguise, continued.
For instance:
"When you reload during a firefight, you’re lifting your weapon too high. In one instance, an enemy with thermal vision spotted the glowing muzzle above the box and pinpointed your location. You’ll need to adjust how you handle your reloads."
Or:
"Switching between weapons isn’t a problem, but it seems like your accuracy fluctuates depending on the stock length or contact points. Changing weapons based on the situation or environment isn’t a bad idea, but it’d be better to figure out the best configuration for yourself."
And:
"You’re focusing too much on controlling your breathing. With different guns, recoil, and attachments, micromanaging it is pointless. Besides, most of your fights are at distances where breathing doesn’t matter as much—focus more on grip and sight alignment."
It was basic stuff, really. But unfortunately, Gambit’s gameplay was riddled with mistakes that could only be corrected through proper training.
And of course, every time I opened my mouth, the reactions varied wildly.
I was starting to feel emotionally drained.
‘...Maybe I shouldn’t have come after all.’
This was exhausting.