'I never thought I’d be this jealous of the Taiwanese.'

Where there are people participating in the scrim, there are also those watching.

More than a hundred people were floating in the air, relying on invisible cameras above the High-Value Research Facility. Every now and then, a low murmur would echo out. Whether it was out of concern or admiration, only they knew.

However, one thing was clear: the first-tier players from Russia, China, and Japan, along with their coaching staff, all had a similar thought—they had never been more envious of Taiwan’s direct scrim data analysis rights than this year.

While they could only scratch the surface of Eugene’s abilities from their aerial perspective, Taiwan had full access to her first-person view and countless other tools to break down her gameplay. Sure, they understood the advantage Taiwan needed, but that didn’t make them any less frustrated today.

But that wasn’t their only concern.

Players who encountered Eugene were struggling far more than they had anticipated.

“They’re doing worse than I thought. What’s the problem? Her play doesn’t seem that different from what we expected. You’d think they were under some kind of debuff.”

“Right? I’ll have to ask them later…”

Each of them offered their own answers, but none were certain. Guessing based on intuition wasn’t going to yield the right solution.

Unlike them, however, one person remained silent even as they exchanged opinions—Case, the most renowned AP (assault player) in Japan and the oldest player, often called “big brother.” He was the one who had defeated Dice in last year’s qualifiers and was the only Asian player to finish in the top 10 of the finals. Case was now intently watching Eugene’s play, barely even breathing.

Even as he watched, his hands moved nonstop.

His notes were like gold to both his own teammates and the international players, but as long as he was in this focused state, no one would dare disturb him.

And as his hands worked, his mind whirled.

'...She’s improved since the last time I saw her. Or was she not going all out back then? Is this player truly unafraid of anything?'

Only he knew the answer.

No, he couldn’t not know it.

Diving into the heat of battle and growing accustomed to it—facing the source of fear directly. That way, no matter the situation, your body wouldn’t freeze. This was a fundamental principle ingrained in him from his days when his personal records were still classified, back when he was part of a special forces unit. From Delta Force to now, this principle had always been emphasized—not just for overcoming fear, but because all combat principles stemmed from this very point.

“The moment you change positions during combat should always be when the enemy is unable to detect your movement. The best time to move is after you’ve forced the enemy into such a situation...”

The words that had been drilled into his mind automatically flowed out.

It sounded simple.

But because it was simple, it was incredibly difficult to follow. That’s why it was at the top of the combat manual. The actions of the player on his screen were executing this principle to perfection—even beyond his own idealized vision.

Movements like these could only be made after surviving countless life-or-death scenarios.

At this point, he was starting to realize that facing Eugene wouldn’t just be a match—it would be something far more serious.

“I knew this was coming... but it’s happening faster than I expected.”

“Pardon? What do you mean, big brother?”

“Just talking to myself. Don’t mind it.”

The feeling he had in the finals.

No matter how much they dressed it up as a competition, there was an undeniable scent of blood, sweat, and death at that level. The higher you climbed, the more everyone felt it. That’s why newcomers to the finals often found themselves overwhelmed by the brutal atmosphere.

Once you experienced it, the cheers and support from the audience became secondary. The players who made it to the finals, especially those at the very top… some of them had actual experience pointing a gun at a real enemy and pulling the trigger.

And she, along with the rest of Korea’s first-tier players, had that very experience carved into their bones.

This wasn’t just difficult—it was beyond that.

If the reports were true, Dice was Eugene’s apprentice. Though last year she hadn’t been able to bridge that gap between the real and the theoretical, rendering her unable to fully showcase her abilities...

“They’re training actual operators, it seems.”

If anyone were to face them this year, the results would be different.

In fact, unlike last year when they approached the Asian qualifiers as professional gamers, this year they might approach it as if they were actual soldiers.

And the reason he had been able to secure such a high ranking last year was due to a similar mentality.

“...Are you worried about something?”

“No, let’s just keep watching.”

For now, all they could do was watch.

Meanwhile, Case’s attention naturally shifted from Eugene to Dice. While everyone else focused on one person, he was observing the ripple effect caused by the singular presence of a golden-haired user—Dice—who had been blocked by him numerous times last year and was now playing on the opposite side of the map from Eugene.

Dice, known for her tricky playstyle, hadn’t progressed beyond a certain point last year. She had the sharpness to make it to the finals, but not enough to go any further. Like a jester armed with a dagger—dangerous but limited.

But this time, her strengths remained intact, and her form had grown even sharper. The jester now held a small shield in her left hand. That alone had increased her stability in combat severalfold.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

He listened carefully to the murmurs around him.

“Korea’s first-tier players are doing better than we thought…”

“Isn’t it less about individual skill and more about Eugene pulling the entire team forward?”

Exactly.

This wasn’t a matter of individual performance—every player’s actions reflected Eugene’s training. From their movements to their teamwork, her influence was undeniable.

The individual skills of the Korean players were noticeably better than expected. Some were falling, but many were still standing. As the game moved from mid to late, and then to the final phase, the number of Korean first-tier players never dropped below 10. Finally, after a few more minutes, the first round ended with several Korean players making it into the top 10.

No matter how good the first-tier players were, the players from other countries weren’t lacking either. But when the scoreboard showed the Korean flag in 12 of the top positions, they had no choice but to admit it.

The first round ended.

Eighty players poured out in four groups.

The first-tier players, who had been observing, rushed toward the second-tier players who had just finished the round. In the short five-minute break, there was an overwhelming amount of work to be done.

The analysis programs kicked into gear, prioritizing the players who had the most contact with the first-tier players. Russian player Tochka, in particular, was treated like royalty by his teammates. After all, he was the first to encounter Eugene and the first to be defeated.

Though Tochka himself was just confused by all the fuss.

“Here he comes, here he comes!”

“Pin him down! Make him spill everything he knows!”

“You guys are insane! What the hell—?!”

Over 40 people, including the first-tier players and the coaching staff, waited anxiously for him to speak.

As the initial chaos subsided, a list of questions was presented. Was Eugene better than they thought, or was she about as expected? Why did Tochka lose? What was the critical mistake? The list of questions seemed endless.

As they fired question after question, his fragmented memories started to form a coherent picture. The answers he had prepared beforehand came to mind… though he wasn’t exactly eager to share them, he had no choice.

It was going to be painful. Admitting that your skills fell short was always a hard pill to swallow.

In response to the simple question of why he had lost, Tochka offered his confession.

“...The moment I couldn’t finish her off and allowed her to close the distance, I knew I was going to lose. I didn’t see any path to victory.”

That statement.

The weight of it was considerable. For someone who had lasted 1 minute and 31 seconds in direct combat—nearly two minutes in total—it was a rather bleak assessment.

It didn’t take long for the celebratory atmosphere to turn serious.

“That bad, huh?”

“She didn’t give me time to come up with a backup plan. It was like she was forcing me into a binary choice.”

Fight or flee.

The moment you entered the battle half-heartedly, thinking you could retreat if things went south, she’d close the distance so quickly you’d be trapped with no way out.

Discussions began to unfold as soon as he finished.

“…She’s far more aggressive than we thought?”

“Should we try to avoid direct confrontations? Is there anyone else besides Tochka who’s faced her head-on?”

“Pavel! Pavel, why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Pavel?”

Pavel—his real name, not his player ID—was called out.

Tochka turned his head sharply. So he’d faced Eugene too, huh? There was a sense of surprise, followed by a feeling of camaraderie. Unsurprisingly, Pavel didn’t look too happy. But as the conversation progressed, Tochka’s expression began to change.

In summary, Pavel had managed to escape.

But even then, his story wasn’t all that different from Tochka’s—just with a few additional details.

“I thought her only concern was closing the gap, but that’s not necessarily the case. It seems she only rushes in when she’s sure she can take someone down. Under more favorable conditions, she’s willing to engage in ranged combat as well.”

“So her combat strategy is simple. But the simpler something is, the harder it is to counter… All the tricky plays we’ve seen so far are just extensions of her basic skills, huh.”

It was a headache.

Understandably, unlike actual special forces members who train their entire bodies and master CQB (Close Quarters Battle), Dark Zone had a balance system that turned combat into a strategic rock-paper-scissors game. This had been mentioned many times before.

Simply put, every stat needed for AP players started at a base level of B, so instead of developing all their stats evenly, players would focus on raising specific areas. This left their status looking like an orange with a few sharp spikes.

In contrast, Eugene’s status was like a melon. Without spikes, an orange had no killing power, but a melon, with enough force behind it, could seriously injure someone if thrown.

That was the best analogy they could come up with.

'I didn’t think I’d have to worry about this at this point…'

Eugene’s secrets were slowly being revealed.

Many believed that with enough data, they could find a way to counter her. But in reality, that wasn’t happening.

At this point, it seemed like she was the one keeping her secrets best hidden.

Discussions continued.

“…She’s completely mastered the fundamentals. The biggest issue is that we can’t guarantee a win even if we go head-to-head with Korea’s first-tier players.”

“For now, let’s keep watching. The fact that her strategy doesn’t follow the usual rock-paper-scissors dynamic is valuable information. From here on, we need to figure out how to change our approach. Perhaps avoiding direct confrontations and redirecting aggro to nearby players would be best?”

“Avoid confrontations? Easier said than done. If we’re not careful, we might get accused of match-fixing.”

“We’ll have to leave it to the players' judgment. Since this is only the first round, let’s see if Korea’s first-tier players can maintain this physical performance.”

“Hmm.”

They decided to wait and see.

Every country except for Korea and Taiwan came to the same conclusion. While it sounded reasonable, in practice, it was the same as saying, “There’s no strategy that works right now.” That’s why none of their faces looked particularly hopeful.

With less than 30 seconds left until the next match, they had no advice to give their second-tier players.

The importance of fundamentals, long overlooked, was rising once again.

Silence and anxiety hung over them.

Meanwhile, on the Korean team.

“Long live Eugene! Long live!”

“From now on, I’m going to call the light ‘Eugene’!”

“Ahh, Eugene, shining down from the heavens! You’re too bright…!”

“Could you tone down the volume, please…?”

There was Eugene, her face bright red, while the first-tier Korean national players were causing a ruckus in joy.

It was just another day for them.