The rhythmic crack of bullets echoed through the empty training range — sharp, relentless, almost surgical. Brass casings pinged against the floor, bouncing into neat little piles near Jin's boots. Targets flared, shattered, and rebuilt themselves in a cycle that felt almost sentient — as if the system itself pitied his obsession.
Jin hadn't moved from that spot in two days.
If this were the real world, his eyes would be bloodshot, his body sore. But here, in the world of COD:VR, fatigue can be easily addressed by eating or drinking virtual foods and drinks.
His avatar's movements were smooth, mechanical, precise. Every motion was muscle memory distilled into code.
He is no longer relying on neural link. No aim assist. Just him, the weapon, and the honest sting of recoil biting into his palms.
He exhaled, slow and steady.
"Reset targets."
The range obeyed instantly. New dummies blinked into existence — each bearing faint silhouettes of human shapes, blue outlines shimmering like ghosts caught between respawns.
He took aim again.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Each shot tore through the targets with the same unbroken rhythm — a heartbeat of persistence that had long replaced sleep.
Then the world paused.
A flash of white light rippled across his field of vision, freezing everything mid-frame. The targets disintegrated, their fragments suspended in the air. A soundless hum filled the space, followed by a global broadcast.
[Global System Announcement]
Drumstickkk and TraceZero have cleared the first Continental Event.
Awakened Classes unlocked globally.
Jin froze, rifle still raised. The glowing words hung before him like scripture written across the digital void.
He stood there for a long moment, just breathing — staring at the announcement that would change everything.
Then, without a word, he adjusted his grip and took aim again.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
"Yo! Did you see that? That Drumstickkk's doing something Legendary again!" one of the players present in the training range blurted, practically jumping off his bench near the vending machine. His eyes gleamed, a mix of disbelief and hero worship.
"Awakened Class? That's insane," another said, leaning closer to the hologram as if proximity would make it more real. "Guy's been registered as Legendary Vanguard? Then now he's got an Awakened Class?"
A third one scratched his head. "Wait, what does that even mean? 'Awakened'? Is that like… subclass stuff?"
"I read about it in streamer blogs," the first one replied, pulling up his own HUD in excitement.
"Rumor said the devs were working on a new tier system after Legendary. Thought it was a joke."
Their voices overlapped — chaotic, high-pitched, brimming with energy — until the sound of gunfire cut clean through their chatter.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
They turned, almost in sync, toward the far end of the range.
There, stood Jin.
His dark hair stuck to his forehead, damp with digital sweat. His shirt clung to his back like a second skin. Every motion was methodical — shoulders squared, breath timed between shots, eyes narrowed with razor focus. Brass shells spilled around his boots in glimmering arcs.
"Man's a bum," one of the younger players said, a smirk pulling at his lips. "He's been there forever. Probably trying to copy some old meta garbage."
A soft metallic clink echoed — the sound of a lighter flicking open.
From the corner, an older man leaned against the wall, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. His armor was scuffed, the insignia on his shoulder faint but recognizable — Tier 4Vanguard.
He took a slow drag, watching Jin's form through the smoke. His gaze was calm, dissecting — the kind of look only old players gave when they saw something familiar.
"That kid?" the old man said finally, voice gravelly, quiet enough that the words felt heavy. "I wouldn't call him a bum."
The young player scoffed, turning. "C'mon, old man. You're a Tier 4 Vanguard. You telling me you'd lose to him?"
The veteran smiled faintly, the kind that came from knowing more than he cared to explain. Smoke curled from his lips as he spoke.
"That look in his eyes — I've seen it before."
The others exchanged glances. "What do you mean?"
He let the silence stretch. Another drag. Another exhale. Then, softly — like he was remembering something distant —
"It's the same look as the Sync Pair of the Gaia Esports, now Gaia Academy."
The air shifted. The laughter died.
The name Gaia Esports alone was enough to freeze even the cockiest recruit. Everyone in COD:VR knew about the legend — the duo that had once ruled every leaderboard until the collapse of the old league.
Jin fired another round. Crack. The recoil flared against his arm — violent, clean, deliberate.
The old man tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "People like that…" He gestured faintly with the cigarette toward Jin, the ember tracing a faint red arc in the air. "…they're not training. They're remembering."
"Remembering what?" one of the recruits asked softly.
The veteran's gaze never left Jin. "Something everyone else forgot."
Jin's last bullet split the air. The final target disintegrated into shimmering blue shards, dissolving into the ether.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then Jin finally lowered his weapon, sliding the mag out with a mechanical click.
He didn't look back, but his voice carried through the range, low and even.
"…You're too loud."
The recruits flinched. One tried to laugh it off, but it came out nervous. Jin ejected the magazine, holstered his rifle, and finally turned his head — eyes glowing faintly beneath his visor's tint.
"You call the old meta garbage?" he said, tone calm but cutting. "Maybe you're just like most of the players nowadays, relying in the neural link which is slower and makes you lousy."
He started walking past them, boots crunching against the spent casings scattered across the floor.
"Keep yapping," Jin added as he passed the vending machine, not breaking stride. "Just keep relying in the slow system of the neural link."
The group fell silent, their earlier excitement fading into something heavier. The veteran watched him go, cigarette burning down to its filter, and muttered almost to himself—
"Drumstickkk said something similar to me when he defeated me back then."
Inside Jin's mind, the world outside barely existed.
Each shot was a heartbeat. Each crack a whisper between him and the weapon — a conversation of instinct and precision, unmediated by systems or shortcuts.
Again.
Faster.
No aim assist. No neural link.
His arms trembled, the burn of repeated recoil gnawing at his forearms. He flexed his fingers, forced the muscles steady again, and exhaled slowly through clenched teeth.
Hours passed, measured not in time but in the cadence of shots and reloads. The rifle grew hot, then searing. He swapped to a sidearm, lightweight, familiar, letting the recoil bite in smaller, sharper jolts. Then back to the rifle. Over and over. Each transition a rhythm he memorized as deeply as his own pulse.
He loaded into another battleroyale match.
Then Jin disappeared from the trianing and range, and now, he stood in the drop ship, surrounded by avatars in flashy skins and neon armor. The global announcement still glowed faintly in the corner of his HUD, but he barely registered it.
"Awakening, huh?" he muttered, gripping his rifle. "Awaken my ass… I prefer my own way."
The ramp groaned as it opened, exposing the sprawling hot zone below. Neon fire streaked across the sky as dozens of players dove, their jet thrusters slicing through the air. Holo-signs flickered across skyscraper walls, advertising virtual loot and tournament highlights, but Jin didn't notice. His eyes were locked on the chaos.
Without hesitation, he jumped.
The wind tore past his face, tugging at his gloves and jacket. The cityscape blurred into a mesh of glowing concrete, holographic ads, and scattered neon debris. Players fell around him like sparks, twisting mid-air to land in perfect drops. He ignored all caution, aiming for the densest cluster — the center of the hot zone, where survival depended on speed and precision.
Impact hit like a thunderclap. Jin rolled, the synthetic concrete cracking under the force, and snatched a pistol lying in the open. His boots barely touched the ground before he was moving again, scanning, calculating, reacting.
A squad of four materialized around a nearby corner, their armor glowing with neon highlights. One spun an SMG, the other a heavy rifle, the rest with assault rifles. Their laughter cut through the chaotic noise of gunfire.
"Hey kid! You're either gutsy or stupid dropping here alone!" one shouted over the comms.
Jin didn't respond. His focus narrowed to the rhythm of their movements: staggered footsteps, flickering reflective armor, the half-second delay between reloads.
He moved first. One step, then two sharp taps to the first target's head. Sparks flew where bullets clipped concrete, and the enemy went down.
Pivot — slide canceled under incoming fire, shards of debris bouncing off his armor. Another burst, center mass, and the second adversary crumpled.
The third lunged forward, SMG spitting digital tracer rounds. Jin's pistol clicked empty mid-stride. Without missing a beat, he dove forward, scooping up the fallen enemy's rifle mid-slide. His flip behind cover was seamless, a blur of limbs and reflexes. Blind fire — the third went down in a spray of sparks, the HUD confirming the hit.
The last enemy froze. Hands shook, reflected in the tremor of his ammo counter. Jin rose slowly from cover, rifle leveled. No neural overlay, no aim assist — just instinct, pure and unrelenting.
One shot. Clean. Silence.
The killfeed blazed across his HUD:
[Jin — 4 Eliminations]
He exhaled, reloaded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Prefers the old meta, huh?" he muttered remembering Drumstickkk. "I prefer my own style, old man."
Then came the sound — low, mechanical, impossible to ignore. A heavy whirring, like machinery fused into the earth itself, growing louder. A fully geared squad emerged, weapons swinging, armor gleaming. Footsteps pounded the virtual terrain like small earthquakes.
Jin's visor flickered with red warnings as a grenade bounced past his boot, spinning end over end. Sparks arced where it hit. He barely had time to curse.
"Oh, come o—"
The explosion threw him back, shards of holographic debris raining down. HUD scrambled with alerts, neon fire flashing across every surface. He tumbled, rolling across the shattered floor, reorienting instantly as smoke and sparks filled his vision.
[Eliminated – Placed 23rd]
Jin reappeared in the training range.
"Just great," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head as if he could feel the impact echo through the simulation. "Guess even legends need a little luck."
The flickering holo-targets in front of him seemed to shimmer in response, waiting. He stood, shoulders rigid, and reloaded his pistol with mechanical precision. He glanced toward the distant horizon of the virtual cityscape, neon streaking across the skyline. "Fine. I'll keep practicing. You keep your Awakening, Drumstickkk. I'll build my own."
He raised his pistol, stance tight, and started firing. Crack—crack—crack. Targets flared, splintered, and reformed in their ghostly blue outlines. The recoil bit into his palms, the vibration in his gauntlets echoing through his arms. His eyes didn't blink. His breathing didn't falter.
Hours passed unnoticed. Each round he fired was measured, each reload a ritual. The walls of the training range reflected his focus back at him — a ghostly echo of determination burned into every surface.
And then he returned to the Battle Royale map.
The drop ship groaned, neon streaking past. He landed in the hot zone, hearts racing, guns blazing. And again, death came — sudden, brutal, unavoidable. But instead of frustration, he felt the sting as a lesson, as data.
Back in the training range, he exhaled, adjusted his grip, and fired again. Crack—crack—crack. Each shot more precise than the last. Every misfire, every stumble, became a whisper of knowledge, etched into his muscle memory.
The process repeated: Battle Royale, defeat. Training range, rebirth.
With each cycle, he didn't chase Drumstickkk's Awakening, didn't mimic the flashy subclasses, the fancy mechanics, or the neon banners declaring global feats. No—he carved his own path. Every failure was a forge, every burst of recoil a chisel shaping him.
He leaned forward, the HUD tracking every motion, every trigger squeeze. His field of vision flickered faintly with projected data: hit rates, reload timing, enemy patterns. He absorbed it all, grinding not toward imitation, but evolution.
He ignored every talk he hears about Drumstickkk. They didn't matter. Only the edge of the trigger, the rhythm of recoil, the pulse of the digital world mattered.
And beneath the pulse of his own progress, beneath the endless loops of practice and death, something else began to stir.
A rivalry. Quiet, simmering, almost imperceptible. Drumstickkk, with his Legendary Vanguard and global recognition. Jin, raw, unyielding, refining himself. The paths had crossed before, even if unknowingly. And soon, they would converge.
Jin reloaded once more, eyes narrowed. A faint grin tugged at his lips. "Awakening or not," he muttered, voice low but sharp, "you're not the only one making history."
The old meta he was mocking back then wasn't dead. It was evolving — in him.
New blood exploiting the old ways by making his own style.