Chapter 20: Scouting

GRS.

It’s a familiar team.

No, if anyone has even a slight interest in the Legend of League tournaments, it would be impossible not to know about them.

The Red Cup runner-up team.

The dominant force in China.

A prestigious team consistently ranked among the top five globally had reached out to me.

“Now that I think about it, quite a few accounts with GRS in their IDs had been sending friend requests.”

I ignored all of them, as I had no intention of accepting. The reason for the friend requests was obvious, though.

I had personally dismantled GRS’s mid-jungle duo, who had just achieved runner-up in the Red Cup, not long ago.

Considering how much this team valued their players’ opinions when recruiting new members, this wasn’t entirely surprising.

“What should I do?”

My sleepiness disappeared completely.

I had deliberately avoided accepting friend requests in case something like this happened, yet here they were, reaching out directly.

It wasn’t hard to figure out how they got my contact information.

I had previously been in touch with several professional teams, and one of them likely passed it along.

For someone like the GRS coach, equipped with a network of contacts and a name card, this wouldn’t have been difficult.

“Well, I should at least respond.”

After all, this was a team that saw potential in me. Ignoring their gesture would be rude. I tapped on my smartphone and replied:

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Ding!

Not even ten seconds later, a reply came through, as if they were waiting for it.

This alone gave me an idea of what they thought of me.

“Ah, I see. In that case, would it be possible to have a phone call?”

Of course, that wasn’t going to happen.

My voice, without a doubt, sounded entirely like a woman’s—it was unmistakable and real.

As someone preparing to completely end my life as “Prisoner,” I couldn’t leave any evidence that could connect the female voice to my current or future identity.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not in a situation where I can take a call.”

“Oh, I see. In that case, would it be possible to communicate via text?”

After a moment of hesitation, I sent a reply.

This was, after all, a team that acknowledged my value and reached out to me. Even if I declined, it was only polite to do so respectfully.

“Yes, texting is fine.”

“I’ll get straight to the point. If you’re not currently affiliated with or planning to join any other team, could we discuss something constructive regarding joining ours?”

As expected, it was about joining their team—a classic recruitment offer.

However, there wasn’t much to think about. My current situation made it impossible for me to consider joining any team.

“I’m sorry, but due to personal reasons, I’m not in a position to work with a team. My apologies.”

I thought it would be best to turn them down politely.

Once they heard about my situation, there’d be no reason for them to persist.

“I’m aware.”

…That’s what I thought, but the reply I received was completely unexpected.

“What do you mean?”

I pretended not to know and replied, but it was likely that Coach Jang Seok-Hwan was referring to my rare disease.

Considering how rumors about me have circulated even on online communities, it would be stranger if he didn’t know.

“No matter your current circumstances, if you were to sign with GRS, a professional interpreter, a dedicated physician, and other specialized staff would reside at the team’s accommodations and provide 24/7 care for you.”

It was evident they were aware of my condition.

But… something felt off.

They were trying to scout me despite knowing about my illness?

Going to such lengths?

“…What’s going on?”

Even as I stared blankly at my smartphone in confusion, the messages continued to pour in.

“As you are likely well aware, GRS is China’s premier professional team, achieving an excellent result as the runner-up in the recent Red Cup, outperforming many other top-tier teams.”

“However, we are not content with just being runners-up. While it’s a commendable result, GRS is always aiming for the championship.”

“That’s why we are confident.”

“We firmly believe that if you join us, we will win the Red Cup next year.”

This wasn’t something written on the spot.

It was clear these statements were prepared in advance.

Before I could fully grasp this realization, another lengthy message followed.

“As for the most important aspect—your salary—we are offering up to 600 million KRW, tax-free, out of respect for any hesitations you may have about moving abroad.”

“This is the amount after taxes, and the team will cover all taxes imposed in China.”

“Additionally, performance bonuses will be paid separately from the base annual salary of 600 million KRW, depending on results.”

“I can confidently say that such extraordinary terms cannot be found anywhere else, domestically or internationally.”

Six hundred million KRW in net salary after taxes.

On top of that, they were offering various forms of specialized care and benefits.

Of course, the very top-tier professional gamers earn salaries in the billions, but that’s limited to those at the highest level.

No matter how much they valued me, such terms for someone like me—still just an amateur—were beyond comprehension.

The only reason I knew this was because I’d received countless offers from professional teams in the past.

The highest salary offer I’d ever received was 300 million KRW.

Even that vanished like a mirage once it became known that I had a rare disease.

Initially, I thought this scouting offer was also just a casual attempt to see if I’d bite.

I figured they’d drop the matter once they learned about my condition, just like other teams had.

But… something seemed off.

“Just so you’re aware, I can’t walk due to my condition.”

“That’s okay. A motorized wheelchair and a dedicated caregiver will always be at your service.”

“There’s also the risk of seizures at any time.”

“As I mentioned earlier, there is a skilled physician on standby at GRS accommodations. Additionally, in emergencies, you can be airlifted to a hospital via the helicopter stationed on the roof.”

…Why are they even mentioning a helicopter?

“I am limited in how many hours I can be active each day. I won’t be able to follow the team schedule properly.”

“We can adjust the team’s schedule as much as possible to accommodate you. Our team has excellent players who can step in for you if necessary. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Then why not just use those players?

Their obsessive focus on me to an almost incomprehensible degree began to feel eerie.

In the end, I had no choice but to ask directly.

“Why are you going to such lengths?”

“Because we believe you, Prisoner, can become a player who will go down in history. And we believe the first step in that journey will be with GRS.”

Flattery that could easily make anyone waver just by hearing it.

But it didn’t feel bad.

No, it felt good.

Whatever their motives, it ultimately meant they recognized me—Prisoner.

If this were the old me, I would have taken the bait without a second thought.

What could be more gratifying than having your value acknowledged by others?

But… it’s already too late for that.

I’ve changed, and I will continue to change.

The version of me as Prisoner must disappear soon.

All I needed to send was one simple phrase: I’m sorry.

And yet, for some reason, even though my mind knew I needed to reject them immediately, I found myself delaying my reply.

Instead, I sent a different message altogether.

“By saying this, do you mean to make me a starting player?”

“Of course, you would have to go through a fair competition process. However, we believe you are more than capable of securing a starting position, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Of course, this conversation is strictly confidential with the other players. 😊”

Whether it was flattery designed to lure me in or a reflection of Coach Jang Seok-Hwan’s absolute faith in me, it was clear his evaluation of me wasn’t ordinary.

“The main reason… must be my recently improved form.”

In the past, I was the type of player who made people think, ‘Why bother? Do we really need them that badly?’

Now, I had become someone considered ‘worth any risk to acquire.’

And that’s what made it bittersweet.

Incredibly bittersweet.

“I’m sorry.”

In the end, I forced my unwilling fingers to type out and send the reply.