Missed timings.
Sloppy builds.
Supply blocks that would've earned mockery in another life.
Min's hands were fast, but his instincts lagged behind.
Chan-Sik didn't stop him.
"Again," he said.
Another match. And another.
Hye-Jin called out adjustments without raising her voice.
"Your third depot is late."
"Scout earlier—assume aggression."
Sung-Woo watched quietly, tracking patterns rather than outcomes.
"You still overcommit when ahead."
Sweat beaded at Min's temples.
His fingers remembered.
Hotkeys fell into place. Movements smoothed. The noise of the world faded until there was only the screen—the map, the rhythm of decisions stacking on top of each other.
Hours passed.
At some point, Min leaned back, chest rising and falling.
"I see it," he said softly. "I lost my edge when I stopped believing I had a reason to win."
Chan-Sik crossed his arms, satisfied.
"You've got one now."
Min stared at the minimap, then at his faint reflection in the darkened screen.
"Red Pulse thinks this city belongs to them," he said. "They think StarCraft is just a tool. A gateway."
He stood.
"We're going to remind them it's an art. A discipline. And a weapon."
Chan-Sik nodded. "Slow. Careful. We don't charge in."
"No," Min agreed. "We rebuild influence. Quiet games. LAN circuits. Street cups."
Hye-Jin's eyes lit up. "If we revive the old network…"
"we attract players," Min finished. "And Red Pulse notices too late."
Chan-Sik placed a hand on Min's shoulder.
"Welcome back, leader."
Outside, Mangwon-dong remained dark and uneasy.
But inside the clan house, something long buried had begun to breathe again.
The Warlocks were no longer surviving.
They were preparing.
They trained in blocks.
Three-hour sessions, broken only by quick meals and power checks on the generator. The PCs ran hot. The room was filled with the smell of ozone and dust. Outside, Mangwon-dong sank into darkness while the clan house stayed alive.
Hye-Jin took control of the drills.
"Macro only," she said, sliding a handwritten sheet across the table. "No harassment. No fancy plays. Economy discipline."
Min hated it.
He lost again. And again.
His hands knew what to do—but his mind lagged half a second behind. That half-second cost him games.
Sung-Woo spoke only when necessary.
"You're reacting instead of dictating," he said once. "You used to force tempo."
Min clenched his jaw.
He remembered.
But remembering wasn't enough.
Day three.
APM drills.
Chan-Sik loaded old execution maps, ancient things passed down like forbidden texts. No AI. No opponents. Just mechanics.
Hotkeys.
Camera snaps.
Production cycles.
Over and over.
Min's wrists burned. His fingers were cramped. Sweat dripped down his back.
"Again," Chan-Sik said.
Min dropped a cycle.
"Again."
He missed a timing.
"Again."
By the end of the night, his hands shook violently. He stared at them like they didn't belong to him anymore.
Hye-Jin placed a cup of water beside him without a word.
"You don't need speed yet," she said. "You need trust. In yourself."
Min nodded, unable to speak.
By the end of the first week, patterns returned.
Supply blocks vanished.
Scouting sharpened.
Breathing steadied.
Sung-Woo introduced long-form sets, best-of-seven simulations with fatigue intentionally stacked against Min.
"No resets," he said. "You play through tilt."
Min lost the first two games badly.
Won the third.
Barely lost the fourth.
Won the fifth cleanly.
In the sixth, something clicked.
Min stopped chasing perfection.
He played calm.
He played mean.
He won.
Chan-Sik leaned back, arms crossed.
"There it is."
Min didn't smile.
He queued again.
Nights blurred together.
Min dreamed of different build orders. His fingers twitched even in sleep. He stopped flinching when the monitor flickered. The keyboard no longer felt foreign.
One night, the power cut mid-match.
The screen went black.
Silence.
Min didn't move.
"Resume from memory," Chan-Sik said.
Min closed his eyes.
"Thirty-six supply," he said calmly.
"Second factory finishes. Starport queued. Scan at nine o'clock."
Hye-Jin raised an eyebrow.
"Good," Chan-Sik said quietly.
By the end of the second week, Min beat Sung-Woo.
Not cleanly.
Not easily.
But decisively.
The room stayed silent after the GG.
Min exhaled slowly.
"I'm not back," he said.
Chan-Sik shook his head.
"No."
A pause.
"You're better."
Outside, Mangwon-dong slept uneasily.
Somewhere in the city, Red Pulse tightened their grip unaware that Min's hands were steady again.
And this time, he wasn't playing to win.
He was playing to take something back.