Gold Tier did not welcome impatience.
After the promotion, Nightwalker's matches no longer felt like steps forward. They felt like walls—solid, unmoving, demanding to be understood rather than broken.
Wins still came.
But they came slowly.
The queue times stretched. Opponents checked profiles. Teammates spoke less and listened more. Everyone played as if one mistake would be remembered.
This was Gold.
The tier where confidence learned to hesitate.
World Chat reflected the shift.
"Gold Crusader again.""He's still climbing.""No losses so far.""Someone tell me how a Holy Crusader controls fights like that."
The speculation no longer sounded mocking.
It sounded careful.
Daniel closed the chat.
Gold players didn't argue loudly.
They observed.
Starguard felt the difference immediately.
"These games are… heavier," she said during queue. "It's like everyone's holding their breath."
"They are," Daniel replied. "Gold punishes the second mistake, not the first."
She nodded, adjusting her posture, her tone quieter than before.
She was learning when not to speak.
The match loaded.
From the first minute, the enemy team played wide—spreading pressure, refusing to group early. They avoided Daniel's position deliberately, forcing fights elsewhere.
"They're pulling us apart," Starguard said.
"Yes," Daniel replied. "So we don't follow."
He stayed central.
Not chasing lanes.
Anchoring them.
The first skirmish came late, near mid, when the enemy finally tested the space he controlled.
Daniel stepped forward.
Not to engage.
To deny.
The fight dissolved without kills, both sides retreating.
"That's it?" their jungler muttered.
"That's Gold," Daniel replied.
Mid-game became a battle of patience.
Vision wars. Fake rotations. Half-commits designed to bait mistakes.
Daniel didn't bite.
He tracked cooldowns mentally. Counted steps. Measured hesitation.
Starguard watched him play differently now.
Less movement.
More stillness.
When a fight finally broke out near an objective, it was deliberate.
Both teams committed fully.
Damage surged.
For the first time in Gold, Daniel's health dropped dangerously fast.
Starguard reacted—then stopped herself.
She waited.
Half a second.
Then healed.
Not because damage had landed.
But because she knew it would.
Daniel survived.
The enemy didn't.
The fight tipped.
One down. Then two.
The rest retreated.
Voice chat breathed out.
"…That timing," someone said quietly.
Starguard didn't answer.
She was already repositioning.
The victory came without fireworks.
VICTORY
Back in the lobby, no one typed.
Gold didn't celebrate small wins.
It prepared for the next one.
After several matches like that, Daniel noticed the pattern.
Gold wasn't resisting him.
It was testing whether he would get bored.
Whether he would force the pace.
Whether he would overplay his hand.
He didn't.
And because of that, the wins stacked quietly.
Gold III.Gold II.
Still no losses.
Starguard spoke up during a longer queue.
"Are we… slow now?" she asked.
"No," Daniel replied. "We're consistent."
"That's different," she said after a moment.
"Yes," he agreed. "And harder."
She smiled faintly.
She understood.
When the system message appeared again—
[System] Player "Nightwalker" has reached Gold II.
—it barely caused a ripple.
But somewhere beyond the ranked ladder, someone was watching match histories instead of chat.
Not Silver players.
Not Gold players.
People who cared about what came next.
Daniel clicked queue again.
Gold wasn't trying to stop him anymore.
It was asking a question.
How far are you really going?