The chat was moving so fast that Daichi barely even bothered reading it. A blur of messages flooded the screen, comments from thousands of viewers spamming everything from play suggestions to inside jokes.
"PULSE YOU'RE INSANE!!"
"HOW DID HE EVEN DODGE THAT??"
"Bro is playing in another dimension."
"NA players could never 😭😭😭"
"Pulse, why don't you go pro?"
"WHEN FACE REVEAL??"
Daichi sighed, ignoring the last comment as he clicked into another match queue. He'd been streaming for two hours already, and the viewer count was still climbing—200,000 live, and it wasn't even peak hours yet.
His name? Pulse.
His real name? Daichi Nakamura. But nobody in the Clash of Champions community knew that. As far as the world was concerned, Pulse wasn't a person—he was an enigma. A faceless gaming god, Japan's undisputed Rank 1 player in the most competitive MOBA in the world.
Daichi didn't show his face. Ever. No webcam, no pictures, no leaks. Just gameplay. If there was a ranking for the most untouchable player, he'd be at the top of that list too.
And it wasn't like he had a dramatic reason for it. He just didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the game.
"Yo Pulse, how do you not get bored playing solo all the time?" a donation message popped up on the screen.
Daichi casually dodged a skill shot while reading the message, fingers moving effortlessly across his keyboard. His champion weaved between three enemies, slipping through attacks with pixel-perfect movement.
He didn't respond right away. Instead, he landed a disgusting chain combo, completely outplaying the enemy mid-laner.
A stun. A gap close. A perfect animation cancel.
The enemy barely had time to react before their champion's health bar disappeared, and the game's announcer echoed:
"ENEMY ELIMINATED!"
The chat erupted into chaos.
"HE DOESN'T MISS."
"PULSE DEFIES HUMAN LIMITS."
"PUT THIS MAN IN A MUSEUM."
Finally, Daichi leaned back in his chair, casually cracking his knuckles.
"Bored?" he muttered, dragging out the word like he was considering it. "Not really. I just don't like relying on people."
More donations started pouring in.
"Then why don't you make your own team?"
"Bro, you'd be the best shot-caller ever."
"You should compete in Worlds."
Daichi clicked into the next match queue, voice low and almost lazy.
"Teams are just a way to hold back great players."
That answer would probably piss off some people, but he didn't care. It was the truth.
The thing was, Daichi wasn't just good at the game. He was the game.
There were hundreds of pro players who competed at the highest level, but even they couldn't touch his mechanical skill and game sense. Every season, he dominated the leaderboards. Rank 1, no question.
But while other top players had clips of themselves screaming in excitement on stream, or interviews discussing their climb to the top, Pulse was a ghost.
No tournament appearances. No live events. No team affiliations.
He wasn't a content creator—he just streamed because it was fun and because destroying challengers in front of thousands of people never got old.
And the mystery? The not knowing who he was? It made people even more obsessed.
Every few months, some random gaming forum would start a new "Who is Pulse?" conspiracy thread, spamming theories.
"What if he's actually a retired pro using a fake account?"
"Nah, bro has to be a 30-year-old Korean coach smurfing."
"What if he's not even real, just a group of high-level players sharing an account?"
Some people even thought he was AI.
Daichi thought that one was hilarious.
And it wasn't like he went out of his way to be mysterious. He just didn't care to explain himself.
All that mattered was the game.
"Why don't you go pro?"
It was the question that got asked every single stream.
And every single time, Daichi ignored it.
Because, honestly? He didn't have a real answer.
Did he like the game? Yes. Did he like being the best? Hell yes. But the idea of playing on a team, being told what to do, following strategies that weren't his own? That wasn't him.
Daichi played for himself.
If he lost, it was because he wasn't good enough. If he won, it was because he outplayed everyone.
No coaching. No team strategy. Just pure skill.
Going pro meant dealing with management, sponsorships, press interviews. It meant giving up total freedom. And that wasn't something he was willing to do.
Another Day, Another Win
The match queue popped, and Daichi's screen shifted to the champion select screen.
His fingers hovered over his usual picks before locking in his signature mid-lane assassin.
The chat exploded again.
"HE LOCKED IT IN. GG WP."
"MID GAP INCOMING."
"ENEMY MID ABOUT TO UNINSTALL."
Daichi barely paid attention. He'd played a thousand matches just like this before.
And in about twenty minutes, he'd win. He always did.
Because Pulse didn't lose.
Because Pulse was the best.
And as long as he stayed behind the screen, hidden from the world, playing solo, free from any team…
He always would be.