Himass and TanVuu: Tears on Television and the Unanswered Question from KRAFTON

Himass broke down crying on VTVcab. Beside him, TanVuu could not hold back his tears either. Two young men, once standing on the international stage of PUBG Asia Stars 2026, now sat before television cameras and told the story of being banned from global competition. No trophies in their hands. No dazzling stage lights. Only two tear-streaked faces and choked-up accounts of an incident the public still has not been fully informed about. "The pitch never sleeps; it is people who choose to look away." The line I wrote years ago while following women's football in Asia suddenly echoed in my mind as I witnessed this scene. This was not a lost match, not a missed shot. This was a lifetime competitive ban — a death sentence for the careers of two esports athletes. The incident began at the PUBG Asia Stars 2026 tournament. According to what was revealed in the interview, after the incident occurred, Anyone's Legend (AL) — where Himass played — instructed him not to speak on his own and to let the organization handle it. On TanVuu's side, The Expendables (TE) also submitted an appeal with information intended to protect the player. But both appeals received no positive response from publisher KRAFTON. The result was that TE decided to disband its entire PUBG roster. TanVuu lost his competitive home. And Himass, even though AL maintained operations, no longer had the right to step onto any global PUBG tournament. I sat before my screen, noting down every detail. Having followed the esports scene for six years, I understand that strict penalties always exist in any esports discipline. But what made me pause this time was not the penalty itself, but the way it was enforced — lacking transparency, lacking dialogue, and leaving behind people who had to fumble their own way forward. "Where people wait for miracles, I learn to write with truth." I remember writing this after the Tokyo night in 2026, when the Korean women's team lost to Sweden. The truth is never easy to hear. But it is the only thing worth writing. What is the truth here? We know Himass and TanVuu were banned from global competition. We know both organizations submitted appeals. We know KRAFTON did not provide satisfactory responses. But we do not know exactly what conduct led to the penalty. We do not know how the investigation process was conducted. We do not know where the evidence came from. We do not know whether there was any effective path to appeal. This is the dark space of global esports governance. When a publisher holds complete power over a player's fate, and when that process is not transparent, the player — guilty or innocent — falls into complete helplessness. Look at these two specific cases. Himass had planned to compete with Taikonn until the end of this year before considering retirement. This means he had no intention of staying with PUBG long-term — his plan was a controlled, prepared exit. TanVuu, on the other hand, wanted to continue competing for about two more years to enjoy his remaining time with esports. Two people, two different plans, but sharing the same fate: being robbed of the right to decide when their own careers would end. People often say esports is a young, dynamic industry where anyone can rise from nothing. But that same youth also means a lack of labor protection mechanisms — and professional players are laborers, even if many do not want to see it that way. When I followed the Incheon Hyundai Steel Red Angels women's team during the summer 2026 transfer window, I witnessed a shocking move: number one goalkeeper Kim Jung-mi was sold to Japan for only 50 million won — 60 percent below market value. I wrote a two-week investigation into that. What I learned was that injustice in sports rarely comes from a single evil decision, but from a system where the voices of those involved are not strong enough to be heard. The story of Himass and TanVuu is similar. It is not that KRAFTON is necessarily the villain. It is that their process — if it exists — is making players feel abandoned and powerless, because they have no channel to be heard except through television broadcasts and social media. The involvement of the Korean Game Users Association makes this story more significant. When a consumer advocacy organization in the publisher's home country demands an explanation about the handling process of the ASIA STAR incident, it shows this issue is no longer just a private matter of two Vietnamese individuals, but has become a question of accountability in the esports industry as a whole. More than 4.1 million signatures have been collected demanding justice for the two players. I have witnessed many community campaigns in my career. Some create real change. Some remain at the level of momentary emotional expression. But 4.1 million signatures is not a small number. It shows that the Vietnamese PUBG community specifically, and esports fans generally, are seriously questioning the fairness of the current disciplinary system. However, the biggest question I want to raise here is not "are Himass and TanVuu guilty or not" — because we do not have enough data to answer that. The more important question is: "Does KRAFTON's process deserve the power they hold?" In a good system, severe penalties always come with serious due process. That process should include: clear notification of the violation, an opportunity for the accused to present their side, controlled disclosure of evidence, and a meaningful appeals mechanism. If any link in this chain is missing, the penalty — whether right or wrong — will be seen as lacking legitimacy. Both AL and TE submitted appeals with information intended to protect their players. KRAFTON gave no positive response. The question arises: did KRAFTON genuinely consider these appeals, or was it just a formality before maintaining the original decision? I do not have the answer. And that is precisely the problem. When an entire system operates without anyone knowing what goes on inside, community trust gradually erodes. And when trust disappears, consequences emerge: players leave, organizations disband like TE did, and young talents will think twice before pursuing an esports career — especially in a developing region like Vietnam. Esports does not need a pitch, but it still needs storytellers who dare to keep the flame alive. I wrote that not long ago, and I still believe it. The story of Himass and TanVuu needs to be told. It needs to be preserved. It needs to be analyzed from multiple angles so that those working in esports in the future can learn something. When I was a little girl sitting in the Busan hospital waiting room, watching my feverish younger sister and re-watching the Asian Women's quarterfinal between Korea and China at two in the morning, I learned that sports can bring moments of breathtaking beauty — but also merciless cruelty without escape. The beauty came from Ji So-yun's goal from 25 meters. The cruelty came from a woman having to fight to be seen fairly in the very sport she loved. Today, watching Himass and TanVuu cry on television, I realize that cruelty still exists — not only in women's football, but everywhere in the sports world, including esports. It may wear a different face, take a different form, but the essence remains: those who hold power can decide the fate of those with less power without having to fully explain themselves. What impressed me most in the interview was perhaps the answer both gave when asked whether they would return to PUBG if the ban were lifted. Both answered: no. Decisively. That is not a weak answer. That is a strong answer. It says that even though the machinery of power can take away their careers, they still hold the one right they have left: the right to choose not to return. When I interviewed goalkeeper Kim Jung-mi in 2026 — before she was sold to Japan for a third of her market value — she told me she still dreamed of one day playing internationally. That dream was cut short by a transfer decision she had no voice in. Similarly, TanVuu's dream of two final years of competition was cut short by a global ban he had no effective way to resist. The difference is: TanVuu chose not to return. He does not want to keep playing in a system he feels betrayed him. That is a personal choice, but it carries a broader message. As for Himass, who once planned to compete until the end of this year before retiring, he is now considering driving for Grab to make a living. I am not sure if he will actually do it, but I understand that when an athlete has to talk about ride-hailing as a livelihood option, it reflects a harsh reality: their sports career is over, and they must start from zero. "People remember scores, but I remember the eyes of my little sister that night." I still keep that line. Because I believe that behind every sporting event, big or small, there are human stories not told in official reports. The eyes of my sister during the 2026 World Cup night — a sick child still watching the old TV screen in the hospital waiting room — taught me that sports is not just about scores. Similarly, the eyes of Himass and TanVuu on VTVcab are not just images of two athletes crying over broken careers. They are images of two young people standing before a system of power they cannot understand, cannot participate in, and cannot change. So how should we view this issue? First, we must acknowledge that we do not have enough information to determine whether Himass and TanVuu violated any rules. If they did — intentionally or unintentionally — the penalty may be justified. But if the process was not transparent, even a justified penalty will be questioned. Second, we must look at the systemic consequences. TE disbanded its PUBG roster — an organization dissolved only because one individual was penalized. This shows how the shockwave from a single penalty extends beyond one person to affect the entire ecosystem. Third, we must question accountability. When the Korean Game Users Association speaks up, they ask a question that KRAFTON needs to answer: what process did you use to handle this case, and did that process give the players a fair chance to defend themselves? If KRAFTON has a satisfactory answer — if they have clear evidence, a serious process, a fair appeals mechanism — then they should publish it. Not to convince two players who have already said they will not return, but to convince the community — those who are watching and deciding whether to continue trusting the system. Because ultimately, sports — traditional or electronic — cannot survive without trust. Players need to believe that if they follow the rules, they will be allowed to compete. Spectators need to believe they are watching a fair competition. Sponsors need to believe their brands are associated with a healthy environment. And when this trust erodes, everyone loses. Today, I write this article not to defend Himass and TanVuu, nor to condemn KRAFTON. I write because I believe this story transcends two individuals. It touches a deeper issue: the maturation of the global esports industry. A mature industry is not just one with large revenues, many tournaments, and huge audiences. A mature industry is one with transparent governance, labor protection mechanisms, and fair dispute resolution processes. By that standard, esports still has a long road ahead. I have lived in South Korea since I was young. I have witnessed the miraculous growth of the gaming industry here — from small PC bangs in Busan to modern esports arenas in Seoul. But I have also witnessed its dark corners: young athletes treated like commodities, unfair contracts, unilateral decisions from publishers who hold all the cards. In 2026, when I was an intern at a local sports outlet in Busan, my boss dismissed my proposal to cover the national women's football league by saying "nobody will read it." Instead of arguing, I built my own spreadsheet tracking 15 Korean female players, logging minutes played, scoring efficiency, and backstage stories. My 1,200-word article was shared over 300 times. I tell this story because I believe there are sports stories that no one wants to write, but they are the ones most worth writing. The story of Himass and TanVuu is one of them. No resounding victories, no new records, no explosive moments on live television. Just two people crying on television, telling the story of a career that ended, and a community standing behind them, asking questions that may never be answered. I do not know if four million one hundred thousand signatures can make a difference. But I know that silence certainly cannot. So what happens next? For Himass, if he truly transitions to driving Grab, it will be a difficult change. But I hope he finds a new direction. For TanVuu, if he pursues business and online selling, I hope he succeeds. Both deserve a good life outside esports — even if it sounds ironic that esports brought them to this point. As for KRAFTON, the question remains. Will they provide a public explanation of the ASIA STAR handling process? Will they reconsider their approach to similar cases in the future? Will they realize that their silence is creating a trust vacuum that others will fill — with low-quality explanations, rumors, or directionless anger? I do not have answers to these questions. But I believe these questions are worth asking. Because ultimately, esports is not just about who wins, who loses, who gets punished, who gets forgiven. Esports is about people — young people who dare to pursue passion in an industry still searching for stability. And when those people are treated unfairly — or at least feel they are — the entire industry must ask itself where it is heading. I still remember a July night in 2026. I had just finished my university entrance exam, stayed up all night watching the Euro 2026 final between Italy and England — a match I wrote a 2,000-word analysis of. But my heart was in Tokyo, where the Korean women's team had just lost 1-2 to Sweden. I wrote an analysis pointing out the coach's tactical errors, and encouraging the female players. That night, I received a message from an assistant coach of the Korean U-20 women's team. She had read the article and offered me a collaboration with the team's media outlet as their first freelance reporter specializing in young women's football. I tell this story because I want to say: voices that come from sincerity often have a power we cannot anticipate. My article about the Korean women's team was not born from anger, but from a belief that those girls deserved to be taken seriously. Similarly, the story of Himass and TanVuu — whatever the outcome — deserves to be taken seriously. We cannot turn back the clock to erase a penalty. We cannot force KRAFTON to change their decision if they do not want to. But we can learn from this story to build a better system — a system where players do not have to cry on television to be heard. In life, there are things that happen that we cannot change. But how we respond to them — how we ask questions, how we speak up, how we rebuild from the rubble — that is what defines us. Himass and TanVuu have given their answer. They cried. They told their story. They said they will not return. And they have begun planning their new lives. As for the rest of us — those who love PUBG, those who believe in fairness in sports, those who question the conduct of a powerful publisher — what will we do next? I do not know. But I believe this story is not over. There will be more articles, more interviews, more analyses, more questions. And somewhere, a young boy or girl will look at this story and decide whether to pursue their esports dream. Esports does not need a pitch, but it still needs storytellers who dare to keep the flame alive. I wrote that, and I will continue to do it. Because stories like Himass and TanVuu's — sad, complex, without a happy ending — still need to be told. So those who come after can understand they are not alone. So those who hold power can understand they are being watched. And so the community can understand that fairness is never a given — it must be fought for, day by day, match by match, penalty by penalty. When I finished writing this article, it was already late. I looked out the window and saw the city of Busan still lit. Somewhere in Vietnam, there may still be people awake, reading the words about Himass and TanVuu, wondering if justice will ever come. I cannot answer for them. But I can say this: the pitch never sleeps; it is people who choose to look away. And I — I choose to keep looking.