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Chapter 17 – What’s the Condition?

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Jiang Ranran raised her phone, and on the screen was the live stream of the rebellious young player, Jiang Ge, from the team Jie Ao.

Through the camera, it was clear that the Jie Ao base had received four visitors. These four people could hardly be described in words.

One was a thin, lanky man with blonde hair and fair skin; another was a short, chubby Black man, who, standing next to Tangyuan, could easily be described as a willow swaying in the wind. There was also a man covered in body paint, who, from a distance, resembled an Avatar walking through the mortal world.

The leader of the group was the male fan who had made Microglow’s rookies suffer during the fan appreciation match. His attire was nothing special, but because of its ordinariness, it stood out among the more distinct individuals in the group.

“We are the LAP team, new to Jiangling. Please take care of us,” said the Asian man at the front.

What “take care“—he had clearly brought his team into someone else’s base, which was essentially challenging them.

However, Jie Ao’s captain, Zhou Heng, had an interest in this newcomer from the fan appreciation match and asked politely why they had come.

“We’d like to schedule a match,” the young man said, as casually as if commenting on the beautiful starlight tonight, suggesting a walk.

It’s worth noting that between teams, even a friendly match requires coordination from multiple parties to confirm. It’s not like a random encounter at the market where an old man asks for a game of mahjong on the spot.

“Our team’s training is already full for this week,” Zhou Heng explained. “If you want to schedule a match, you can coordinate with our team manager next week.” This was already an exception.

But the young man still wasn’t satisfied. “It’s just a starting game, no need to make it so complicated. It’s just like a regular training session.”

Zhou Heng, maintaining his composure as the team leader, explained, “You’re here with LAP, which means this is a team-to-team arrangement. It needs to follow the rules.”

In other words, if you come as a private individual, whether it’s for casual talk, boasting, or even a fight, you’re welcome. But if it’s a formal match, we need to follow the procedure.

The young man nodded, “Then, with this added, I wonder if it’s enough to make an impression.”

He opened his phone screen, and a slightly chubby middle-aged white man smiled shyly, speaking in broken Chinese: “Hello everyone, I’m Li Bai. I’m here to coach in China. My contract matters are entirely handled by…”

Just as Shao Zhan, returning from Weiguang, tuned into the live stream, he recognized the man immediately, though the angle was too off to see clearly. The person was none other than Erwin, the genius coach he had asked his German friends to find. However, he had no idea when Erwin had adopted the Chinese name “Li Bai,” reminiscent of the famous poet.

“A random match, best of three. If you can beat me, I’ll personally hand over Erwin’s work contract. What do you say?” Yang Sa said, with an unyielding tone.

It was a hard offer to refuse. The rise of European teams in recent years hadn’t escaped Jie Ao’s attention, but there were many legal issues involved, and one match couldn’t resolve everything.

“This is what Erwin himself said, and it’s already been posted on Twitter. If he goes back on his word, you can sue, and I’ll be a witness.” Yang Sa’s tone was flippant.

“What’s the condition?” Zhou Heng asked. While Erwin’s contract rights were tempting, they could be contacted through other channels. Ultimately, it wasn’t a scarce resource.

Yang Sa’s request was clearly unexpected: “A ticket to the Silver Emperor Cup next week.”

“That’s it?” Zhou Heng blurted out. He thought Yang Sa would ask for something extravagant, but all he wanted was a participation spot in a club-organized event.

This was far from the value of Erwin’s signing rights: “Are you sure?”

“You seem to be worried about me. You should think more about what to do if you lose.” Yang Sa said, reclining on a wide sofa, his legs crossed. Behind him, his friends of various colors sat casually.

---

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Chapter 16 – Boss, Another Fifty Chicken Wings

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After speaking, Tangyuan took the serving chopsticks and tongs, his chubby hands fluttering up and down like butterflies as he served food to the team. While busy, he handed the conversational authority back to Shao Zhan. “Captain, you speak, I’ll handle the grilling, that way neither task gets delayed.”

Shao Zhan was impressed by Tangyuan’s robust appetite and couldn’t help but laugh.

He placed a hand on Tangyuan’s plump shoulder. “People say that children who love to eat are kind-hearted and don’t hold grudges. Now I’m starting to wonder if you even have a heart.”

Tangyuan’s eyes darted around, and with an oily pout, he turned to the boss and ordered two skewers of chicken hearts. Turning back to the team, he grinned. “They say you become what you eat. I’ll eat more to make up for it.”

“That’s more like my Lao Tangyuan.” Shao Zhan wiped his hand over Tangyuan’s face, the half-squinted turtle design still firmly in place on his chubby cheeks.

Shao Zhan withdrew his hand and leaned on the slightly charred table. “An athlete’s competitive career is limited. From rising to the peak, then declining, there’s a cycle to it. Similarly, a team can go from being unknown to standing on the highest podium, but eventually, it will fade. That’s the charm of competitive sports. But what I want to say today is that Xinghai’s peak will never end with yesterday. The trophy shelf is falling apart, so I’m going to have Qin Chuan find someone to make a bigger one. We’ll put it in the lobby, covering an entire wall, and the empty spots—I need you all to help fill them.”

Tangyuan’s hand, holding a piece of meat, trembled, and the meat fell through the grill’s gap into the charcoal, sending up thick smoke.

“Captain,” Tangyuan wiped the tearful smoke from his eyes with his greasy hand. “Captain, do you really think we can do it?”

“To be honest,” Shao Zhan patted his shoulder, “if there was an option for smaller appetites, I wouldn’t have kept you on the team this long.”

“Wait, we were having an emotional moment, and now you’re talking about appetites again?” Tangyuan chewed the roasted meat, the crunching sound echoing.

“Tangyuan, listen to your older brother. Meat has to be cooked properly before you eat it.” Qin Chuan, unaffected, chimed in, which made Old Tangyuan swallow two more rib-eye steaks in frustration.

“Alright, stop messing around.” Shao Zhan said. “Like I said before, I believe my career isn’t over yet, and I also believe that Xinghai’s path to dominance still has a long way to go. I need you all to be a hundred times more focused—at least so we don’t waste the meat we’re eating.”

At that moment, all eyes turned to Tangyuan, whose cheeks were stuffed like a squirrel’s.

“Captain, they’re really strong.” Tangyuan swallowed the meat in his mouth. “Although Xinghai won, I can feel that this training match was a giveaway from Burn.”

In fact, it wasn’t just Tangyuan who noticed. Jiang Ranan and Zhuang Bo had sensed it too.

Their hard-won victory had actually been handed to them by the opposing team intentionally throwing the match.

For the Xinghai team, who had been dominating the PUBG scene, this was undoubtedly a resounding slap in the face.

A victory that doesn’t live up to its name is worse than losing openly, followed by reviewing the match and endless training to study the opponent’s tactics and find a way to win.

In fact, Du Changcheng and Shao Zhan shared the same view. Compared to an unglamorous victory, what Starcraft needed right now was a resounding defeat.

Only then could they wash away the sense of superiority that the team members had accumulated over time through trophies and praise. Only after a defeat that they truly accepted could the Starcraft team break through their outdated, conceptualized, and habitual way of thinking, and begin to embrace new ideas, new tactical configurations, and strategies.

Since entering the world of e-sports, the constant driving force for Shao Zhan’s growth had been this ever-present sense of crisis.

Now, this sense of crisis had materialized into a visible reality, making every member of the Starcraft team uneasy.

Due to his intolerance to alcohol, Shao Zhan raised a skewer of meat, substituting it for a drink. “My situation is well-known,” he said. “I’m the kind of person who’s supposed to inherit a billion-dollar family fortune if I don’t do my job right.” In front of his teammates, he spoke freely and provocatively. “To be honest, I don’t care much about money. I just want to stay in the team and play games. My elders aren’t easy to fool. If I don’t show real results, I might not even be able to keep the club.”

“The old president hasn’t given up?” Tangyuan grumbled as he skewered the meat. “Why won’t he accept reality? His grandson is great at gaming, but if you can’t even manage a big group, after two and a half days of doing nothing, I won’t even keep the Tang surname.”

“Thanks for the support,” Shao Zhan said. “If you can repeat that word-for-word in front of my grandfather, I’ll call you ‘dad.’”

“I’m not going anywhere near the old president.” Tangyuan quickly shook his head. “But I can consider calling you ‘dad.’”

“Get lost.” Shao Zhan slapped him lightly. “Back to the point, the German team’s actions were undoubtedly humiliating, but since Burn staged this performance, let’s work hard to turn this victory into reality.”

The skewers were lined up as if they were taking an oath:

“For honor.”

“For Burn.”

“We’re in!”

They exchanged smiles, the discomfort caused by the German team temporarily put aside.

“Boss, another fifty chicken wings.” Tangyuan shouted, his mood improving and appetite returning to normal.

When the smiling boss returned with two assistants to deliver the chicken wings and the ten bonus chicken necks, they realized someone was missing—Tangyuan had vanished.

No one at the table could recall when he had disappeared, but no one was alarmed. Everyone happily dug into the grilled chicken wings, when suddenly the door was pushed open, and Tangyuan jumped in with a frantic look, saying, “Captain, captain, I just went to the restroom—guess who I ran into?”

“Little Tangyuan.” Jiang Ranan grinned and answered quickly.

“Go, go, go, little brat, you’re already trying to sound grown-up.” Tangyuan sat down next to Shao Zhan, leaned in, and rolled his chubby hand into a tube…

“Did you wash your hands?”

Shao Zhan disdainfully pulled away, but Old Tangyuan unceremoniously yanked him back. “What’s the point of being so picky at a time like this?” He leaned close to Shao Zhan’s ear and said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “I saw that guy, Mu, with his old bow-legged stance.”

The captain of the Weiguang team, who had just entered through the door, had a black line across his face. “I heard that. Can you keep it down when talking behind someone’s back?”

Shao Zhan smiled slightly. “At Xinghai, we don’t have any secrets; we say everything right to people’s faces.”

“Right.” Tangyuan, completely unaware of the situation, slapped his thigh. “Captain, when I was in the bathroom just now, I overheard their team members saying that today Weiguang got their butts handed to them and was pounded into the ground.”

“No need to be that honest.” Shao Zhan said, flashing an awkward but polite smile under the watchful gaze of the Weiguang captain and his teammates.

After watching Weiguang ’s people leave, Shao Zhan slapped Tangyuan’s big head, which was busy gnawing on a chicken wing. “Did you drink?”

“Nope.” Tangyuan sucked on a chicken bone, then said, “During training, no drinking, didn’t you set that rule? Did you forget?”

Shao Zhan covered his face, and his voice came through his fingers. “I really wish you had drunk.”

“Why?” Tangyuan, still absorbed in his food, didn’t get it.

“That would mean you at least have some brain left.”

The meal wasn’t even over, but Shao Zhan had already started worrying about his team’s future.

Meanwhile, the Weiguang captain, with a calm expression, sat down. During the pause in ordering, he casually asked, as he hid behind the menu, “Just now, who was gossiping in the restroom?”

“Don’t be so mad, man. You’re getting older; you should learn to take care of yourself.” Shao Zhan, ignoring his own pile of concerns, picked up his cup and casually sat down at Weiguang ’s table, placing a hand on the captain’s shoulder in a seemingly caring gesture. “If something’s bothering you, speak up, buddy. Let me help you out. You’re getting on in years, and if something’s wrong, don’t keep it inside. Keeping things bottled up will make you sick, and nobody will take care of you.”

Mu Chen asked him with a half-smile, “How did the match with Burn go?”

Starcraft had a practice match scheduled with a European team, and this wasn’t a secret in the circle.

“It went well,” Shao Zhan said, taking a sip of his own tea. “We won.”

“Won?” Mu Chen tilted his head and glanced in the direction of the Xinghai players. “Then what’s with the atmosphere? Who won and still looks so down?”

“We did,” Shao Zhan said, his large eyes sparkling. “This is the kingly demeanor of victory without arrogance and defeat without despair. It’s the realm of staying unshaken by praise or humiliation and not being proud of accomplishments. You wouldn’t understand.”

Mu Chen poured himself a glass of beer and drank slowly. “Well, as long as you believe it.”

“Xinghai won, that’s a fact. Why don’t you believe it?” Shao Zhan glanced at the near-empty beer glass in Mu Chen’s hand. “Victory and defeat are common in battle; losing isn’t shameful, what’s there to be embarrassed about?”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” Mu Chen put down his glass. “Weiguang lost. They lost heartily and accepted it. No grudges, no inside information to share. Captain Shao, please return to your team.”

“We’re friends, why are you getting all worked up?” Shao Zhan, unable to extract any information, slowly stood up. “This isn’t good. You should change your temper; otherwise, you’ll end up with dementia when you’re older.”

“I’ll thank you for that.” Mu Chen didn’t turn around to see him off but then changed his mind halfway. “Shao Zhan.”

“Hmm?”

“Next week’s Silver Emperor Cup, Weiguang won’t be attending.” Mu Chen said abruptly, without any further context.

“Stop trying to trick Qin Chuan with your usual nonsense.” Shao Zhan responded without hesitation.

However, the Weiguang captain wasn’t planning to explain any further. He simply said, “Believe it or not,” before continuing to drink his beer in silence.

“This quiet guy… he’ll get snatched up by some enchantress sooner or later.” Shao Zhan raised his glass, silently wishing his old friend well.

Back at his own table, Shao Zhan immediately shared the information: “Weiguang lost, and that bow-legged guy is defeated.” He turned to Qin Chuan. “Do you know if Weiguang has scheduled another match with any team?”

The shock from Burn’s team hadn’t worn off yet, and now Microglow was showing this kind of behavior. Shao Zhan began to suspect that some esports fanatic from another world had descended from a space-time rift to obliterate them.

Tangyuan, as the only one who had overheard the conversation, felt a great sense of responsibility. Holding his head in his hands, he tried to recall the conversation from Weiguang’s team. However, his brain was filled with too much fat, and for a moment, it couldn’t process the information.

Tangyuan Sweet grabbed a soda from the side, chugging two large bottles, then placed both hands on the table and let out a deep, meaningful burp.

The people watching him burp: “Tsk!”

“Quiet, quiet.” Tangyuan pressed his hands to his temples, looking like he was facing a major challenge. “I remembered! I think I have a vague memory of it… hold on, hold on… yes, yes, I heard it. I heard Weiguang’s Iron Bull say the next match is against Jie Ao…”

A fair, delicate hand slapped down unceremoniously on Tangyuan’s head, which was deep in thought. “Stop overthinking it, just watch the live stream.”

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Chapter 15 – No, Don’t Stop…

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Nightfall didn’t bring silence to the city. Neon lights painted the darkness, making it even more dazzling.

Office workers and students, exhausted from their daily grind, finally embraced the time of day that belonged solely to them.

With barely contained excitement, they stepped into that familiar yet chaotic world.

Flickering lights cast shifting shadows on a young man’s face, coating his otherwise expressionless features with an almost surreal glow. Yet, the person wrapped in those colors rarely noticed them at all.

On the way back to the base, Shao Zhan found himself replaying Du Changcheng’s final question.

He recognized Yang Sa. And if he did, then meticulous Qin Chuan had definitely recognized him too—the same dazzling figure on stage was the boy who had once fled from their base in the dead of night.

But even now, there were things Shao Zhan still hadn’t figured out.

Why had Yang Sa come to Xinghai back then?

Why had he gone to such lengths to get close to him?

And why had he disappeared so suddenly, as if vanishing into thin air without a trace?

And now, why had he returned?

Was it to finish what had been left undone three years ago? Or was it for something else entirely?

That boy—who had been gone for so many years, who now stood on the stage, sharp and untamed—did he still remember their first meeting ten years ago?

He knew nothing at all.

Shao Zhan suddenly realized—he knew far too little about this boy.

Just like Coach Du’s question, the initiative wasn’t in Xinghai’s hands. Countless teams had extended their invitations to him; the real question was whether he would accept.

And that choice belonged to Yang Sa. Whether in the past or now, this boy with a mysterious background and even more elusive whereabouts had always kept control firmly in his own hands.

…

When Shao Zhan returned to the base, he happened to run into Lao Zhou, who was out walking his pet—a parrot disguised as a rooster.

Maybe it was too excited to see him, but the parrot let out two sharp squawks.

Those two cries completely exposed Shao Zhan’s return, and the enthusiasm for training on both floors instantly intensified.

By the time he stepped into the training room, Shao Zhan nearly burst out laughing.

Jiang Ranran and Zhuang Bai had wrapped fluorescent sports headbands—who knew where they got them—around their heads. Boldly written across the bands in heavy strokes was the word Strive.

Tangyuan was even more dramatic. His chubby face was covered in dozens of crudely drawn turtles. According to Qin Chuan, this was part of Tangyuan’s new oath—every time he lost a game, he would draw another turtle on his face. He refused to believe he would always be the one left lying down.

As for Qin Chuan… he was in the worst shape of them all. Once a stylish young master, he had been forcefully transformed into a frazzled caretaker.

Holding a bowl of soup in one hand and a box meal in the other, he hovered under their chins, only to be ignored, shoved away, and met with endless eye-rolls and misunderstanding.

Shao Zhan, on the other hand, took things in stride. If they weren’t eating, it simply meant they weren’t hungry.

He took the meal from Qin Chuan’s hands, just about to dig in, when his attention was drawn to their training performance.

Suddenly, his food lost all its appeal. Without hesitation, he reached out and shut off the power.

The entire third floor plunged into darkness.

When the lights flickered back on, Tangyuan—who had just been clutching a grenade, ready to take his enemy down with him—stared murderously at the disruptor, prepared to exact vengeance.

But then he saw the culprit—Shao Zhan, stone-faced as ever.

The flames of revenge instantly sputtered out, fading into a mere wisp of smoke.

And as Shao Zhan’s footsteps approached, even that wisp of smoke was blown away, vanishing without a trace.

…

“Alright, quit looking so miserable,” Shao Zhan said, casually pinching Tangyuan’s chubby cheek. “Not bad—feels pretty good, actually.”

“Captain, don’t make fun of me,” Tangyuan pouted, cradling his own round face. “I suck, don’t I?” He immediately raised a pudgy hand, making a stop gesture. “No, no need to say it—I already know how bad I am.”

“I’m even worse.” Jiang Ranran solemnly joined in the self-reflection brigade.

“You’re not, you don’t, you shouldn’t get involved.” Tangyuan rejected him with three consecutive negatives. “You’re still young, your future is bright. As for reflecting on past mistakes,” he pointed at Zhuang Bai and himself, “leave that to us old-timers.”

Zhuang Bai nodded, his expression solemn.

“Alright, enough arguing. We’re done for today,” Shao Zhan unilaterally announced. “Tonight’s training is canceled. We’re going out for dinner.”

“Yay!”

Even though the overall team morale was low, Qin Chuan was as happy as a little quail.

Shao Zhan was infected by the cheerful atmosphere and went with the flow. “Then, Manager Qin is treating.”

Qin Chuan stood frozen like a stick, his eyebrows drooping. “Mars, tell me you wouldn’t do this to me.”

At Shao Zhan’s command, the other team members got up and left. He gave some last instructions to the lagging Qin Chuan. “Remember to send the uneaten boxed meals down to the youth training team. Just say it’s an extra meal.” Then, he casually picked up Qin Chuan’s wallet from the table. “You’ve got five minutes. If you don’t make it in time, no late-night snack for you.”

“Wait, you’re serious? Why are we even going out for dinner in the first place? Hey, wait for me—wait—!”

…

The sight of greasy, sizzling barbecue slightly eased the tension on the team members’ faces.

Qin Chuan clutched his wallet joyfully—all his bills were still there. Jiang Ranan and Zhuang Bo had already taken off their headbands, which had been brimming with fighting spirit, leaving only two deep red marks on their foreheads. Meanwhile, Tangyuan sat there looking like a steamed turtle, his face glistening under the heat of the charcoal grill, appearing even more flavorful.

“Alright, dig in. Do you need me to feed you?” Shao Zhan gestured toward the plum-cut pork sizzling over the coals.

With years of training, Tangyuan’s chopsticks shot toward the juicy, fatty meat the instant the captain gave the order. The moment the delicious meat entered his mouth, he nearly teared up. “I—I’m so ashamed. I don’t want to eat at all, and yet… my hands just won’t stop!”

As the meat on the grill rapidly disappeared, Jiang Ranan and Qin Chuan joined the feast, wolfing down their share.

Zhuang Bai, however, wasn’t in a hurry to eat. He calmly placed more meat on the grill.

Tangyuan continued eating while battling an overwhelming sense of guilt. But each time he hesitated, each time he tried to resist, an even stronger, fiercer appetite crushed his resolve. Clutching Shao Zhan’s arm, tears streamed down his face in clusters. “C-C-Captain… I, Lao Tangyuan, truly… chomp chomp… feel so guilty… chomp chomp, chomp chomp… No, Captain, don’t dodge me! I have something to say to you… chomp chomp, chomp chomp chomp…”

“Swallow what’s in your mouth.” Shao Zhan pushed his hand away and disdainfully brushed off the sleeve he had tugged at. “You haven’t even had any alcohol, and you’re already slurring your words.”

Tears streamed down Tangyuan’s chubby face, leaving two flesh-colored streaks. Qin Chuan, unable to watch any longer, covered them with two tissue papers.

Tangyuan wiped his nose while saying, “Th… thank you… True friendship… True friendship is shown in times of hardship…”

“Alright, stop fooling around.” Shao Zhan gave each of the little heads a knock. “Got some skills now, huh? When the game doesn’t go well, you start drawing turtle patterns on your face, and now I have to comfort you as captain?”

“Captain, I didn’t, I wasn’t…” Tangyuan covered his round head, his voice gradually fading. His face, with clear evidence of the turtle design, left him no room to argue.

“Didn’t you? I think you did, and it was quite skillful.”

As soon as Shao Zhan finished speaking, Jiang Ranan and Zhuang Bo lowered their heads in shame. Qin Chuan, still eagerly gnawing on a chicken neck, belatedly realized what was going on. He followed suit and lowered his head, secretly sucking on the chicken bone marrow.

“I’m not scolding you. Raise your heads.” Shao Zhan propped his temple with one hand, using serving chopsticks to distribute the grilled meat to the team members. “As captain, I hold direct responsibility for the state of the team.”

“Captain, don’t stop…” Tangyuan tried to console Shao Zhan not to blame himself, but what came out instead was, “Stop… the chopsticks… the meat’s almost burnt!”

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Chapter 14 – Winning While Lying Down Is Losing

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“This doesn’t look like winning at all.” Jiang Ranan’s round, glossy eyes now bore dark shadows, like two tiny caterpillars clinging beneath them. From afar, he looked as if his soul had been hollowed out.

Only Zhuang Bai, the most experienced and steady member of the team, explained in his usual tone, “For some teams, winning while lying down is the same as losing.”

Qin Chuan was so frustrated that his eyes went uneven in size. Pinching the flesh of his increasingly plump waist, he retorted, “Winning is winning, who cares if you’re lying down or standing up? What could be more important than eating? Just eat your fill and then fight back later!”

While Qin Chuan, brimming with energy, did his best to lighten the dead atmosphere in the training room, their captain, Shao Zhan, was already on his way to the hospital.

By the time he arrived—just as the evening rush hour was ending—Du Changcheng had already finished his dinner and resumed his signature pose: bent over with his butt sticking out. Upon spotting Shao Zhan at the doorway, he couldn’t help but sigh repeatedly.

He regretted not finishing that last bowl of soup. If he had, at least Shao Zhan would have arrived to see him kneeling with a bowl in hand—what a noble sight that would have been.

Now, in this ridiculous position, he had no idea how he’d explain himself later.

Seeing right through him, Lao Zhou smirked as he collected the dishes, trying hard to stifle his laughter. “Shao Zhan, come in and sit. I’ll go wash some fruit for you guys.”

“Come back here, you little brat,” Du Changcheng pulled Old Zhou back. “He comes empty-handed to visit me, and you’re still serving him food? Just leave the meal tray there—the nurse will take it later. Sit down and wait, then head back with Shao Zhan when he leaves.”

“I’m staying here to keep you company tonight,” Lao Zhou said honestly. “We already agreed on this.”

“Yesterday, Coach Du couldn’t resist sneaking back home. I’m sure he’s suffered enough from the pain of tearing his stitches, so he won’t try anything reckless this time,” Shao Zhan said. “You’re coming back with me later, no arguments.”

“What if he needs to get up at night?” Lao Zhou asked worriedly. “That would be really inconvenient.”

“I just hired two caregivers downstairs—one for the day shift, one for the night shift. They’ll be working in rotation and should be here soon,” Shao Zhan said. “During the day, you can just come by when you’re free, chat with him for a bit.”

“Don’t say that. I’m just an old doorman bringing meals—I wouldn’t have much to talk about with a big-shot coach like him.” No matter where he was, inside or outside the base, Lao Zhou always carried himself with the same deep humility, as if he belonged in the dust.

“Of course, you can always join in on cursing these brats,” Du Changcheng pointed at Shao Zhan. “Look at him, visiting a patient empty-handed—did I teach him all these years for nothing?”

Unfairly accused, Shao Zhan pulled a receipt from his pocket. “I didn’t bring you fruit, but I did just ‘buy’ you two caregivers. That’s 30,000 yuan in total—please reimburse me.”

Du Changcheng ignored the receipt, grumbling with his face half-buried in the pillow, “At least you’ve got a conscience.”

By this time, Lao Zhou had already finished tidying up the dishes and was grabbing his coat to leave.

“Uncle Zhou, wait a bit and take my car back. It won’t be long,” Shao Zhan offered.

“Exactly, exactly,” Du Changcheng chimed in. “His car is the best in the entire base—might as well take advantage of it while you can.”

“No, no, I’ll head back now since everything’s settled here. Without me, my parrot won’t sleep well. If he starts squawking in the middle of the night, it’ll disturb the kids.”

Ignoring their persuasion, Lao Zhou insisted on taking the subway back to the base, and Shao Zhan had no choice but to let him go.

Lying face down, Du Changcheng watched Lao Zhou’s slightly hunched figure shuffle away. “Such a good man… If the club gets sold, where will he go?”

“Who said anything about selling the club?” Shao Zhan crossed one leg over the other. “It’s just rumors. Stop reading those gossip pieces and focus on improving your coaching skills—that’s far more useful.”

“And remind me, are you the coach, or am I?”

Shao Zhan immediately dropped his arrogant pose, putting his feet firmly on the ground and sitting up straight.

Before Shao Zhan even stepped into the esports scene, Du Changcheng had already been a legendary figure on the battlefield. It was only after a severe injury that he stepped down and transitioned into coaching.

But even as a coach, he shone brilliantly, producing countless star players.

What people didn’t know was that no matter how glamorous those top players looked in public, behind closed doors, this old man had scolded them all like grandkids.

If not for the fact that he was insanely good at his job, he probably would’ve been beaten up countless times by now.

Du Changcheng and Lao Zhou were veterans from the former club. Shao Zhan liked them because they never treated him like a privileged young master.

Even Qin Chuan, who chased after him every day calling him “sugar daddy,” only wagged his tail and acted ingratiating when he was about to set him up for trouble. He and his little gang switched effortlessly between being devoted bootlickers and untouchable lone wolves, completely at ease.

There was no helping it—this was just one of those rich people quirks. The young master simply refused to act like a young master. He wanted to “travel in disguise,” blending in among the common folk.

As one of those “common folk,” Du Changcheng took the initiative to ask about the training matches. Shao Zhan told him everything honestly and handed him the prepared match recordings.

Du Changcheng leaned forward with his signature pose, watching intently. He paid extra attention to the last two rounds, scrutinizing every single frame of Burn’s gameplay.

Shao Zhan sat silently by the bed, comparing the footage and analyzing gaps in their strategy.

After Burn’s last player was taken down, Du Changcheng pressed pause. He rubbed his thumb over the rough stubble on his chin. “What do you think?”

“It was too close.” He wasn’t referring to the win or loss, but the state of the match itself.

Burn had once been a mediocre team, stuck in the second tier for years. Even with their captain, Nick, being a formidable player, he couldn’t mask the team’s overall weakness.

Yet now, after just six months, Burn was playing in a way that even Starcraft found troublesome.

“Looks like Xinghai has been getting too comfortable lately,” Du Changcheng remarked, his words carrying deeper meaning.

Shao Zhan nodded. “That’s true.”

There was never a shortage of hard-working players at their base, but their improvement was simply too slow.

Or rather, their opponents were improving too fast—so fast it caught them off guard.

Du Changcheng replayed the critical moments, carefully observing Burn’s maneuvers. “I heard that at the start of the season, an unknown coach emerged in the European circuit. Burn ended up hiring him.”

“Erwin. A German. Before switching careers, he was an equestrian coach. He’s got a unique approach to team composition and strategic planning. Apparently, he also has some connections to China.” Shao Zhan answered without hesitation, clearly having done his homework.

“So it’s not just the players—now even coaches are going international.” Du Changcheng buried his chin into the mattress, digging a shallow dent, then muffled into it, “Have you gotten in touch with him?”

“Not yet,” Shao Zhan replied. “If I hear anything from Germany, you’ll be the first to know.”

“The number of strategies is growing, and tactics are becoming more refined. This shows that both PUBG as a game and esports as a whole are accelerating in their evolution.” Du Changcheng shut off the video. “The professional path is only going to get tougher.”

“Our players are already feeling it,” Shao Zhan said. “Qin Chuan just messaged me—our main team has been training like mad, skipping dinner entirely. The second team and the youth squad downstairs didn’t even dare start eating either.”

Du Changcheng shook his head—or rather, rubbed it against the mattress. “They’re already feeling pressured? Seems like winning all the time isn’t necessarily a good thing.”

“So, it’s my fault?” Shao Zhan’s face remained blank, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Can’t blame you entirely,” Du Changcheng mused. “Xinghai achieving this level of success—as their coach, I can’t exactly shirk responsibility either.”

“Doesn’t that completely contradict what you just said about winning not necessarily being a good thing?”

Shao Zhan refuted him inwardly but still maintained a respectful facade as a coach should.

“Yeah, as a professional team, Xinghai has been too comfortable for too long. They need some external pressure to push their limits.”

“But we also can’t blindly chase after foreign tactics while ignoring the opportunities right in front of us. Qin Chuan mentioned that a dark horse emerged during the last fan match. Almost every team is trying to recruit him. Do you think he could be the one to shake things up?”

“Esports is an industry in constant competition—anything is possible,” Shao Zhan replied, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Since his current position limited his view, Du Changcheng simply asked outright: “So do you think Xinghai should recruit him?”

---

---

Chapter 13 – Meng Meng, Stand Up.

---

“What’s going on? There are only two people in the car.” Tangyuan opened fire on the vehicle with his SCAR-L while relaying the situation to his teammates.

Their current location was the school at the center of the map—a prime spot with high-tier loot but relatively low quantity.

As soon as they landed, they had engaged in intense combat. Though their weapons were good, their resources were dwindling. The Burn team had likely pinpointed Xinghai’s location from the previous fights.

However, it was still early in the match, and rushing in with such a small group seemed reckless.

The Xinghai players speculated that the German team must have picked up a heavy weapon, giving them the confidence to push aggressively.

Tangyuan’s plan to fight while retreating was cut off by Burn’s coordinated attacks, forcing him to take cover behind a low wall for close-quarters combat.

The rest of Xinghai’s team was rushing to back him up, but bullets continued to tear through the air.

“What the hell—one’s using a UMP9, and the other’s got a Uzi!” Tangyuan shouted. “If this drags on any longer, I’m gonna lose weight! Everyone says esports is an easy money gig, just sitting around playing games. Who knew these damn Germans would turn it into a damn workout?!”

Shao Zhan took out an enemy squad that had been flanking them and analyzed the ongoing fight based on the gunfire patterns as he moved forward.

The sound of battle was chaotic yet structured—loud and intense, but not reckless.

After all, they weren’t playing in a casual lobby full of unpredictable, unskilled players. Their opponents were a professional team, and no one here was dumb enough to mess around.

“Stop advancing. Fall back and defend.” Shao Zhan ordered over team comms.

As the in-game leader, his commands were absolute.

Jiang Rannan and Zhuang Bai, who had set up sniper positions on the second floor, quickly retracted their weapons. The former, with a hint of mischief in his voice, said over comms, “Sorry, buddy. It’s not that we don’t want to save you—it’s just that we’ve got a bigger mission to handle.”

“Screw off, screw off, just get out of my way.” Tangyuan grumbled, “Too many people around, and I can’t move freely. If you don’t run fast enough, don’t blame me if you get caught in the crossfire.”

Shao Zhan switched to a different scope and scanned the battlefield. “Tangyuan, hold your ground. Rannan, Zhuang Bai—head to the vehicle spawn point, find a car, and rotate toward the two-story red building at eleven o’clock. Stay out of sight.”

“Copy that.”

Jiang Rannan and Zhuang Bai began repositioning. As they descended the staircase, they ran into Shao Zhan coming up.

Neither of them wasted words—they simply brushed past each other. Just before parting ways, Shao Zhan gave a quiet reminder: “Avoid fights along the way.”

While Jiang Rannan and Zhuang Bai drove around the map, Shao Zhan entered their previous building and carefully extended his gun barrel out the window.

But his gaze wasn’t fixed on the intense firefight below—instead, he was watching the seemingly quiet two-story red building on the distant hillside.

The second-floor side window of the eerily quiet red building, as silent as a haunted house, concealed the shadow of a tilted gun barrel, its sights locked onto the school building behind the battlefield.

Tangyuan’s intense skirmish with the two Burn players had drawn in third-party players from multiple directions, causing the battlefield to descend into chaos in an instant.

Even the enemy team hadn’t anticipated this development. After they had jointly eliminated two opportunistic players trying to sneak in for easy kills, Tangyuan—still playing cat and mouse with his opponents—shouted, “Check the kill feed! Look at the kill feed! They’ve got good guns—they’re putting on a show for me!”

[Burn—Kilian used S12K to kill Apricot.]

[Burn—Mats used S686 to kill LLL]

“You guys won’t know what ‘Daddy’ means until Fatty starts raging.”

Of course, Tangyuan was just hyping himself up—he knew nothing could save him this round.

Dropping a bold declaration over team comms, he left behind one last message:

“Remember to avenge Daddy!”

Then, secretly priming a grenade, he prepared to take his enemies down with him.

“Wait. Hold on.” Shao Zhan’s voice interrupted him.

Startled, Tangyuan jerked in surprise and instinctively tossed the grenade away, watching as it landed against the far wall before immediately ducking down to heal up.

The two Burn players chasing him down hadn’t expected this botched suicide attack, and ended up taking considerable damage themselves.

Then, Jiang Rannan’s report came through: “Captain, we’ve flanked them—we’re behind the small grain silo behind the sloped-roof building.”

That was the exact cover Shao Zhan had told them to find before they set out.

“There are two enemies in the southwest room on the second floor,” Shao Zhan said. After a brief pause, he added, “This round is yours.”

Shao Zhan scoped in, waiting for his moment.

At the same time, he knocked on Tangyuan’s metaphorical door:

“Meng Meng, stand up.”

[Starcraft—Mars used SCAR-L to kill Burn—Mats]

[Burn—Nick used 98K to kill Starcraft—Mars]

The two kill notifications flashed almost simultaneously.

But in the very next second—

[Starcraft—River used S1897 to kill Burn—Nick]

Shao Zhan had baited the enemy sniper into revealing himself. Jiang Rannan seized the fleeting opportunity and obliterated Nick’s Level 2 helmet with a single shot.

Although Jiang Rannan was quickly taken out by the enemy’s secondary sniper, he had accomplished his mission.

As for Tangyuan, after getting harassed by two pesky players for most of the round, he managed to take one of them down with the last sliver of his health.

In the final one-on-one gunfight, Keen, the last man standing for his team, secured victory by swiftly repositioning and swapping out damaged armor, ultimately taking down the last enemy player, Emir.

Although Starcraft didn’t claim the final win, their battle had already concluded.

The fourth and final round of the scrimmage was a narrow victory for Starcraft, but at a steep cost.

“The Chinese team, Starcraft, is very strong—extremely strong. Undoubtedly the best.” Nick said, his Chinese somewhat clumsy.

“Burn, your tactics are unpredictable—your future is promising.” Shao Zhan responded in awkward German.

After a half-hearted exchange of mutual praise between the team captains, the training match officially came to an end.

Despite securing the final victory, none of the Starcraft players looked excited.

The match had been brutally difficult—if not for Shao Zhan’s quick thinking and sharp command, along with the seamless coordination of his teammates, it would have been nearly impossible to win.

This was a far cry from their complete domination during last year’s European Invitational Tournament. The German Burn team’s improvement was nothing short of astonishing.

By the time the training session ended, it was nearly six o’clock.

Shao Zhan didn’t immediately start the post-game review; instead, he told Qin Chuan to order takeout for the team.

“Hey, where are you going?” Qin Chuan grabbed Shao Zhan by the sleeve of his tracksuit, spotting car keys in his hand.

Shao Zhan hissed in annoyance, swatting his hand away.

“Since when do employees get to question the boss?”

As soon as his tall figure disappeared, Qin Chuan exploded in frustration, furiously shadowboxing toward the dark doorway with a combination of wild punches and exaggerated footwork.

Unfortunately, his solo performance went completely unnoticed, leaving him devastated by the lack of attention.

He pulled up the takeout app on his phone:

“Alright, alright, order whatever you want. It’s on me today, boys.”

Normally, this would have triggered a feeding frenzy—these little brats would tear into him like starving wolves.

But tonight?

The usual ravenous beasts were lifeless.

Some were practicing recoil control, some were running movement drills, and even Fat Tangyuan—known as the team’s bottomless pit—was ignoring food altogether.

Instead, he was pressing a full, unopened bag of potato chips against his elbow, testing its flexibility.

Trying to make himself relevant, Qin Chuan stood akimbo, raising his hand in an overly dramatic flourish as he pointed at the dejected team members.

“What’s this? Got cocky after a win? On a hunger strike now?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Tangyuan buried his face into the plush corgi pillow he usually used as a lumbar cushion, looking utterly defeated—like he was spiraling into depression.

---

---

Chapter 12 – Traces of Overnutrition

---

Tangyuan picked up a tiny mirror that came as a freebie with a shoe purchase and examined himself furiously, letting out a heartfelt sigh.

“Seriously… We all grew up eating the same food at this base. How is there such a massive difference between people?” He squished his own chubby cheeks in frustration. “I suspect the head chef has been sneaking you extra meals.”

“Judging by your size,” Shao Zhan said casually, “it’s more likely she’s been sneaking extra meals to you.”

Tangyuan, emotionally devastated, dove into Qin Chuan’s arms, dramatically pointing at Shao Zhan. “He insulted me!”

“Hey, easy! I can barely breathe here!” Qin Chuan struggled out of the squishy embrace, quickly dodging away in disgust.

Feeling utterly betrayed by the cruel world, Tangyuan grumbled to himself before handing over a food bag to Shao Zhan. “Here’s your pancake.”

As Shao Zhan calmly ate his plain, no-sausage, no-fried-dough, no-anything egg pancake, Tangyuan scrutinized his side profile with growing disbelief. He muttered to himself, “This defies science. Seriously. How can someone this picky still be alive? It’s a miracle of evolution. Why does he not show any signs of malnutrition?”

“More importantly,” Qin Chuan added in a timely stab, flipping through a newspaper on the small couch, “how did you manage to have ‘traces of overnutrition’ all over your entire body?”

Seething with righteous fury, Tangyuan immediately ordered two extra-large, full-sugar milk teas to soothe his wounded soul.

“Alright, enough messing around. Pair up for targeted practice. We have a scrim against the German team, Burn, at 3 PM. Stay in top form.”

The sniper and in-game leader, Shao Zhan, paired with the assaulter, Tangyuan, maintained high kill rates and KD ratios. Meanwhile, the secondary sniper, Zhuang Bai, and the flex player, Jiang Ranan, worked together seamlessly, executing tactical plays while keeping their kill counts solid.

During the break, Shao Zhan led the team in a quick review of the issues exposed during training. With the coach absent, Qin Chuan, feeling a sense of responsibility, tried several times to interject, but he couldn’t find an opening. In the end, he sat back in his seat and consoled himself—strategic analysis wasn’t his forte anyway, so it was best to leave it to the pros.

Just as he was internally feeding himself a motivational pep talk, Du Changcheng’s call came in.

Qin Chuan leaped off the couch so fast that he didn’t even have time to put on his shoes. He switched on the front camera and panned across the training room, announcing theatrically, “Alright, team! Our coach, who is still courageously enduring his time in the city hospital, has called despite his grave condition! Let’s give him a warm round of applause!”

The ever-patient Zhuang Bai clapped along cooperatively, while Shao Zhan tilted his head and chuckled.

Jiang Ranan, ever the stoic, cool-headed perfectionist, sat straight-backed, eyes glued to the screen, determined to play the role of an untouchable cold and calculating genius in this rowdy chaos.

Only one person responded with true enthusiasm—Tangyuan. The one Qin Chuan scolded most viciously and most often was now slapping his meaty palms together, producing a seal-like ovation.

“Tang Tang,” Qin Chuan pounded his chest dramatically. “From this day forward, you are my one and only favorite!”

With his chubby fingers, Tangyuan formed a heart. “Believe in yourself. I am worthy of love!”

On the other end of the call, Coach Du Changcheng nearly passed out from sheer frustration. If only he could crawl through the screen and smack every single one of these little punks on the head.

After quickly summarizing the game plan against the German team, Coach Du ended the call himself. The persistent pain in his lower abdomen, where his stitches were, forced him to drop his tough act.

The nurse, who came in to change his IV drip, frowned at his exhausted state. “You just had surgery. You need rest.”

Coach Du tucked his phone away and exhaled heavily. “I just wanted to let the kids know I’m okay, or they’d start worrying.”

“Worrying won’t do much if they’re not even coming to visit you,” the nurse muttered.

“The kids are all busy.” Du Changcheng winced as he shifted slightly, supporting his lower back.

The nurse placed a pillow under his side for support. “No matter how busy they are, they shouldn’t just ignore you.”

As they spoke, a man in a dark blue uniform appeared at the doorway, carrying a thermal food container.

“Lao Zhou? What are you doing here?” Du Changcheng greeted Zhou Zhengfang, motioning for him to come in. Despite their age gap, the two got along well at the base, their favorite pastime being playing chess in the quiet mornings before the young punks woke up.

“Shao Zhan sent me,” Zhou Zhengfang placed the food container on the metal cabinet. “Told me to keep an eye on you so you don’t escape from the hospital again. Here, chicken soup. Drink up.”

Du Changcheng froze. “Wait… it’s not—”

“Not Bage,” Zhou reassured him. “I made sure to keep him away while I was cooking. Didn’t want him to see and get scared.” He chuckled. “Shao Zhan said he’ll come see you after the match.”

“We see each other every day, what’s there to see? It’s not like I’m some delicate woman.” Du Changcheng muttered, glancing at his watch out of the corner of his eye.

…

“Lao Du? Lao Du, where did you go?!”

Tangyuan lunged forward, but his belly got stuck between the desk gaps. Despite being trapped, he still craned his neck toward the phone screen, yelling, “Lao Du! Lao Du, why is your screen black? Where did you go?!”

Shao Zhan grabbed a nearby support plushie and chucked it at Tangyuan’s belly, startling him so badly he aged two years on the spot. He hugged his stomach protectively, shielding his precious anime waifus on the desk. “What the hell, man?!”

“There’s a limit to your jokes.” Shao Zhan scolded him flatly.

The chubby mass of flesh curled up into a ball, muttering complaints to his “wives” about his inhumane suffering.

With that brief interlude over, the scrim against the German team, Burn, officially began.

Tangyuan was only timid when facing his captain and financial backer, but otherwise, he feared no one. After grabbing his weapon at landing, he took point on the outermost perimeter, always ready for a gunfight. His aggressive playstyle and strong movement control made him the center of attention in the first two matches.

At the start of Game 3, Shao Zhan reminded the team to stay steady over voice comms. “The more things go in our favor, the more we need to keep our emotions in check.”

After clearing out a squad of unlucky players who had dropped at the same spot as them, Tangyuan confidently reassured his captain, “Don’t worry, just sit back and relax. I guarantee that by the time Lao Du drags his bleeding ass over here for a bed check tonight, he’ll be grinning so wide his hemorrhoids will unfold themselves.”

“For the love of god, try being human for once.” Zhuang Bai, the secondary sniper, couldn’t hold back his laughter as he scavenged supplies in the rear, preparing to regroup. He grabbed a vehicle for rotation and chimed in, “Half of Coach Du’s hemorrhoid issues are because of you.”

“Hey, how is that my fault?!” Tangyuan slammed his desk, took a deep breath, and then bellowed in a voice full of conviction, “That was a team effort!”

Just then, two pickup trucks rolled in from a distance, coordinating their movement.

“Oh d*mn, they’re hard pushing.”

Tangyuan swapped weapons, cracked his knuckles, and readied himself for the fight. The other players immediately moved toward his position, grouping up for engagement—and all of this happened within the first five minutes of the match.

---

---

Chapter 11 – The Sniper is Good

---

As Shao Zhan helped Tangyuan back up, he noticed a girl in a yellow dress trailing behind the downed enemy. Quickly adjusting his aim just a fraction higher, he narrowly avoided dealing any real damage.

Then, with both teams taking cover behind the buildings, separated by a single main road, chaos erupted.

[Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round used S12K to knock down Ying Ying Ying’s Ying Ying Ying.]

As the announcement flashed across the screen, Tangyuan froze for a second. “D*mn, Old Pineapple, that’s just nasty. What kind of grown man calls himself ‘Ying Ying Ying’s Ying Ying Ying’—is he a crying gremlin?”

Before Shao Zhan could reply, another notification popped up:

[Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round has been knocked down by I Am Your Daddy.]

Tangyuan, freshly revived, was still registering the previous events when the kill feed rapidly scrolled with new updates:

[I Am Your Daddy used M49 to knock down Little Red Riding Hood’s Wolf Grandma.]

[Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round used S12K to knock down I Am Your Daddy.]

[Ying Ying Ying’s Ying Ying Ying used MK14 to knock down Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round.]

[Little Red Riding Hood’s Wolf Grandma used M14 to knock down Ying Ying Ying’s Ying Ying Ying.]

[I Am Your Daddy used M49 to knock down Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round…]

Not just the two battling teams—every remaining player in the match was utterly confused.

What the hell was going on?

Revive, kill, revive, kill—were these guys stuck in an infinite loop?

Was this some kind of Heavenly Elder martial arts technique, or were they trapped in an Escher staircase paradox?

While the two teams were goofing off like nobody else existed, the rest of the surviving players instinctively began converging toward the chaotic battlefield.

Tangyuan, knocked down yet again, crawled behind a rock and texted Old Pineapple on WeChat:

[Dude, maybe tone it down a bit? If I get downed a few more times, I’m actually gonna die for good. Any longer, and the other players are gonna catch up to us.]

Old Pineapple, also known as Ying Ying Monster, sent back a brief but direct reply: [Roger.]

But by the time he refocused, it was already too late—his teammate had beaten him to the draw.

[I Am Your Daddy used M49 to knock down Little Red Riding Hood’s Wolf Grandma.]

The gunfire from the opposing side suddenly ceased, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.

Tangyuan had no idea how Old Pineapple managed to convince the girl in the yellow dress to leave, but judging by her deadly precision and swift execution, she was no newbie—more like a big bad wolf disguised as a harmless lamb.

Speaking of wolves, their own “Wolf Grandma” was still waiting to be revived.

As Tangyuan crawled over to help his teammate up, gunfire erupted again, forcing him to flatten himself even lower.

Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round, watching his death timer tick down, switched to all-chat and cursed at Pineapple: “D*mn you! Did you really have to land a parting shot before running off? Have some humanity!”

Pineapple’s signature sleazy laughter came through the mic.

But trash talk aside, survival came first.

By the time Shao Zhan and Tangyuan had patched themselves up and were ready to escape, they had already missed their best window of opportunity.

The remaining bloodthirsty enemies were closing in from all directions.

Even for battle-hardened pros like Shao Zhan and Tangyuan, there was no room for carelessness now. From the fallen loot crates, they each grabbed an SKS and an M24.

“In battle, every player is a warrior. A warrior’s duty is to fight. We can dodge fights, but we cannot fear them.”

As the gunfire raged, amidst the chaos of their encirclement, Tangyuan’s deep, solemn voice filled their team’s voice chat with a motivational speech that was just a little too dramatic: “As Xinghai Esports, the number one team in the league—have we grown arrogant? Have we grown conceited? Have we become reckless?”

For each question, Shao Zhan silently answered with a headshot from his M24.

Positioned as the team’s hybrid of offense and defense, Tangyuan answered his own speech:
“No. We are still the same diligent, hardworking Xinghai! A true champion knows that a chicken-egg pancake needs two sausages, fried scallions, two big scoops of meat floss, and a generous drizzle of sesame sauce—”

Tangyuan, while shamelessly distracting his teammate, had also managed to place a breakfast order through voice command.

Unfazed by the nonsense, Shao Zhan continued firing with deadly precision while casually adding: “Get me one too. No fried dough sticks. No sausages. No scallions.”

Tangyuan paused for half a second, staring blankly at the screen before turning back to the shop owner on the phone: “Uh… just throw in an extra pancake, thanks.”

Fueled by the promise of good food, their kill count soared.

Especially Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round, who steeled his grip on his gun the moment he received confirmation that the delivery would arrive within thirty minutes—his shots were suddenly steadier, sharper, and deadlier.

At last, the battlefield had narrowed down to the final two teams.

Shao Zhan and Tangyuan found a concealed spot at the foot of a hill, crouched down, and each pulled out a grenade. Holding them in their hands, they removed the safety pins and, as if toasting a final farewell, hurled them skyward toward the vast blue sky—

“Old Pineapple, buddy, we’re going all in for you today—sacrificing everything! You better remember our noble sacrifice… ah… ah… ah—!”

BOOM!

Game Over.

The system automatically switched to the match summary screen.

“Ask how many friends from his squad joined.” Yang Sa let go of his keyboard, leaned back with his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes to rest.

Max obediently followed orders and pressed the opposing team for information on WeChat. At first, Pineapple stubbornly refused to spill, but after enough prodding, he finally caved:

“Two. Just two. He swears on his ancestors—eighteen generations back.”

Seated cross-legged, Max reported back to Yang Sa, who lazily responded:

“Not bad. Their sniper’s got good aim.”

Later, when Yang Sa opened his eyes, ready to wash up, he noticed that his computer had already launched a new match.

On-screen, Max—the shameless traitor—had already jumped into the game, automatically following someone’s parachute drop.

“What the hell is this?” Yang Sa asked.

“I have no idea,” Max said, spreading his hands innocently. “By the time I noticed, I was already on the plane.”

Yang Sa glanced at the top-right corner of the screen. “It’s another four-man squad. What exactly did you tell them?”

“I just said their friend had good aim with a sniper.” Max shrugged.

…

Morning. A new day quietly unfolded.

At Xinghai Esports Club’s PUBG division, the start of each day was announced by a rooster’s crow.

Only… it wasn’t actually a rooster.

It was a hen named Bage, raised by the club’s elderly gatekeeper as if it were his own son.

Originally just an ordinary hen, Bage had grown bored of the dull base life and somehow learned to crow like a rooster. From then on, it faithfully performed its duty of announcing the time, 365 days a year, without fail.

At 4:15 AM sharp, Bage crowed on cue.

The dormitory remained quiet, but in the training rooms on the upper floors, the all-night grinders heard the crowing and instinctively set their things aside. Half-asleep, they dragged themselves out of their ergonomic chairs and shuffled out of the gaming room like zombies.

By 5:00 AM, the dimly lit esports base was once again playing out its daily ritual of a zombie apocalypse—where the undead army of sleep-deprived gamers stumbled their way back to their beds.

Every time he saw this ghastly sight, security guard Uncle Zhou would clutch his crossdressing chicken-son and sigh deeply:

“See that, Bage? This is what happens when you don’t sleep. You have to be good, rest properly, and wake up early to crow on time. And remember—whatever you do, don’t go wandering around like last time. You nearly got stomped to death by these sleep-deprived brats…”

Behind him, inside the building, the sleep-deprived players staggered toward their dorms, moving as sluggishly as brainless zombies in Plants vs. Zombies. Occasionally, two would bump into each other, getting stuck in an endless loop, like a game caught in a lagging glitch.

Jiang Ranan and Zhuang Bai, woken up by the live chicken alarm clock, changed their clothes and went back to sleep for a while. When they returned, they found Tangyuan and their captain, Mars, collapsed lifelessly on their gaming chairs, dark circles under their eyes as deep as craters.

After a good night’s sleep, Qin Chuan strolled into the training room, humming a tune—only to be met with two ghostly pale faces. He immediately pressed himself against the doorframe, startled.

“Wait…” He took several deep breaths before blurting out, “Are those two… having an affair?”

Jiang Ranan rolled his eyes, making no effort to hide his disdain for the mere suggestion. “Our captain has high standards.”

“Old Tangyuan is straight,” the ever-honest Zhuang Bai added firmly.

“How do you know?” Qin Chuan and Jiang Ranan raised their eyebrows in unison, skeptical. “Did you test him?”

“Alright, fine,” Zhuang Bai wisely chose self-preservation. “Maybe he’s a bent Tangyuan.”

Satisfied, Qin Chuan and Jiang Ranan returned to their workstations, while Shao Zhan and Tangyuan were rudely awakened by a call from the food delivery guy.

Tangyuan hauled himself up, his noble rear end leaving the chair as he hurried downstairs to fetch the delivery. Uncle Zhou, the base’s oldest resident, didn’t miss the chance to remind the broad-bodied, internet-addicted youth to exercise more.

Meanwhile, his feathered “son,” who understood human speech all too well, suddenly flapped its wings and lunged forward—viciously pecking at Tangyuan’s plump, tender backside.

With a yelp, Tangyuan dashed back into the training room, rubbing his injured rear in distress. He immediately grabbed Jiang Ranan, who was in the middle of a practice run.

“Check for me! Quick, just take a look!” he demanded, sticking out his butt.

Jiang Ranan, exasperated, punched the soft mound of flesh once. “You’re fine.”

“How can I be fine?!” Tangyuan refused to give up. “That bird went all in this time! I swear my pants are torn—just check again!”

“No matter how I look, you’re still fine.” Zhuang Bai spoke up from behind his monitor, offering a fair judgment. “If Bage really took a merciful bite and relieved you of a few ounces of fat—”

“Then I’d be on my knees, bowing to that bird with my ancestors dating back eighteen generations.” Tangyuan pinched the stubborn fat that clung to his body, launching into a wild daydream. “If I could slim down… even if I don’t become a heartthrob like the captain, at the very least, I could be a cute little stud like Ranan. If not, I’d still be on par with Lao Keen. And worst case scenario—I’d at least be as decent as Qin Chuan—”

“Wait, why the hell am I ranked last?!” Qin Chuan snapped his head up, furious, after admiring his own beauty on Shao Zhan’s screen.

“Oh, you’re here?” Tangyuan clapped a hand over his mouth, suddenly awkward beyond belief. He crossed his chubby legs and twirled on his toes like a ballerina, desperately trying to backtrack. “If I knew you were listening, I wouldn’t have said it to your face, of course…”

“Talking behind my back is even worse, you know?” Qin Chuan shot him a glare, unwilling to waste words on this clueless bumpkin who couldn’t even appreciate his own beauty.

“Where’s the captain?” Tangyuan asked as he plopped into his chair, digging into his egg pancake with extra toppings.

Just as he spoke, the training room door slid open. Shao Zhan stepped inside, freshly washed and changed after his morning routine.

“You—” Tangyuan’s mouth, stuffed with sausage, froze mid-sentence. His excitement left him momentarily speechless.

“What, did you choke?” Qin Chuan seized the opportunity to rise from Shao Zhan’s seat, giving Tangyuan’s chubby back a firm pat.

Tangyuan made a great effort to swallow his mouthful, licking the corner of his lips in unwilling admiration. “You look way too good.”

Shao Zhan had merely washed his face and changed clothes, yet he looked refreshed and full of energy, as if he hadn’t stayed up all night. Even the faint shadows under his eyes were barely visible—like a delicate trace of color hidden within a priceless jade.

---

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Chapter 10 – Battle Insulator

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Over time, teasing this outwardly cold yet inwardly warm little lion had become Max’s daily amusement.

Three years ago, Yang Sa had traveled alone to China in search of his roots, only to be dragged back to Germany. In the years that followed, he lay low, completing one near-impossible mission after another.

Today, he had finally set foot on his homeland again. Though his plan had encountered some minor setbacks, it was still progressing steadily.

Growing up together, Max had seen Yang Sa as cold as ice, witnessed his rage and hysteria, and even the rare moments when he drank with abandon.

But never before had he seen him like this—so silent that his emotions were unreadable.

Since returning, Yang Sa had been huddled on the hotel balcony, close enough to touch, yet for some reason, he felt impossibly distant, as if his soul had been pulled into another realm.

Under the moonlight, the boy had shed his usual armor, and the vulnerability in his features was heartbreakingly apparent.

Max didn’t know what Yang Sa was going through. He only knew that his father had once told him to always stand behind Yang Sa and protect him as best as he could.

In the game, however, there was no trace of the melancholy from his moon-gazing. Yang Sa wielded an M49 sniper rifle, running recklessly across the map, slaughtering enemies in an artistic display of violence.

If only he weren’t being followed like a ghost by that teammate in a yellow dress, it would have been perfect.

Armed with a weapon powerful enough to pierce a Level 2 helmet with ease, Yang Sa had been roaming the entire map, yet had only managed to secure two kills—both from bots that had practically dropped from the sky.

The more he ran, the more something felt off. More than half of the players had already been eliminated, and the battle was intense—but strangely, the chaos never seemed to reach him.

It was as if the battlefield was avoiding him altogether.

The sheer absurdity of it nearly made him want to pull the pin on a grenade and blow himself up.

But giving up had never been in his nature.

For years, Yang Sa had been like a lone wolf, surviving in a foreign land through sheer will and determination.

No matter what the challenge, once he set a goal, he would see it through to perfection—even if it was just an inconsequential game match.

And so, with his deadly weapon in hand, he charged toward the sound of gunfire…

…

“Hey, how’s it going on your side?” Tangyuan asked while struggling to suck up the last pearl from his bubble tea through a straw.

Shao Zhan, who had just cleared out enemies on the hill and was reloading, didn’t even look up as he reported his kill count: “32.”

“Cool,” Tangyuan pulled out an unopened cup of milk tea. “I only got 16 kills. My hands are off today, messing up my performance.”

Shao Zhan couldn’t be bothered to expose him, so he just played along. “Keep blowing hot air, will you? Maybe if you try harder, our base’s air conditioning can finally take a break.”

“I’m telling you, Captain, don’t provoke me,” Tangyuan warned. “The fortune teller said my birth chart is valuable and full of deadly energy. If I get really pissed off and stomp my foot, it’s gonna cause a disaster.”

“Yeah, if they cut any corners when building this place, your weight alone could turn that disaster into reality,” Shao Zhan quipped, casually raising his M14 and firing in his old teammate’s direction.

Tangyuan, still wrestling with his straw, looked up just in time to see his in-game character getting showered with bullets.

“What the hell?!” He panicked, quickly making his character crouch and squeeze into the narrow gap between two loot crates.

“Two guys climbed up from the shade while you were busy drinking your milk tea,” Shao Zhan explained in the time it took to reload. Before he even finished speaking, the fight was over. He strolled over to the green loot boxes, didn’t stop, and walked right past them.

Tangyuan, having used every trick in the book to wriggle out of the gap, grabbed an S12K and complained that the S686 in the loot was too weak. He then reluctantly followed Shao Zhan, stealing multiple backward glances at the loot, clearly pained to leave it behind.

At the end of the day, they were professional players. Even though they’d been asked to play in this low-rank match, they still had their principles. To make sure every unfortunate player who landed on this map felt true despair, they agreed to abandon large-scale destructive weapons. Shao Zhan settled for a common M14.

Even with this self-imposed handicap, they still slaughtered their way across the map with ease.

Tangyuan glanced at the remaining player count. “Only about thirty left before the match ends. What are you having for breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” Shao Zhan was so surprised that his finger slipped, accidentally firing a shot and forcing a sneaky camper in the grass to scurry behind a rock.

“You eat breakfast?” His voice was filled with disbelief—whether at the camper’s reaction speed or Tangyuan’s seemingly endless appetite, he wasn’t sure.

“Of course! I never skip breakfast,” Tangyuan scoffed. “We’ve been teammates for two years, and you still don’t know that? Seriously, what a cold, indifferent world we live in.”

While pretending to stand guard with his gun, he casually pulled out his phone and placed an order at his go-to breakfast shop through a delivery app.

During this time, Shao Zhan had already taken care of the camper. He also firmly rejected his teammate’s breakfast invitation, stating that “Esports players don’t need breakfast.”

“So outdated,” Tangyuan criticized, switching to the tone of a health guru. “You might be young now, but if you don’t take care of yourself, it’ll be too late when you’re older. You know what they say—’Breakfast is like a king’s feast,’ meaning a good breakfast sets you up for the day…”

Just as he was rambling on, he suddenly collapsed in-game, knocked out.

Still torn between choosing soup dumplings or a crab roe bun, Tangyuan furiously ordered both out of spite.

He didn’t bother dodging or wasting health to escape because he knew Shao Zhan, standing behind him, would definitely avenge him.

Sure enough, the battle feed updated with two notifications almost simultaneously:

[I Am Your Daddy used M49 to knock down Round Round Fat Fat Glutinous Round.]

[Little Red Riding Hood’s Wolf Grandma used M14 to knock down I Am Your Daddy.]

---

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Chapter 9 – The Robot’s Weak Spot

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Shao Zhan casually turned off all-chat. The early morning wind brushed against his face, carrying the lingering chill of the night, and suddenly, he was reminded of that night.

He stared quietly out the window, watching as the distant sky was slowly painted in shades of pale blue by the rising light. Waiting—for a boy who might never return.

“Old Pineapple knew you muted him and told me to thank you. He said the girl’s German and doesn’t speak a word of Chinese. If things work out, he’ll treat us to a sailor’s stew.” Tangyuan rubbed his cheeks. “Doesn’t sound too promising if you ask me.”

Still, he was genuinely happy for his friend. After wandering aimlessly for so many years, the old playboy was finally serious about chasing someone.

“Time really waits for no one, huh? Feels like in the blink of an eye, we’ve all hit the legal marriage age.”

Honestly, whether it was Germany or France, it didn’t matter. As long as you knew where that person was, your heart could be at peace.

Back then, Shao Zhan had turned all of Jiangling upside down, searching for him, yet that person had vanished as if he had never existed.

And now, just like before, he had suddenly reappeared before him—only to slip away through his fingers once again.

Maybe, Shao Zhan thought, there really was no fate between them.

As the plane took off, he gazed at the fading moon in the sky, wondering—was that person also looking up at the same moonlight?

…

Yang Sa withdrew his gaze from the window and glanced at the game screen. In German, he said, “No, that’s not how you do it.”

The pale green eyes in front of him rolled ever so slightly, and an Adam’s apple bobbed. “My Chinese proficiency is Level 6. And I scored very high.”

“This has nothing to do with language.” Yang Sa adjusted his friend’s fingers onto the hotkeys. “First, place a marker on the map. Then, press F to parachute—I said mark the location first, not jump immediately!”

The green eyes widened in panic, and a string of fluent Chinese curses burst from his mouth. “Motherf—! This is some bullsh—… Sa, what the hell do I do now?”

“Jump,” Yang Sa sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Just make sure your teammates follow you.”

“But… where are my teammates?” The green-eyed man pursed his lips into a thin line.

Yang Sa pointed at the bright marker on the screen. “Chinese?”

“Yeah. He saw my photos on Facebook and messaged me first, said he could help boost my rank.” Max buried his face in his hands. “Holy crap, this parachuting is intense—I’m afraid of heights!”

Yang Sa shook his head, about to return to moon-gazing, when suddenly, a large hand grabbed onto him tightly.

“Don’t go! Teach me how to play!”

“Didn’t you already make plans with him?”

“Yeah, I did.” Max squirmed awkwardly. “But… he thinks I don’t speak Chinese.”

“Just say you learned Chinese to play games with him. Pretend to be a foreigner,” Yang Sa suggested to the actual foreigner.

“But…” Max fidgeted even more. “He thinks I’m a girl. If I talk, he’ll know the truth.”

“Didn’t he see your photo?”

“The one I uploaded was…” Max squeezed his hands between his legs, searching for a sense of security that didn’t exist. “It was your Halloween cross-dressing photo…”

“Ah—okay, okay, I was wrong! Ow, ow—my neck! My neck’s gonna break—!”

Max struggled to get up from the floor, his clear green eyes fixed on his friend’s movements at the computer. “What are you doing?”

“Logging out.” Yang Sa replied. Was he seriously expected to play using his own cross-dressing account?

With a stern face, he continued operating the computer. “Why didn’t you use your own cross-dressing account?”

“You lost rock-paper-scissors on Halloween.” Max rubbed his chin, still shaken. “Don’t quit! I haven’t played a match yet, and losing points right now would be fatal.”

“New accounts are easy to rank up.” Yang Sa comforted him in a cold, indifferent tone.

A storm brewed in Max’s pale green eyes as he mentally calculated the weight difference between himself and Yang Sa. Gritting his teeth, he suddenly lunged forward, using a burst of momentum to seize control of the computer. He grabbed the mouse and started clicking frantically.

“Are you… rebelling?” Yang Sa pressed a sore spot on his forehead where Max had crashed into him, torn between laughter and frustration.

The lanky Max curled up in the corner of the chair, pretending to focus on the game. His eyes shifted carefully to the very edge of their sockets, cautiously observing his friend for any sudden counterattack.

Yang Sa realized that with just the slightest lift of his hand, the towering Max would flinch in fear.

He tilted his head helplessly, watching his friend from a distance. “Enough already. How many years ago was our last fight?”

Max lifted his bangs with three fingers, revealing a faint scar on his forehead. With deliberate slowness, he began, “As of now, it is 3:33 AM Beijing time. This morning, I plan to eat three vegetable buns, three fried dough sticks, and drink three bowls of douzhi…”

“Alright, alright.” Yang Sa pressed his palm down as if to settle the situation. “Finish this match, and don’t team up with that guy again.”

“Understood!” Max bounced in place excitedly.

“Also, take down the photo from Facebook. Don’t spread it any further—”

Yang Sa’s face darkened as if he wanted to say more, but before he could, Max raised three fingers and placed them by his ear in a silent oath. Seeing this, Yang Sa fell silent.

Meanwhile, Max, seated at the computer, had an expression of satisfaction, as if his scheme had succeeded. The fight from three years ago was his trump card—it never failed to suppress Yang Sa’s momentum. It had worked every single time.

Defeated, Yang Sa leaned against the windowsill. Under the moonlight, his side profile appeared even more delicate and cool, his long lashes casting fine shadows beneath his eyes, blending seamlessly with the faint blue veins on his skin.

Max, still in the middle of the match, kept sneaking glances at Yang Sa while playing. “Hey… hey…”

He called out twice but got no response. Frustrated, he reached out and gave his friend a push. “Hey!”

Yang Sa turned slightly. “What is it?” His expression was calm, his features soft, like the moon sinking into morning dust.

“This—this part, how do I play it?” Max asked loudly, seeking help.

Truthfully, he really didn’t know how to play the game. But he exaggerated his panic on purpose. “What do I do? Hurry, come teach me! What’s going on? My character won’t move—come take a look! Quick!”

Yang Sa strolled over at a leisurely pace. The moment he saw the screen, he couldn’t hold back his laughter. “You’re stuck… literally riding the wall.”

“Yeah, and I can’t move at all!” Max’s fingers flew across the keyboard, as if he were a martial arts master who had been honing his skills for years. He unleashed one combo after another, but the result was just his character twitching wildly—while the coordinates remained unchanged.

“Try shifting side to side, then crouch.” Yang Sa suggested, his tone carrying a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“I did!” Max’s eyes widened as he roared in frustration. “It doesn’t work!”

“No, I meant move your in-game soldier, not… yourself.” Yang Sa pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, covering his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to watch.

“But he won’t move!” Max stomped his foot in frustration in front of the screen.

Unable to watch any longer, Yang Sa tapped the keyboard twice, and finally, Max’s character managed to free itself from its awkward position.

“Ugh, I pressed those keys before! Why didn’t they work for me?” Anxious beyond reason, Max had started chewing on his fingernails.

Yang Sa swatted his hand away, patiently demonstrating each shortcut key. When he was done, he pushed the keyboard back. “Got it now?”

“Yeah.” Max nodded seriously.

In the next second, his character got stuck on the wall again.

The difference this time? He had already learned how to rescue himself. Repeating Yang Sa’s previous steps, he successfully broke free.

However, just as he landed, the screen flashed with a burst of green blood mist.

“Ahh! Someone’s shooting me! Someone’s shooting me! What do I do? What do I do?!”

Yang Sa sat frozen in shock.

This was the first time in his life he had ever witnessed such a disaster unfold.

The enemy—a harmless, low-level AI bot—was mechanically firing away, while Max frantically sprinted in circles around a short wall.

And in one unfortunate misstep, he ran straight into the bot’s backside.

“Brother—why are you running?! Just shoot!”

“How do I fight?!” Max was so anxious that he started sweating.

“You don’t have a gun?” Yang Sa finally realized he had overlooked something crucial. “If you don’t have a gun, use your fists! Punch him to death, and then you’ll have everything you need.”

Just as Max was about to ask how to throw a punch, a few gunshots rang out. The AI bot collapsed instantly.

From inside a nearby house, a fully armed player in a bright yellow dress emerged and ran straight toward Max without saying a word. Max shrieked in terror.

“Why are you screaming?” Yang Sa said. “That’s your teammate. Look at the top-right corner.”

“Oh.” Max patted his flat chest, trying to calm himself down. “Hey, why is there so much tr*sh on the ground?”

“That’s loot. Your teammate dropped it for you. Pick it up.” Yang Sa instructed.

Finally, he couldn’t stand the mess anymore. He shoved the flustered Max aside and took control, quickly grabbing the weapons.

Just then, a patient male voice came through the speakers:

“Miss, don’t be scared! It’s me. I dropped that loot for you. Ah, you don’t understand what I’m saying, do you? Press F to pick up, press F!”

Once Max’s character was fully equipped, the voice continued encouragingly:

“Miss, you’re amazing! You learned so quickly. Good, very good!”

Yang Sa checked the voice chat settings and saw that the guy pretending to be a girl had muted his microphone in advance.

“Hehe.” Max grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t want to blow my cover.”

“Alright, you’re geared up now.” Yang Sa said. “Go on, take over.”

“Ah, no, no!” Max waved his long hands in the air. “You play, you play! That was too intense—my heart can’t take it. I need some heart medicine to calm down!”

Yang Sa scratched his head in confusion. “Are you serious? Should I just quit then?”

“No, no, no!” Max dropped to one knee, clutching Yang Sa’s leg with both hands and shaking it desperately. “Please, finish this match for me! I’m begging you!”

Yang Sa reclaimed the mouse, exhaling a simple yet effective response: “Get lost.”

But Max had no intention of leaving. He was determined to learn by watching up close—practical experience was the best way to improve.

Yang Sa could barely tolerate having a grown man kneeling beside him, but he was too lazy to argue. So, he endured it.

Meanwhile, Max was struggling to hold back his laughter. He knew Yang Sa wouldn’t actually do anything to him.

Ever since they were kids, other children always avoided Yang Sa. At first, it was because of his different skin tone, and later, it was due to his cold and distant personality.

But not Max. He had faced the challenge head-on.

At first, it was all about making pocket money from his dad—two Pfennigs if he got Yang Sa to say a word, five if he made him smile.

To put it bluntly, their entire friendship was built on financial transactions.

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Chapter 8 – The Battle of the Old Foxes

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While his own team fought hard in the match, Qin Chuan took the opportunity to gather intelligence from the managers of other teams. Meanwhile, in the seats reserved for Xinghai, Shao Zhan sat alone.

Having grown used to being surrounded by fans, basking in their cheers and admiration, the legendary player of the battlefield had almost forgotten what solitude felt like. Perhaps the last time was that night when the pillow beside him was empty, and he could no longer feel the soft, shallow breaths buried against the crook of his neck.

But peace was never meant to last long. The ever-scheming Qin Chuan soon teamed up with other team managers, exchanging tricks and counter-strategies like misinformation and double-layered schemes to probe each other’s next strategic moves.

“What’s wrong? Not going well?” Shao Zhan chuckled as he handed a water bottle to Qin Chuan, whose frustration was practically etched into his forehead.

“Going well. Why wouldn’t it?” Qin Chuan huffed, gulping down a mouthful of water before rolling down his sleeves one by one. “You should know by now—when Qin Chuan steps in, the road is smooth sailing.”

With that, he leaned in and whispered near Shao Zhan’s ear, “Young Master, I’ve already found out about the landmines.”

Shao Zhan pushed him back with a single finger. “Speak properly.”

“I asked about the Silver Emperor Cup. Those old foxes all claimed they wouldn’t participate, saying it’d be embarrassing to join a tournament organized by the Withering Club. But when I tried inviting them out for skewers next week, none of them had time.”

Shao Zhan subtly shifted his position, glancing toward the corridor. “Are you sure it’s not just because your social skills are terrible?”

“SHAO ZHAN!” Qin Chuan flailed his thin arms dramatically, twisting in his seat like a possessed noodle.

“Seriously, how can someone this skinny have so much flesh on their face?”

That casual remark shattered all of Qin Chuan’s defenses. He jabbed his chubby cheeks with his fingers—just like Huang Xuan—and huffed, “This is called baby fat. Baby fat, got it? You’re so outdated!”

“Noodle monster.”

Shao Zhan crossed his arms, his eyes never leaving the big screen as he took note of every mistake his team made, storing them for review later that night.

Silver Emperor had been Xinghai’s sister club before the acquisition. Though it now belonged to Baizhan Group, attending the honor match they were organizing was only proper—if nothing else, it would serve as a warm-up for the upcoming season.

For the other teams, it was also an opportunity for training. Even sending out their second-string players would help give them some exposure.

There was no need for a team manager to go fishing for information about something like this. Shao Zhan could see that Qin Chuan’s frustration—and everything he had done afterward—was just an act. What he was really trying to probe was how the other teams viewed that person.

In truth, his story with that boy wasn’t all that complicated. But over the years, no one had ever asked, and he never found the chance to tell it. Eventually, it became like a buried scar on his heart—not particularly heavy, yet capable of stirring his emotions at unexpected moments.

Qin Chuan mimicked the people around him, folding his arms and puffing out his cheeks, though his large, round eyes kept darting about mischievously.

Of course, he couldn’t admit that the other teams had secretly reached out to the fans who had previously attended matches—and that they had even started placing bets on who could get an autograph. He had tried to hold back, but in the end, he couldn’t resist and ended up wagering an entire month’s meal allowance.

He pinned his hopes on Mu Chen from Weiguang. Sure, the guy had a slight limp when he walked, but he had a sharp eye—especially when it came to fostering team cohesion.

Of course, Weiguang was still a fair distance away from Xinghai. But when it came to player development, they had already earned the recognition of Mars, the league’s number one player.

Not that he and Shao Zhan would ever say that in front of that bow-legged guy.

If it were up to him, he’d love to bring that kid under his wing. But last time, just before signing, the boy disappeared on his own. Three years of complete silence, only to suddenly reappear, demonstrating an extraordinary grasp of tactics. Even so, Qin Chuan didn’t dare make the decision on his own.

After all, no one knew what had happened that night three years ago. If something had happened, and he ended up triggering some bad memories, getting himself sued by the team’s golden goose and their boss in the process… well, would he even survive that?

But since Shao Zhan refused to talk about it, Qin Chuan couldn’t exactly ask either. All he could do was summon every ounce of willpower to suppress his overwhelming curiosity.

As the match ended, the two acting masters put on synchronized performances, clapping for the players coming off the stage with insincere smiles plastered on their faces.

By the time the group returned to the base, it was already close to eleven o’clock. Normally, the main team’s training hours ran from 1 PM to 11 PM, but extra practice sessions stretching into the early hours of the morning—one or two AM—were a common occurrence.

After meeting fans today and basking in the deafening cheers, the players had no intention of staying for extra practice. They grabbed the complimentary meal boxes from the organizers, ready to eat a late-night snack and call it a day—until their coach, Du Changcheng, caught them and tore into them with a scolding.

The reason? The main offenders, led by Tangyuan, had repeatedly blundered during the exhibition match, getting stuck in a low-rank lobby and nearly wiping out the entire team several times.

“Come on, Coach, take a seat and cool off first.” Tangyuan pushed over his custom-made, extra-large chair and set it behind him. “It was just a fun match, no need to take it so seriously! Sure, there were a few close calls, but that was all staged—we planned it on purpose! Think about it: a game with ups and downs, life-and-death moments, and last-minute comebacks makes for a much better spectacle. We just wanted the fans to experience more of that excitement.”

“You think I’m blind? Staged, my a*s!” Du Changcheng held his waist, his face turning pale with rage.

Whenever a player slacked off in training, the others would joke that they had “pissed off Coach Du’s hemorrhoids.”

Today, Lao Du hadn’t attended the event in person because he had taken advantage of the schedule gap to finally get a hemorrhoid removal surgery.

But after watching the official livestream from his hospital bed, he was so furious that he yanked out his IV and rushed straight back to the team.

In reality, for an event like this, playing at half-strength was acceptable—it was all about ensuring a good experience for the fans. What infuriated him wasn’t their performance, but their attitude toward the match.

As professional esports players, they were supposed to take every game seriously.

Respecting the opponent, respecting the game itself—this should be a belief ingrained into the very bones of every player.

But today, all he had seen in that livestream was fooling around. No belief.

Shao Zhan had just opened his mouth to defend his teammates when Du Changcheng turned his glare on him. “And what about you? We agreed you wouldn’t go—what happened to that? You think the official announcement was just for show?” He winced, pressing a hand to his lower back as he snapped, “No organization, no discipline—do you even know what you just did? Do you realize your contract terms are different from the others? Just showing up like this—how do you expect us to explain it to the sponsors? This is a team. This is a job. There are rules. If you don’t want to follow them, go back to being a rich young master, and stop setting a bad example for the kids!”

Shao Zhan almost reminded him that, aside from the 19-year-old Jiang Ranran—who barely qualified as a “kid”—the other two were battle-hardened veterans who had been deep-fried in the esports scene for years. But watching Lao Du break into a sweat from the pain, Shao Zhan worried he might actually burst a blood vessel somewhere—cleaning that up wouldn’t be fun. So, he held his tongue.

Du Changcheng kept ranting non-stop, a*s sticking out in frustration, and in the end, even Qin Chuan—who had only tagged along for the trip—got dragged into the scolding.

The team members returning from their assignments hung their heads like wilted eggplants. Even Young Master Shao Zhan was obediently listening to the scolding—let alone the others.

The players who had come back full of excitement now sat through Du Changcheng’s match review with blank expressions, played their scrimmages with blank expressions, and welcomed the arrival of 3:30 AM… still with blank expressions.

On his zombie-like walk back to the dorms—too embarrassed to go straight to bed after getting chewed out—Qin Chuan even bumped into two youth trainees, causing a small commotion.

Zhuang Bai and Jiang Ranran had both collapsed over the wide gaming desk, fast asleep, while Shao Zhan was still on his phone, finalizing the next week’s training priorities with Du Changcheng, who had rushed to the hospital overnight for treatment.

Only Tangyuan remained wide awake, his bulb-bright eyes shining as he enthusiastically played Snake.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Shao Zhan asked, putting down his phone.

Tangyuan carefully pinched the corner of a chip bag with his fingertips and peeled it open just a crack. “Ate too much. Feels like heartburn.”

“Then why are you still eating?” Shao Zhan scratched his head.

Sprawled in his chair, Tangyuan weakly kneaded his round belly, a chip hanging from his mouth. “Keeps coming up… Trying to push it back down.”

Shao Zhan’s mouth fell open in genuine amazement. “Is there anything you can do besides eat?”

“Esports,” Tangyuan replied, brimming with pride.

“Besides esports?” Shao Zhan asked again.

This time, Tangyuan lowered his head and muttered softly, “Nothing.”

Shao Zhan was about to offer some words of comfort when Tangyuan suddenly perked up and asked, “Does trash-talking count?”

At a complete loss for words, Shao Zhan felt that if this were an anime, there would definitely be a murder of crows circling above his head.

“It’s all junk food. You should eat less,” Shao Zhan advised.

But Tangyuan simply raised his greasy fingers and waved him over. “Boss, boss—help me out here!”

“What is it?” Shao Zhan leaned back in his chair, his voice carrying the lazy drawl of the approaching dawn.

“Get on your alt account. My friend wants to put a team together—I’ll pull you into the lobby.”

“Not playing. I’m exhausted today,” Shao Zhan said.

“No way. The other side is Old Pineapple. If I back out now, he’ll track me down after his stream,” Tangyuan fidgeted anxiously, picking at his fingers.

This Pineapple Head was one of Xinghai’s few genuine friends. When the team suffered consecutive losses in the league and fell into a slump, he had defended them fiercely on his stream—so much so that he had been penalized by the platform multiple times for his harsh words.

Although Shao Zhan had a strong suspicion that Pineapple Head simply liked cursing people out, the guy had spoken up for them during tough times. It didn’t feel right to refuse.

“What kind of match?”

“Oh, this one’s tough,” Tangyuan said in an exaggeratedly serious tone. “An Infernal Affairs game.” As he spoke, he dumped the remaining chips into his mouth and, without missing a beat, ripped open a new bag.

Turns out Old Pineapple had set his sights on a girl and had boasted that he would carry her to a higher rank. To make sure everything went smoothly, he had recruited two extra teammates for backup.

After hearing Tangyuan’s explanation, Shao Zhan nearly flipped his computer over. “He’s a streamer with over a million followers, and he still needs pro players just to carry a girl in PUBG?”

“He’s just being careful,” Tangyuan muttered, covering his mouth like he was spilling a big secret. “If nothing else, this proves that old bast*rd is really serious about her.”

“The mic isn’t even on. Why are you covering your mouth?” Shao Zhan kicked his chair. “Wait—why is it a duo match?”

Tangyuan scooted his chair out of Shao Zhan’s reach. “Because it’s Infernal Affairs! We’re undercover teammates hidden among the enemy—exciting, right?”

“You’re insane.”

“Hey, buddy, I heard that!” Old Pineapple’s distinctively cheerful voice rang out in the all-chat.

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