Chapter 24 – The Tryhard Pro Couple
When Yin Sijue saw Ji Wei’s message, he had just finished showering and was about to head downstairs for training.
As he opened the door, he found Xu Shaoqiu standing there with his hand raised.
The moment Xu Shaoqiu saw him, grief welled up inside: “How can you still be in the mood to smile? I’m about to die of worry here!”
Yin Sijue pressed the lock screen on his phone. “What’s wrong?”
Xu Shaoqiu: “What’s wrong? Just now downstairs, Da Shu and Wolf got into another fight. They started arguing barely two sentences into the review. I couldn’t find you anywhere. Honestly, I feel like I’m only thirty, unmarried, no kids—yet somehow I’m already living the life of babysitting children!”
“Come on, I’ll go down with you.”
“Wait.” Xu Shaoqiu stopped him. “Um… there’s another match tomorrow. Try not to be too harsh with your words.”
Yin Sijue let out a cold laugh. “You really think you’re babysitting?”
Arms crossed, he told Xu Shaoqiu, “They’re all adults. Spoiling them will only make them forget the consequences. If I don’t scold them now, the internet will tear them apart even worse later.”
Xu Shaoqiu: “…Fine.”
When the two went downstairs, the training room atmosphere had sunk to freezing point. Nobody was speaking to anyone.
Da Shu and Wolf had just finished quarreling. Lao Ma—the one person who could usually mediate—had taken leave to go home, and Milly wasn’t the type to play peacemaker. It was already a miracle he wasn’t arguing with them too.
Yin Sijue walked up to the table and tapped it with his knuckles.
“The match the day after tomorrow—are you guys still planning to play?”
Da Shu froze. “Captain, what do you mean?”
Yin Sijue: “With gameplay like this, and no effort in reviewing, even if we make it to Worlds, the results won’t be good.”
He lifted his eyes, sweeping the group with an icy gaze.
“Our total points are already on the edge. With this performance, we probably won’t even qualify. Better to withdraw now and save ourselves the extra humiliation. What do you think?”
“Once you’ve decided, tell the coach. He’ll contact the organizers, and we’ll just withdraw.”
Everyone was stunned. Even Xu Shaoqiu hadn’t expected this. He tried desperately to signal Yin Sijue, but the latter paid no heed.
Da Shu stammered, “I-I was wrong, Captain! Of course we won’t withdraw. We’ll do the reviews properly.”
Yin Sijue turned his gaze to Wolf.
Wolf met his eyes for a few seconds, then buckled under the crushing pressure. “I’ll listen to the coach’s reviews.”
Xu Shaoqiu quickly jumped in to smooth things over.
“Hey hey, that’s enough. It’s the first time for this new lineup on stage; some adjustment is natural. Since we’re all here, let’s take a look at Game One—”
“Adjustment?” Yin Sijue leaned against the table, eyes lowered, giving Xu Shaoqiu no face at all.
“You’ve been practicing together for this long. If you’re still in an ‘adjustment period,’ then we might as well disband.”
Xu Shaoqiu: “?!”
After saying that, Yin Sijue turned back to Wolf and added coldly, “And you—if you ever ignore commands on stage again, go sit by the water dispenser.”
Wolf clenched his fists on instinct, wanting to lash out but too afraid to confront Yin Sijue. He forced down his anger: “The coach hasn’t even spoken yet—what right do you have to decide whether I stay or go?”
Yin Sijue leaned lazily against the table, posture casual yet radiating authority without even raising his voice:
“As the captain of AVG, I have the authority to make recommendations to the club regarding the lineup.”
Wolf stared at him in disbelief. “What right do you have to say that?”
He turned to the others, demanding, “Are you just going to let him do this? Can a captain really decide whether a player gets to play or not?”
No one answered. They only stared back at him in silence.
The truth was, Yin Sijue had never once used his captaincy to threaten anyone. But as AVG’s most valuable ace, management always took his opinions seriously—and everyone knew it.
Realizing this, Wolf finally understood. He lowered his head, gritting his teeth. “I’ll… follow your instructions.”
Xu Shaoqiu let out a weary sigh. “Alright, enough. Let’s stop wasting time and review the game.” He gave Yin Sijue a light nudge. “You should also talk less.”
…
By the time the long review ended, it was already late at night. Everyone except Yin Sijue had been criticized at length, with Wolf singled out for the most mistakes. Xu Shaoqiu hadn’t been particularly harsh, but the boy’s expression still darkened noticeably.
“Okay, that’s enough for today,” Xu Shaoqiu said dryly. “I’m heading to the tea room for some water. Auntie made you milk—make sure you go drink it later and get some rest.”
Yin Sijue replied, “I don’t want any. I just showered and don’t feel like drinking.”
Da Shu said flatly, “I’ll drink your share for you.”
Yin Sijue gave a noncommittal hum, turned off his phone, and went upstairs.
Back in his room, he remembered he still hadn’t replied to Ji Wei’s message. He opened the chat, slender fingers brushing across the screen as he stared at Ji Wei’s WeChat profile picture for a long moment.
Psyduck’s dazed little face reminded him of that lost child from the other night.
Yin Sijue’s lips curved as he began typing.
…
Meanwhile, at the second team’s base, Ban was secretly playing League of Legends while the captain was away at training.
When his Teemo died for the fifth time, a sudden violent cough erupted beside him.
He turned, only to see his teammate holding a cup in one hand and a phone in the other, frozen on a WeChat screen.
Ji Wei’s face was flushed red from choking, but he didn’t dare open his mouth for fear of spraying the keyboard. He looked like a puffed-up pufferfish, blotchy and discolored.
Ban: “…What’s wrong with you?”
Ji Wei struggled to catch his breath. “Cough, cough—it’s fine! I just didn’t notice I was drinking water.”
Ban: “Are you sleepy? It’s late. Stop grinding and go to bed.”
Ji Wei: “I’ll play one more Rongdu map and then sleep. I got delayed last night, so I need to make up for it.”
When Ban’s Teemo was killed for the seventh time, he gave up and went idle. “You haven’t been out for long, have you? Now I look lazy compared to you.”
Ji Wei almost said, You’re really not diligent to begin with, but held back and glanced at Ban’s computer.
“Everyone’s flaming you in public chat, and you still dare to AFK?”
Ban waved him off. “It’s fine. I’m in a good mood.”
Ji Wei: “…Actually, I wasn’t worried about your mood.”
Ban ignored him. “They just said my Teemo’s worse than an AFK. But see? After I’ve been idle for a while, they realize I’m not essential to winning or losing. My teammates even get a little extra gold!”
Ji Wei fell silent, deciding not to waste words on this heartless guy.
Turning back, his peripheral vision caught the WeChat screen on his phone—the same one that had nearly choked him earlier:
S: [Someone awesome invites you to duo queue tomorrow night. Wanna come?]
…
In Ji Wei’s mind, Yin Sijue had always been someone who didn’t joke.
Three years ago, he was a man of few words—except when alone. In games with others, he wouldn’t type a single unnecessary message unless he absolutely had to.
Even in private, Yin Sijue rarely joked. Instead, he often sprinkled two or three emojis into a sentence. His chat style was unmistakable; you didn’t even need to check the ID to know it was him.
But time changes people, and Ji Wei was no exception. Once, he had accidentally sent an emoji to his father, only to be scolded for disrespect. Since then, he had deleted every emoji from his social media.
After deactivating his old account, he never added any to his new one either—almost as if he’d grown used to not posting them at all.
Now, even as he sniped a group of enemies going for airdrops, Ji Wei ignored the loot and lay on a slope, lost in thought.
How should I reply?
He mulled it over, scrolling through his phone to download a bunch of emojis and saving them to WeChat.
Weiwei Dounan: [Great! (Cat-nodding gif)]
Just send emojis! Chatting without emojis is soulless!
But the screen suddenly went black and white. Just as Ji Wei was about to reply, someone sniped him with a scope.
Next to him, Ban had already closed his game and was heading to bed.
“Oh no! You died too? Let’s go back together.”
Ji Wei switched to the enemy’s perspective, memorized the spot where the opponent had sniped him, and then logged out.
…
Ban walked over and switched off the lights. “PUBG is still better. In League of Legends, you just die, revive, and get beaten again. How humiliating.”
“That’s only because you’re good at PUBG. If you knew how to play League, it’d be pretty fun too.”
Ban leaned toward Ji Wei and asked, “Can you play?”
Ji Wei: “I played a little before, but it’s been a while.”
Ban: “What rank? Carry me next time.”
Ji Wei thought of the man’s 0–8–2 Teemo and refused from the bottom of his heart. “I’m Diamond. There’s no way I could handle carrying you.”
“Haha. Good night—unless you don’t want to play with me.”
…
The next morning, Ji Wei was awakened by the ringing of his phone.
Because he had gone to bed late, he was still half-asleep when the call came through. He fumbled around before finally answering, eyes still closed.
“Hello…”
“No way, you’re still asleep?” The voice on the other end was shocked. “I’ve been at work for two hours already, and you’re just waking up?”
Recognizing Ji Lin’s voice made Ji Wei feel even drowsier. “I stayed up too late last night. What is it?”
“Didn’t you just sign with a club? Why are you still being so lazy?”
“Training starts at 2 p.m. What’s up? If it’s nothing urgent, I’m going back to sleep. I’m exhausted.”
The clacking of keyboards filtered through Ji Lin’s voice. “The company gave me a pair of gaming headphones, but I already have some. Since your birthday’s coming up, I thought I’d send them to you as a present. Give me your address.”
“Thanks. That’s really thoughtful.”
“…How did you turn into such a softie?”
“I’ll send you the address when I wake up. I’m hanging up.”
“Wait a sec!” Ji Lin stopped him. “You never replied to my last WeChat message. Which club are you with now?”
Thinking Ji Lin wasn’t much of a talker, Ji Wei answered simply, “AVG.”
“Huh?!” The other end practically exploded. “You—you’re crazy! Hasn’t that team been on the decline? Joining them now is like joining the Nationalist Army in 1949!”
That woke Ji Wei up fast. “What do you mean, ‘on the decline’? Top four is still impressive, okay?!”
Ji Lin explained, “No, I mean, with your skills you could’ve gone to UGC or NS. They had way better results than AVG last year. And if you’re not even going to be a starter in AVG, isn’t that a waste?”
“I’m just a retired streamer—how could I be a starter anywhere? And I don’t think AVG is bad at all. The people at the club are great to me. Don’t you dare say anything against them!”
“Alright, alright, fine. I won’t argue. You’re always so slippery. Just send me your address later. I’ve got a meeting with the product manager. 88.”
After hanging up, Ji Wei no longer felt sleepy at all. Looking worn out, he went to wash up.
When he stepped out of his room, his aunt was mopping the floor in the hallway. Startled, she asked, “Why are you up so early? Did I wake you?”
“No,” Ji Wei waved his hand. “I got woken up by the phone, so I figured I’d just head straight to practice.”
“Oh, don’t practice on an empty stomach, then. I’ll heat up breakfast for you. Wait here.”
…
After a hearty breakfast, Ji Wei noticed his aunt wasn’t in the kitchen, so he washed the dishes himself before returning to practice.
When he opened Steam, only one ID in his friend list was online.
It was Solve’s smurf.
Ji Wei froze. Why is Yin Sijue up so early?
For an esports player who trained until midnight, eleven o’clock was usually prime sleeping time.
Resting his chin in thought, Ji Wei wondered if Yin Sijue’s duo queue invitation from last night would be happening this morning.
Afraid he might regret hesitating, Ji Wei steeled himself and clicked the invite.
[ysjduckduck enters the room]
The moment he joined, the other person turned on his mic: “Why are you up so early?”
Ji Wei hurriedly adjusted his headset mic. “My brother called and woke me up this morning.”
Yin Sijue didn’t press further. “Can you play the desert map? Practice with me.”
How could Ji Wei refuse? “Sure.”
Then he asked, a bit hesitant: “Why are you up so early?”
A faint chuckle came through the mic. “I woke up at nine and started practicing at ten.”
Ji Wei: ?
Awe swelled in his chest.
Even the player with the highest K/D in the league trained so diligently—what excuse did he have for sleeping in?!
Because Yin Sijue always looked so relaxed in matches, no matter the situation, Ji Wei had assumed he was just super talented, the kind of player who could take first place by coasting.
But clearly, he had misunderstood. No one reaches the top without hard work.
Noticing Ji Wei had gone quiet, Yin Sijue asked, “What are you plotting against me now?”
“Uh, nothing,” Ji Wei said, a little embarrassed. “I just think… you work harder than I thought.”
“No need to call me you,” Yin Sijue corrected him. He added, “I go to bed early and usually nap at noon. My training time is actually about the same as everyone else’s—it’s just on a different schedule.”
So he really was a rare example of a young pro with a regular routine.
After loading into the game, Yin Sijue marked Lion City and said, “Playing professionally is more physically demanding than you think.”
Ji Wei nodded, then remembered Yin Sijue couldn’t see the gesture and said, “Yeah, but I still can’t get up early.”
Yin Sijue was right, though. Sitting at a computer all day wrecked a player’s back and neck. Those with weaker physical fitness were especially prone to injuries.
AVG’s Horse was only twenty-eight, yet he had more health issues than most men in their forties or fifties. His body simply couldn’t keep up with his reflexes anymore, forcing him into retirement.
Yin Sijue: “You don’t have to wake up early—just keep a regular sleep schedule. Does the second team’s base have a gym?”
Ji Wei: “Yeah, but… nobody goes there.”
Jerry and the others had once considered turning it into a video room, but Brother Qiu strictly forbade it.
“You can go there and hang out when you have time.”
“Okay.”
After just a few games, it was lunchtime.
“Unique, stop practicing and come down to eat!” Ban shouted from downstairs.
Ji Wei had just recovered from the finals and was taking screenshots of his PUBG match with Yin Sijue. He didn’t hear Ban’s call.
“Someone’s calling you to eat.”
“Huh?” Ji Wei was stunned. He pulled off his headphones, and sure enough, Ban’s voice came through.
“You can even hear that?” He was shocked. Was this guy the reincarnation of Calabash Brother’s Wind-Earing Ear?
The other person laughed. “The base microphone is good. I’m logging off too. We’ve got scrims this afternoon, so let’s queue tonight.”
In the dining room, their aunt had cooked fragrant beef noodles. Ji Wei had only just eaten breakfast and thought he wasn’t hungry, but the smell made his appetite stir.
He picked up his bowl and chopsticks under his aunt’s playful gaze, feeling a touch melancholic.
If I stay here too long, will I become a glutton?
Ban, already proving the point, stuffed two beef balls into his mouth the moment he sat down. His cheeks puffed up like a hamster’s, and he mumbled to his teammates:
“Do you know how pissed I am when I wake up and see Unique practicing on camera? Every winter and summer break, my cousin complains about his roommate secretly studying behind his back. Now I finally understand what it means to empathize!”
Ji Wei flushed. “…I just got woken up today. Normally I get up with you guys.”
Ban gave him a side-eye and continued, “The point is, he practiced until the latest last night—just like me! I was playing League of Legends, and he was still grinding. Thinking about it now, I feel so ashamed.”
Jerry nodded. “You should be ashamed. People better than you work harder than you.”
Dragon chimed in. “Hurry up and uninstall all the other games on your computer, or you’ll be in serious trouble if Brother Qiu finds out.”
Ban, fuming, stuffed another beef ball into his mouth and bit down hard.
Biu!—something launched.
Ji Wei stared helplessly as his white T-shirt was splattered with yellow oil.
Ban: “Ouch!!!”
Ji Wei quickly grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the stain, but it only spread. Sighing helplessly, he said:
“Why are you screaming louder than me?”
Ban: “Sorry, I didn’t know it would squirt! Hurry and take it off, I’ll wash it for you!”
Ji Wei: “It’s okay. I’ll wash it myself after dinner. I bought a special grease remover.”
Ban: “Okay, then I’ll kneel to you.” He bent his index and middle fingers and tapped them on the table.
Ji Wei smiled. “Stand up! Will you still accuse me of secretly training again?”
Ban: “Of course not!”
After lunch, it wasn’t training time yet, but everyone else, inspired by Ji Wei, hopped on their machines. Only Ji Wei went back to his room to change.
After washing his clothes and heading downstairs, he happened to pass by an unused gym.
Recalling what Yin Sijue had said that morning, Ji Wei stepped inside almost without thinking.
The room was bright, with three large windows. The treadmill’s control panel was covered in a thick layer of dust, untouched for who knew how long.
Ji Wei wiped it clean with a tissue and tried to start it. The belt jerked, then slowly began to move.
“Huh? It still works?” he said, a little surprised, and began walking.
It felt easy. Exercise wasn’t as hard as he had imagined—it was about the same as taking a stroll around the neighborhood.
“Isn’t it a little too slow…” Ji Wei muttered as he walked.
“I wonder if I’ll have time to come back in the next few days? Otherwise, I’ll just run a little more today.”
A one-time solution! He had eaten too much at lunch anyway. What a clever little guy!
With that thought, Ji Wei eagerly slammed the accelerator button, sending the treadmill straight to its highest speed.
After running at that pace for five minutes, he began to realize something was wrong.
The roaring hum of the belt made his knees feel weak. The flashing red numbers on the screen blurred before his eyes. His chest was tight, his heart pounding, and a wave of nausea hit him.
Then came the sharp pain beneath his ribs, stabbing like a knife.
Ji Wei sucked in a breath. His limited medical knowledge told him it was probably just a stitch.
He tried pressing the spot with his left hand, but in his panic, his right hand knocked the towel hanging nearby onto the belt.
Oh no! I have to stop it! Press the red button!
He reached out, but his elbow slammed into the emergency brake button at the wrong angle, and his foot slipped on the fallen towel.
In the next instant, he was flung like a ragdoll, crashing straight into the exercise bike with a metallic clang.
Amid the racket of colliding metal, Ji Wei’s only thought was: This is so embarrassing.