Chapter 14 – Winning While Lying Down Is Losing
“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?”