Chapter 36 – The Not-So-Familiar Blind Date
“It’s not that serious, is it?” Jiang Ranan, noticing something was off, tried to persuade him to let it go.
“It is that serious,” Tangyuan said, wrapping his arms around Jiang Ranan and Zhuang Bai. “The three of us should just take that old bast*rd out, then split the club evenly. What do you think?”
“You’ve got some imagination. Then what, play cards in prison?” Shao Zhan’s offhand comment mercilessly killed the plan.
“Almost forgot the old bast*rd has super hearing,” Tangyuan cursed silently in his heart.
Shao Zhan almost burst out laughing. “Try not to look so obviously pissed, or I’ll give you extra training tonight.”
Tangyuan scuffed his fat feet on the ground, puffed his cheeks, and stared up at the sky, eyes on nose, nose on heart.
LAP’s interview went by the book. Apart from a special thanks to the organizers for hosting the tournament, they didn’t say anything shocking—assuming you ignored the three weirdos beside them enthusiastically doing calisthenics.
Anyone who went through nine years of compulsory education would have a deep-seated hatred for those morning exercises. Probably only foreigners would be fascinated by such a mysterious art from an ancient land.
After finishing the interview with Yang Sa, the host clearly let out a sigh of relief. It was obvious that LAP, currently in the spotlight, had brought quite a bit of pressure to the organizers.
Following the script, the host asked Shao Zhan for his thoughts on the match and handed the mic to Xinhai’s team.
Shao Zhan thanked the Silver Emperor Club and acknowledged the strength of their opponents. Since it was a friendly match between teams, he kept it brief and passed the mic to a teammate.
Tangyuan, who suddenly found himself holding the mic, couldn’t believe his luck. He smoothed his hair and immediately teared up as he took the microphone.
As he turned around to wipe his tears, a light comment drifted from his team: “So dramatic.”
Tangyuan, in the middle of working up his emotions, was instantly cut off and couldn’t cry anymore. Instead, he formed a heart gesture toward the cheering fans, belly wobbling. “Honestly, it’s been a tough journey all these years. They’ve always disliked me—said I eat too much, take up too much space.”
He paused to dramatically wipe away a non-existent tear. “They say I never improve my skills, only grow my belly. But today, I’ve proven myself with strength alone. Anyone with a dream can be amazing. Let’s end weight discrimination—starting with me…”
Maybe fed up with the melodramatic act, Zhuang Bai leaned toward the mic. “I’ll keep working hard,” he said, then passed it to Jiang Ranan.
Suddenly handed the mic for no apparent reason, Jiang Ranan looked blankly at his teammates, then turned mechanically to the fans.
Whether it was the host’s questions, his teammates’ speeches, or even when he held the mic himself, Shao Zhan’s attention remained fixed in the same direction.
From beginning to end, a certain young man stood coldly in a corner of the stage, his whole demeanor exuding aloof detachment. What surprised Shao Zhan was the barely perceptible tension radiating from the LAP team members.
While they had put on the most exaggerated performance possible when it was their turn to speak for their own team, those same people stood as quiet as mice on the other side of the stage while the Xinghai team was speaking.
But if they were keeping a low profile, acting polite and indifferent to everything around them—
why were their shoulders subtly tensed?
Could it be disappointment over losing the match?
That didn’t quite make sense. It wasn’t a major tournament, and they weren’t from a top-tier team.
The only explanation was: for LAP, the “battle” wasn’t over yet.
Under the spotlight, Shao Zhan lowered his gaze, masking the glint in his eyes and quietly hiding his thoughts.
To build publicity, the entire match had been livestreamed—including the post-match interviews.
Even though Silver Emperor’s team had declined and the club itself was on the verge of collapse, the official livestream gained unexpected popularity thanks to the intense competition and the star players of Xinghai.
As per usual practice, there was to be a celebration banquet after the match. Although fewer teams had attended this time, the formalities still had to be followed.
Team captains from Weiguang, Jie Ao, and a few other clubs showed up in person—partly to show support for their brother club, but also, admittedly, to observe Xinghai’s evolving strategies.
Just as the interview was drawing to a close, a discordant note shattered the calm.
The stadium doors were suddenly flung open, and five or six middle-aged men stormed in, dragging banners and shouting angrily. They accused the Silver Emperor Club of illegally firing employees and withholding pay. The black-and-white banners declared the team’s boss, Xiao Jiangtao, a “deadbeat.”
Silver Emperor staff on-site immediately stepped in to negotiate—it was clear they recognized the men who had barged in.
The commotion escalated as the intruders refused to be mediated, demanding an explanation. The leader wore a strip of white cloth tied around his forehead, with two glaring red characters scrawled in shaky handwriting: “Unpaid Wages.”
Security, acting on orders, moved in to contain the disruption. The scuffle grew as people got mixed together and tensions rose rapidly.
The livestream cameras set up around the venue quickly cut to a replay of the earlier match as soon as the disturbance began.
But from the seating area, hundreds—possibly thousands—of audience members raised their phones, recording everything.
Now, even people outside of the esports scene knew about it.
The tournament organized by Silver Emperor didn’t go viral because of the gameplay—but because of this incident, it had shot straight to the trending charts.
Soon after, a mid-level executive from Silver Emperor arrived at the scene.
He ordered the official livestream to be resumed and personally addressed both the former employees on-site and the livestream audience, promising that the truth would be investigated and that both the staff and the public would be given an explanation.
“The truth? The truth is that you illegally fired employees, withheld wages, and evaded taxes…”
Following the principle of “divert rather than block,” the Silver Emperor staff reopened the official livestream, never expecting the other side to be so aggressive.
Not only did they refuse to back down—they started dropping bombshells one after another.
Silver Emperor had assumed these guys just wanted money. It wasn’t their first time dealing with this sort of thing. The team had its own legal department—just pull up the contracts and see if any rules were broken.
What the ex-employees thought was reasonable didn’t matter. What mattered were the terms signed at the time.
If there were no violations, sue them for defamation. Give them a little hush money—if anything, they’d be the ones getting prosecuted for fraud.
If there were issues, just pay them off. A bit more money to shut them up—problem solved.
Now that the incident had already gone public, they might as well take advantage of the buzz to paint the club as generous and down-to-earth. Wouldn’t cost much, they figured.
What they didn’t count on was that these men wouldn’t budge.
Tax evasion wasn’t something you could just wave off with empty words.
One of the managers stepped in to play the bad cop, sternly warning them not to talk nonsense.
But the ex-employees were ready. One of them threw printed evidence right in his face.
The senior executive clenched his back teeth, trying to stay composed. Finally, he waved for others to handle the situation and take the men away.
Amid the shouting, papers flew everywhere—colorful documents scattering like hail…
After the “uninvited guests” were escorted out, the host pulled off an impressive display of crisis management, quickly wrapping up the remaining segments and bringing this very unusual post-match awards ceremony to an end.
Originally, the organizers had planned to host a dinner for the attending teams after the invitational match.
But after the chaos, everyone tacitly began packing up their things, ready to leave.
Surprisingly, Silver Emperor’s boss emerged quickly from backstage, hurrying over to invite those preparing to leave to the hotel they’d booked for the gathering.
After sending off the last player, Xiao Jiangtao, the owner of the Silver Emperor team—who had hoped to use the tournament to generate some buzz—stood alone in the now-empty venue and closed his eyes.
“This time… it’s over.”
The banquet was buffet-style, and they had even invited a trending idol group to liven things up.
But after the chaos of the event, no one was really in the mood to celebrate.
Qin Chuan had an upset stomach, so he greeted everyone briefly and headed back to the team early.
Tangyuan, who had previously planned to livestream the dinner just to extend the stream time, slinked off to Weibo to post an apology.
Live-streaming under these circumstances—after what Silver Emperor pulled—would’ve been totally inappropriate.
That said, to be fair, while the tournament was a mess… the food was actually pretty good.
Tangyuan grabbed a pair of tongs and started eating as he filled his plate.
Just as he was enjoying himself, a cool voice came from behind:
“You seriously don’t know how much you weigh? Keep eating like that and you won’t fit in a single esports chair.”
Tangyuan awkwardly put the half-rack of lamb ribs back into the pot, muttering defiantly under his breath:
“If none fit, I can get one custom-made. That’s a chair problem, not my problem.”
He peeked at the person behind him and, taking advantage of Shao Zhan being distracted, snatched two lamb ribs and scurried off like a guilty raccoon.
While hiding behind the chocolate fountain and gnawing on a rib, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Tangyuan turned around with his cheeks stuffed, only to see Jiang Ranan holding up his phone.
“Where’d Shao Zhan go?” he asked. “Coach tried calling him, but his phone’s off.”
Tangyuan flipped his hair and naturally took the call, lowering his voice into something overly serious:
“Hello, Lao Du? This is Tang Yuanyuan, acting captain of Xinghai Team One. Our former captain is currently MIA. If there’s anything, you can speak with me…”
He hadn’t finished playing the part when he held up his greasy finger and said, “He hung up.”
Then added with mock sadness, “Our teammates… so coldhearted.”
“Cut it out,” Jiang Ranan pulled the phone back, ignoring his antics. “Where is the captain?”
“He was just here a moment ago,” Tangyuan replied, scratching his head as he headed toward the meat station with his empty plate. “Who knows which poor soul the old beast’s off terrorizing now.”
…
A barely audible cough gave away Shao Zhan’s location. Somewhat awkwardly, he picked up the pale blue cocktail in front of him. His gaze dropped slightly, masking the momentary fluster in his eyes.
Yang Sa lifted his eyes and looked at their reflections in the glass. Between him and Shao Zhan stood a water-blue tower of champagne glasses—just for a moment, he felt frozen in place.
There weren’t many people at the drinks station. Before Yang Sa could collect himself, the quiet area was already down to just the two of them.
He instinctively wanted to turn away, but the way the other approached—so open, so direct—made it impossible to ignore.
Shao Zhan stopped at an arm’s length, just outside the edge of the patterned carpet—a respectful distance, carefully calculated to avoid creating pressure. He raised his glass slightly.
“LAP is strong,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, the tone light—as if smiling. “Very… colorful, too.”
In the reflection, the man who kept a gentlemanly distance was staring at him steadily. Yang Sa sighed inwardly, then turned around, maintaining a polite smile and a distant tone: “Xinghai’s first place—well deserved.”
Shao Zhan stepped forward just slightly. He had so many questions he wanted to ask—
Why did you leave back then?
Where did you go?
What did you go through?
Were you hurt?
Were you bullied?
Did you ever… think about me?
Countless questions swirled in his chest, but what came out was: “Do you like lemons?”
There wasn’t much to talk about in the drinks section, and unfortunately, the only thing left on the platter were lemon slices meant for garnish.
The other tilted his head thoughtfully, then replied earnestly: “They’re… okay.”
The moment looked exactly like two awkward blind date partners, forced to make conversation by overenthusiastic parents.
If this were being livestreamed, viewers would probably be curling their toes from secondhand embarrassment.
Shao Zhan put the lemon slice down. Clearly, it wasn’t a great conversation starter. “Do you like Chinese food?” he asked instead. “I noticed your friend—”
He turned slightly and spotted Tangyuan and Xiao White fighting over the last lamb chop. Casually, he turned back, “—seems to be really into it.”
Yang Sa’s gaze fell on the lemon slices on the porcelain plate. The shadow of his eyelashes cast a faint darkness beneath his eyes. “White grew up in South Africa. He’s very into food.”
A moment passed in silence. Yang Sa turned to leave—only to find his path blocked by someone casually standing just outside the carpeted area.
From a distance, all one could see were two tall, slender figures, standing closely together in the corner.
Strangely, the whole scene felt… vaguely intimate in a way he couldn’t explain.