Chapter 59 – A Boy’s Kiss
Caught completely off guard, Shao Zhan let out a laugh in his anger. He was a seasoned veteran on the esports battlefield, as well as the head of the club—he had dealt with countless crises. But this… this was something he never could have predicted.
What was this? A group ambush? Had these people suddenly remembered to take revenge after more than twenty years of his life?
He couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of their logic. Steadying himself, he focused in the darkness. A lean, familiar figure emerged from the shadows.
“You?” Shao Zhan heard his own voice rise uncontrollably at the end. Casually, he removed his disguise.
Yang Sa seemed to realize just then that he still had a cigarette in hand. He dropped it to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his shoe, withdrawing the hand that had, just moments ago, been hooked around Shao Zhan’s arm.
“What, trying to ambush me?” Shao Zhan was the first to speak again, teasing, “Planning to take advantage of my injury to wipe out Xinghai’s core lineup?”
Yang Sa felt a sharp headache building. That feeling—it was getting closer. He was on the verge of realizing why he was acting so out of character… but instinctively, he refused to accept the truth rushing toward him.
“No,” he answered. His voice was as cold as iron pulled from ice.
“You’ve been drinking?” Shao Zhan caught a faint trace of alcohol beneath the scent of smoke.
Yang Sa nodded, then realizing the other might not see in the dark, added: “I’m nineteen.”
Shao Zhan had only been making small talk, trying to avoid an awkward silence. He hadn’t expected this foreign-raised kid to take it as an age check. He’d never been in a conversation this wildly off-track before. Rubbing his temple with one hand, he sighed: “Who were you drinking with?”
“No one. Just me,” Yang Sa replied. Though he didn’t know why he was answering at all. Just like he didn’t understand what had possessed him to pull the other boy into the shadows in the first place. He couldn’t explain his own erratic behavior—didn’t know what he planned to do after bringing him here.
Or maybe, deep down, he did know. He just didn’t want to admit it.
Before Shao Zhan could respond, the boy stepped forward, tilted his head slightly, and like a young deer following its faith, pressed a kiss to Shao Zhan’s lips—a kiss tinged with cigarette smoke and the faint bitterness of alcohol.
A kiss as light as a dragonfly skimming water, and just as brief.
Yang Sa stepped back, a faint, self-mocking smile tugging at his lips. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Even I think it’s ridiculous.”
A storm of emotion surged in Shao Zhan’s chest. But before it could spill over, he reined it in and responded with casual ease: “How could it be? There are tens of millions of fans on Weibo who claim they love me. Some even say they want to plant me in the ground and grow countless copies—one for each of them. Isn’t that ridiculous too?”
Yang Sa couldn’t help but nod. Yes. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
Compared to those people, he thought, maybe he was the normal one.
Rubbing the corner of his lips with his thumb, as if trying to savor the moment but unable to recall the exact feeling, Shao Zhan raised an eyebrow with a touch of roguish charm.
“But kissing me just like that? You’re not getting off so easily—even if you’re LAP’s captain.”
Yang Sa’s fleeting panic didn’t escape Shao Zhan’s notice. Stepping forward, he tapped his own lips.
“Do I look like someone you can just kiss without consequences?”
Knowing he was in the wrong, Yang Sa mumbled an apology, “What do you want me to do to make up for it?”
“Obviously… kiss me back,” Shao Zhan replied, watching Yang Sa’s shifting expressions with amusement. He leaned in slightly, sniffed near the boy’s face, and was quite pleased to see the tense jawline in response. Pulling back, he added, “But not now.”
“Then when?” Yang Sa asked, and there was something in his voice—something he himself hadn’t noticed… anticipation.
“When I decide,” Shao Zhan replied, locking eyes with him. “From now on, you’d better stay ready.”
But despite Shao Zhan’s playful teasing, it didn’t seem to ease the tension in Yang Sa’s chest. “Even if I can’t say everything, if there’s something you want to know… ask me. Anything.”
He paused, then added, “Just for tonight.”
His arm in a cast, Shao Zhan kept his good hand folded across his chest, thinking for a couple seconds before asking: “What snacks did you have with the booze?”
Yang Sa blinked, stunned for a moment. It took him a while to realize Shao Zhan was continuing their earlier conversation.
“Didn’t have any,” he answered honestly.
Yang Sa was about 1.8 meters tall, but standing there in the shadows, he looked almost impossibly thin.
Shao Zhan walked a few meters ahead, then turned and motioned for him to follow.
“Where are we going?” Yang Sa didn’t move, keeping a slight distance between them. Somehow, the space helped him think more clearly.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I am,” Shao Zhan replied, “I haven’t eaten.” He lifted his bandaged arm slightly, as if to say, I need the nourishment.
Seeing the other boy still hesitating, he teased, “Didn’t you say I could ask anything tonight? What, that doesn’t count now?”
The moon was hidden behind drifting clouds, but it couldn’t obscure the quiet emotion in his voice. “It’s not even midnight yet.”
“What do you want to eat?” Yang Sa eventually caught up, asking softly—just before walking straight into Shao Zhan’s back.
Shao Zhan didn’t seem to notice the awkward moment. With a casual tilt of his head, he nodded toward the nearby shop.
“Hotpot.”
They chose a “yuan yang” pot—half spicy red oil, half mushroom broth. With Shao Zhan’s right arm in a cast, Yang Sa was ready to help him eat, only to find the guy expertly using chopsticks with his left hand.
Yang Sa had ordered extra mushroom slices several times, only to discover they’d piled into a little mountain on his plate. “You…” he began, looking helpless.
Catching the cue, Shao Zhan cheerfully rotated his wrist. “Don’t worry about me. You eat more.”
Then, without waiting for a response, he started talking about a time when he’d first joined the base—got into a fight, pulled a muscle, couldn’t move his right hand, and ended up training his left hand until it became even more nimble with chopsticks than his right.
Yang Sa sipped his roasted barley tea and thought to himself, ‘I didn’t even ask you, though.’
But seeing the sparkle in Shao Zhan’s eyes, clearly waiting for a response, he didn’t have the heart to brush him off. He swirled his cup gently, sending ripples through the tea.
“Of course,” Shao Zhan replied, as if Yang Sa’s question had lifted some imaginary restriction. He leaned back against the chair and waved the serving chopsticks theatrically.
“Nobody’s born a grizzled old beast, y’know. Back in the day, I had my share of youthful glory too…”
Yang Sa held it in, then couldn’t help but laugh.
It was hard to imagine someone blending shamelessness and that easy, streetwise charm so seamlessly.
During the meal, Shao Zhan talked a lot—about his life after becoming a pro gamer, and plenty of behind-the-scenes dirt on his teammates.
Those moments from the past, the ones Yang Sa hadn’t been a part of, slowly unfolded before him, mingling with the rising steam of the hotpot and Shao Zhan’s easy laughter.
All those years he’d missed…
Before he knew it, Yang Sa had nearly cleaned his plate of mushrooms and fish slices.
After dinner, the two of them walked back to the base to digest.
To avoid waking old Uncle Zhou, Shao Zhan led him in through the side entrance. On the third floor hallway, they exchanged goodnights before Shao Zhan turned into his room.
No expected reply came. Back in his bedroom, Shao Zhan felt a flash of frustration.
He’d thought he’d done pretty well at dinner—serving food, keeping the mood lively—yet not even a single “goodnight” in return?
He brooded, “Teenage hearts are like needles at the bottom of the sea.”
Why did it feel like he could never quite warm him up?
With that thought, he had half a mind to knock down the wall to his right—and the rooms between them. By his calculations, separating them were Tangyuan, Jiang Ranan, and one foreign teammate.
As far as Team Xinghai went, Tangyuan didn’t matter much either way. Without Jiang Ranan, things would be a bit more complicated—but manageable. He was confident he could lead the team back to glory with just Zhuang Bo.
The only issue was… would Yang Sa mind losing a foreign friend? Would he throw a fit over it?
Just as he was mentally negotiating the terms of international diplomacy, there came a light knock at the door.
Usually, when Tangyuan ordered too much for his midnight snack, he’d wake Shao Zhan to help split the cost.
Normally, Shao Zhan ignored him—but tonight, he felt like he needed a little something to shake off the mood.
(Supporting character Tangyuan: “Crack open my skull and let me say this—I THANK you. I really do!”)
But to his surprise, when he opened the door, it wasn’t Tangyuan standing there.
It was Yang Sa, freshly showered, with a soft strand of hair still clinging to a droplet of water that hadn’t yet fallen.
Shao Zhan resisted the urge to reach out and ruffle it.
“Something up…?” he started to ask—
—but before he could finish, Yang Sa brushed past him, sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off his slippers, and silently crawled under the covers.
The half-sentence Shao Zhan had been forming died in his throat. “…Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?” he thought, stunned.
For the first time in his life, Shao Zhan stood at his own door, frozen with indecision, unsure whether to leave it open or shut it. After hesitating for a while, he left it slightly ajar and stepped inside. He tried to steady his breathing, not wanting to seem too flustered.
Like a schoolboy standing in punishment, he stood rigidly by the bed, his voice trembling despite himself: “What… are you doing?”
Yang Sa turned his head away, still silent.
But did he really need an answer?
Seeing that the boy on the bed had no intention of replying, Shao Zhan didn’t press him. He forced himself to calm down in the span of a few deep breaths, then took a blanket from the bedside cabinet and draped it over his shoulders. Just as he turned to leave, a hand reached out from the dark and grabbed his wrist again.
Shao Zhan gently grasped that cool, slightly trembling hand and tucked it back under the blanket. To the figure shifting in the shadows, he said softly: “I’ve still got a few plans to discuss with Coach Du. It’s late—go to sleep. Be good…”
And with that, he bolted from the room as if hellhounds were at his heels.
Back in the room, the air felt as though it had lost all warmth. Yang Sa curled into a small ball by the edge of the bed, and tears fell from his eyes before he could stop them.
“Why?”
He kept asking himself over and over.
Why had he done that? Was this some kind of offering?
Was acting on impulse while drunk his idea of bravery?
When it came to this person—his feelings, his attachment—he could never seem to make sense of them.
He had grown up with calculation, abandonment, and ridicule. But never trust. Never unconditional acceptance.
Clutching the fabric at his chest, Yang Sa let himself sink into the vast, suffocating darkness of memory.
Meanwhile, halfway to the training room, Shao Zhan suddenly stopped. He looked at his reflection in the glass door and flexed the arm in its plaster cast.
‘What am I even doing like this?’ he thought.
So instead, he wandered the hallway aimlessly. With his injury, even a cold shower was out of the question.
He thought of the little brat who’d taken over his room and felt a sharp itch in his teeth—like he could just bite something.
That restless energy eventually landed him on the dusty treadmill tucked into the corner of the hallway. He set it to a slow “health walk” pace, trying to burn off whatever had coiled inside him.
Not content with the silence, the young master began tapping at the screen, picking out music to go with his late-night stroll. The soft beeps of the touchscreen echoed down the dim corridor.
Qin Chuan—sensitive as ever—emerged like a ghost in his powder-blue bear pajamas, complete with matching nightcap. He flopped over the treadmill handrail, groaning: “What kind of psycho works out in the middle of the night? Some of us are trying to sleep, you know…”
Half-asleep and grumbling, he suddenly stopped mid-rant. His eyes flew open wide, almost bulging like brass bells. “Wait—you’ve got someone in your room?!”
A second later, he was wailing like the end of the world was nigh. Clutching his head and stomping around in circles, he shouted: “You beast! Please, I beg you, just be a decent human being! You look like this right now—how am I supposed to find a replacement if you scare him off too?!”
“Didn’t I tell you to prepare for the selection rounds?” Shao Zhan said dryly.
Now that someone was around to distract him, he even shut off the treadmill’s wellness mode. Then, like a boneless pancake, he draped himself dramatically over the handrails, looking down with smug satisfaction at their usually aloof team manager having a complete meltdown.
“Even if we do pick someone,” Qin Chuan said, for once setting aside his usual arrogance, “can they really compare to Yang Sa?”
He sniffled slightly, voice lowering. “I’ve been thinking… if someone from LAP is willing to stay here, we might still have a shot at this. And besides,” he added, sniffling again, “let’s be real—you got hurt for him. Helping our team out in a couple matches is the least he can do…”
Shao Zhan’s casual demeanor dropped instantly. He cut in coldly, “There’s no such thing as ‘should’ in this.”
He instructed Qin Chuan to tell everyone on the team—no one was to mention his injury in front of any LAP members, and especially not say who he got hurt for.
“Yeah, yeah…” Qin Chuan drawled the words out, “You’ve already reminded us like eight hundred times. I’m only saying it now because there’s no one else around. You really treat him like he’s some precious treasure.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Shao Zhan replied, flattening the sleeping cap on Qin Chuan’s head. From the light, it made him look like a deflated jellyfish.
“If it were you, Tangyuan, Jiang Ranan, Lao Du, or Zhuang Bai in danger—I’d have done the same thing. I’d be the first one rushing in.”
“Sure, sure, blow that trumpet louder why don’t you,” Qin Chuan grumbled, grabbing his cap back. But he didn’t argue the point further. He knew Shao Zhan wasn’t just saying that. From the moment Shao had become captain of Xinghai, he’d carried the whole team on his shoulders.
That was exactly why they all hurt when he got injured. And they knew what that injury meant for the team.
But what’s done is done. No use dwelling on it—what they needed to do now was focus on damage control and prepare for what was coming.
Qin Chuan stuffed down the heaviness in his chest, yawned, and waved off the human pancake draped over the treadmill. He had to rest—there was still a mountain of things waiting for him tomorrow.
Right before heading back to his room, he glanced down the hallway at Shao Zhan’s lonely figure, slouched and silent in the dim light.
A quiet sigh stirred in his chest.
This… this was probably the saddest part of being an adult.
The kind of pain you couldn’t share with anyone. The kind of sorrow you couldn’t say aloud.
The kind you could only drink alone in the dead of night.
What neither of them noticed was that while they were talking, the door to Shao Zhan’s room—just around the corner—had cracked open a sliver… and then slowly, quietly, closed again.
As if a mischievous breeze had just passed through the cool night.
…
Unable to fall asleep anyway, Shao Zhan ended up heading to the front gate to check on Uncle Zhou. Ever since the team’s beloved pug had been hospitalized, Uncle Zhou hadn’t been able to sleep through a single night. And now, with another person added to the list of the injured, his worries only deepened.
The two of them still didn’t exchange any words. But as dawn began to break, Shao Zhan simply laid down on the simple cot inside the security booth, still fully dressed, and dozed off.
Early in the morning, he stepped through the dew-soaked grass to buy breakfast for the kids back at the base. At 9:15, he returned quietly, carrying Yang Sa’s portion in hand, and tiptoed into the room—only to find, unsurprisingly, that the boy wasn’t asleep.
Yang Sa sat in the shadow by the window, his expression obscured. The hair on his head was soft and unruly, puffed out like a dandelion.
Shao Zhan couldn’t resist. Just like he’d done with Qin Chuan’s head last night, he reached out and ruffled Yang Sa’s hair twice. The fine strands tickled against his palm, leaving a faintly itchy sensation.
He set down the breakfast and reminded him gently to eat it while it was still warm. Just as Shao Zhan was about to leave, the hem of his uniform was tugged lightly.
He looked down at the pale, slender fingers gripping the dark red fabric of his team jacket. His lips curved unconsciously into a soft smile.
“You… you’re not going to touch me?” The voice that came from the room was faint and uncertain.
Shao Zhan turned around and pulled the boy tightly into his arms, cursing the fact that he only had one functioning hand. He gently stroked Yang Sa’s back. His voice was calm, but his heart ached.
What kind of foster experience must he have gone through to develop this habit of bartering affection like a transaction?
Why was even a small gesture of kindness so disorienting to him?
Maybe Shao Zhan had already sensed it deep down—perhaps, in Yang Sa’s heart, he wasn’t just another person. That would explain this kind of response.
Only, that kid probably didn’t even realize it himself.
Shao Zhan figured it was time to investigate Yang Sa’s life overseas. He hadn’t had a clear goal before, but now that the person was here beside him, looking into his past wouldn’t be too difficult.
Once Yang Sa had calmed down, Shao Zhan crouched in front of him, looking up at the boy’s damp, delicate profile. “If you trust me, you can leave everything to me.”
His fingers gently brushed the inside of Yang Sa’s slender wrist. “Right now, don’t think about anything else. Just eat your breakfast.”
What Yang Sa needed now was time—time to let his walls begin to shake and crumble. Walls he had built just to survive in a cruel world.
He ate without tasting, nibbling on the red bean pumpkin cakes and yam rice cakes. Every now and then, he would glance at the man sitting at the edge of his bed.
No matter how seasoned a veteran someone was, it was still difficult to keep calm in front of the person they cared about. Before he could further crease the folds on his pants with his own fidgeting, Shao Zhan stood up.
“Uh, I’m going to find Little Qin to confirm this week’s schedule,” he said, half-fleeing the intensity of the moment.
Yang Sa set down the half-eaten steamed dumpling, lowered his gaze, and hid all traces of emotion. But just before Shao Zhan stepped out, he spoke up again, a question catching at his heels: “What if I wanted Xinghai?”
He hesitated, then added more urgently, “What if… what I wanted… was to destroy Xinghai?”
Shao Zhan’s motion of pushing open the door didn’t change—it was only slightly delayed. Then, as usual, he said, “I need a bit of time to think.”
Just before closing the door behind him, he added to the one who had asked the question,“You need some time too.”
The footsteps in the hallway faded into the distance.
Yang Sa burst out laughing at the steamed dumpling in his hand—laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face. He shoved the tear-soaked shrimp dumpling into his mouth. Inside, he felt hollow. A cold, bitter voice echoed in his mind, full of scorn:
“See? No one cares about you. No one would ever choose you…” His stepbrother’s annoying face came alive from the depths of his memory. From the very first encounter, that boy had spared no effort mocking his Asian features.
“No one will ever choose you except me. Only I would ever choose someone like you, you unwanted piece of tr*sh…”
Yang Sa gasped and clutched his chest. The keycard in his pajama pocket was cold and hard—he gripped it tightly, his face filled with sadness and helplessness.
“See? No one would adopt you. Except me, no one would ever want you…” Clemens’s voice, changing with age over time, rang out from every corner of his memories.
“No one will choose me, no one will choose me…” Yang Sa repeated over and over, the keycard digging deep marks into his palm.
“It’s always been like this. No one’s ever chosen me…”
…
At Qin Chuan’s door, Shao Zhan gave a half-hearted knock. When there was no response, he didn’t press the matter and turned back.
From a distance, he saw a group of players and LAP friends gathered in the lounge eating breakfast. Xiao Heihei was sharing a bag of kimchi-flavored chips from the snack cabinet.
Just then, a chime rang out in the hall: [Payment received: 7.5 yuan.]
Jiang Ranan, who had been looking up vocabulary on his phone and explaining the history of Chinese cuisine to their foreign guests, suddenly swung his fist and pounced on Fat Tangyuan.
Yang Sa had just stepped out of his room when he walked straight into the chaos. Noticing no one had seen him, he quietly retreated back inside. Xiao Blue and Xiao Black instinctively moved to help the one being hit, but Zhuang Bai stopped them, motioning for calm.
Jiang Ranan was gripping one of Fat Tangyuan’s big ears with one hand and pointing to the chips and the vending machine with the other, speaking to the foreign players: “You scanned the code, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!”
“I scanned it last night too. What’s the problem?” MAX, with a huge bruise on his face, pulled out a small bag of tightly wrapped fries from his pajama pocket. He even paid a night service fee.
“That’s not the team’s code. That QR code belongs to this pighead—he stuck his own personal payment code on there,” Jiang Ranan snapped. “He usually sc*ms the new trainees. He’s been called out so many times but never learns.”
“Heaven knows I was just playing a friendly little prank! A little prank!” Fat Tangyuan, wincing in pain, slapped the table with his chubby hand, trying to defend himself. “Me, Fatty? There’s not a single bad bone in my whole body!”
“Nonsense. Every pore on your body reeks of a capitalist’s filthy mindset,” Jiang Ranan mercilessly exposed him.
“Hurry up and return the money. Now.”
Still unwilling to give up, Fat Tangyuan tried to seek help from the passing Shao Zhan: “Captain, Captain… save your precious Tangyuan…”
Shao Zhan completely ignored him. His gaze drifted to the other two team members. “If you don’t beat this guy half to death today, you can forget about this month’s bonus.”
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Jiang Ranan promised with a swing of his fist. “If I don’t beat him until he spawns a shadow clone, I’ll take this mangy mutt’s last name.”
“No unity, no love,” Fat Tangyuan wailed dramatically. “Why did I get stuck with such a heartless bunch like you…”
The result of the “brute-force mediation” was that Fat Tangyuan not only refunded all payments and his inflated prices, but each victim also received eight bags of chips as compensation.
“This is unreasonable, unreasonable, unreasonable!” Fat Tangyuan protested indignantly. “Those chips were free team supplies—why should I pay for them?”
“You’ve got some nerve,” even the usually composed Zhuang Bai couldn’t hold back.
“That was a perk the captain gave us because training’s been tough. And you’ve got the gall to bring it up? There was supposed to be one vending machine per floor, but this lunatic snuck them all upstairs when no one was looking.”
“Every time we moved them back, you’d move them up again,” Jiang Ranan accused, clearly still mad. “Didn’t your arms get tired?”
Fat Tangyuan pushed the people off him and snatched his ear back, as if someone had just recounted his heroic deeds.
“Every pound of fat on your Lord Tangyuan’s body was earned with pride!”
He huffed and pinched the rolls on his waist, then brushed his empty food box to the side of the table.
“Appetizers are done. Let’s go have breakfast.”
The few foreign guests sat frozen in fear, their chips falling all over the table.
“Are you a pig?” everyone around said in perfect unison.
…
All matters regarding the “incident” were being handled by Qin Chuan. Over at Silver Emperor Club, they were already aware that the injured party was Shao Zhan.
Since Xinghai hadn’t made any public statements, they didn’t dare make any sudden moves either. They weren’t sure whether the troublemakers had revealed anything to the other side.
So, on the surface, Silver Emperor’s team was playing dead. But in reality, the managers involved were like ants on a hot pan.
Hiring someone to intentionally harm an active professional esports player—regardless of Silver Emperor’s original target—was enough for the association to issue a formal investigation.
However, since Silver Emperor hadn’t qualified for the Asia Cup to begin with, the punishment wouldn’t be too severe.
So, Shao Zhan’s original goal was never focused on just this matter. He had arranged to meet a few old classmates who were now journalists, planning to gauge the current atmosphere around the Silver Emperor team.
On his way out, he ran into Uncle Zhou, who was on his way to pick up the team’s beloved pet, the myna bird, from the vet. Since it was still early, Shao Zhan decided to go with him to the pet hospital to pick up their “chicken son.”
After a few days apart, the myna bird was in surprisingly good spirits. Other than a splint on its wing and a shiny steel ring now fastened around its neck, it looked quite proud and spirited. Upon spotting Shao Zhan’s arm in a sling and cast, it pecked at his wrist in a show of mutual sympathy, as if recognizing him as a fellow “patient.”
The bird instinctively tried to snuggle into Uncle Zhou’s arms, showing clear displeasure at being taken out due to its injury. But in the end, it sat contentedly in a dark green portable pet carrier adorned with a bow, happily accompanying them on the trip back.
Shao Zhan helped Uncle Zhou and the bird into a cab and was about to head to his appointment when he got a call from Du Changcheng. He hailed another taxi and returned to the base shortly after Uncle Zhou.
Back in familiar territory, the myna was even more energetic, waddling around in a swaggering figure-eight gait. Fat Tangyuan, along with LAP’s elite trio—Black, White, and Blue—had even prepared streamers and poppers to welcome the bird’s return. The myna, in turn, darted around in excitement, with Uncle Zhou chasing after it anxiously.
Shao Zhan didn’t have time to join their antics and went straight to the third-floor training room. There, Du Changcheng was pointing at a news article on screen—Silver Emperor’s alleged tax evasion—and asked if Shao Zhan was behind it.
Shao Zhan shook his head. He hadn’t leaked any information yet and hadn’t intended to go that far. Qin Chuan, who was practically acting like a gatekeeper at the door, looked skeptical.
“If you do things like this,” he said with a helpless expression, “it puts us in a difficult position.”
Shao Zhan didn’t bother to defend himself and instead asked how the transfer talks with the Silver Emperor players were going.
One particularly smug classmate answered with pride: “With Qin Chuan handling it, everything runs smooth.”
The Asia Cup was approaching, and even brother teams needed fresh blood. Besides, a few promising players on the Silver Emperor team had been held back for too long. Taking this opportunity to transfer out wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Still, he couldn’t quite understand why Shao Zhan would go through all this trouble. Logically speaking, with other teams struggling for talent and falling behind, it was the perfect chance for Xinghai to rise to dominance.
But he knew Shao Zhan had a longer-term vision.
For esports to truly thrive, it couldn’t rely on exploiting the bottom line. Only when every team competes diligently and puts on solid matches can they properly repay the audience and sponsors. That’s the only way Chinese esports can step onto the global stage—and do so steadily and lastingly.
“Since things have come to this,” Qin Chuan brought up a practical concern, “do you want to reveal your injury to the public too?”
His suggestion was to strike Silver Emperor while the iron was hot and deliver a decisive blow. After all, they had hired someone to injure a professional player—especially one who was the pillar of Xinghai.
Qin Chuan’s anger had long been simmering; if it weren’t for the need to gather solid evidence and make the hit count, he’d have already grabbed a weapon and marched his whole squad to the Silver Emperor base to demand justice.
“Hold on a second—where’s Yang Sa?” Shao Zhan asked.
The team manager, Qin Chuan, wore the expression of a palace empress who had just caught the emperor doting on his favorite concubine. Rubbing his gums, he replied, “Where else would he be? Naturally in Your Majesty’s study, of course.”
Shao Zhan exchanged a glance with Du Changcheng and started walking out. As he passed Qin Chuan, he sneered, “If you’ve got nothing better to do, stop eavesdropping behind walls.”
Qin Chuan instantly flew into a rage. Hands on his hips, he shouted at Shao Zhan’s retreating back with a dramatically lifted pinky finger, “You just watch! Don’t come asking me for help again! If I get involved in your two’s business one more time, I’ll be the biggest fool on earth! The biggest! Idiot of the century!”
Shao Zhan hesitated briefly at his own door before knocking. Since moving into the base, this was only the second time he’d done that.
The first time had been years ago when Fat Tangyuan had just joined the team. During his medical check-up, his cholesterol levels were flagged, and he was forced to go on a diet. To avoid participating in the weight-loss program, the then-youth trainee had locked himself in Shao Zhan’s room and threatened to go on a hunger strike—causing quite a scene.
Yang Sa clearly wasn’t that kind of troublemaker, though the incident he’d caused at Xinghai three years ago hadn’t been small, either.
He had already changed clothes—light-wash jeans and a gray T-shirt. The shirt hung loosely on his frame, almost like it was draped over a skeleton.
Before Shao Zhan could say anything, Yang Sa pointed at the Silver Emperor news on his phone. “Was this your doing?”
Shao Zhan shook his head and answered truthfully. He had asked someone to gather evidence of Silver Emperor’s illegal activity, but he hadn’t released any of it.
This news was likely leaked by someone involved while he was still compiling the information. He didn’t mention Feng Changshan, the former CFO of the Silver Emperor team.
Still, very few people had access to information of this level. Whether the leak was driven by personal grudges against Silver Emperor or a way to curry favor with Shao Zhan, it would undeniably help with what Yang Sa was about to do. Shao Zhan didn’t mind taking the credit. After all, both Xinghai and the larger organization needed talent to grow.
Besides, he trusted that Feng Changshan, in daring to make such a move, had already prepared his escape plan. The aggressive tone of the report suggested this was no spur-of-the-moment act—it had been in the works for quite some time, waiting only for the right moment.
“Thank you.”
Even though Shao Zhan said it had nothing to do with him, Yang Sa could still infer the role he played in pushing things forward.
Shao Zhan sat down on the round rattan stool by the desk like a guest, rubbing his hands together.
“About what you asked me the other day… about the team.”
He spoke with some difficulty, “I think… I can give you an answer now.”
That was just the kind of person Shao Zhan was. Even if the other person had made an offhand request, he would never treat it lightly. Giving an answer was his way of showing respect—not just to the other person, but to himself.
In truth, Yang Sa had already guessed what the answer would be. For thirteen years, he had walked alone in the dark.
Three years ago, he came to Xinghai, was dragged back to Germany by his adoptive father… but not once had he ever forgotten this man.
Maybe, he thought, this person was different.
Maybe, he thought, this was someone who could stand by his side.
In the end, he had been alone from the very beginning. It was only the confirmation of something he had already suspected—so why did it still hurt so much?
Even as his heart felt like it was being torn apart, Yang Sa refused to show it.
On the surface, he maintained a calm, detached demeanor. That, too, was a required lesson for an adopted orphan: never show negative emotions. If you did, you might go hungry, get beaten, or even be sent back to the orphanage.
“I thought about it, and I still can’t agree to your proposal,” Shao Zhan said, his left hand unconsciously resting against the cast on his arm.
“To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised whether you wanted to destroy Xinghai or Silver Emperor…”
“It seems we won’t be able to reach a consensus, Captain Shao,” Yang Sa said as he stood up. He placed the key he’d been holding beside Shao Zhan’s hand and turned decisively to leave.
“I’m not done yet,” Shao Zhan called after him. “Five minutes. Can you give me just five minutes?”
Yang Sa turned back. For some reason, with the light behind him, Shao Zhan’s silhouette looked a bit more worn, a bit more fragile.
His gaze fell on the cast-wrapped arm, and his brow twitched slightly. He walked back and sat down again.
“You really don’t have any patience with me, do you?” Shao Zhan joked with a relieved smile when he saw him return. He shifted his legs, trying to find a more comfortable sitting position—though even that was no easy task for him.
“I know you have something you need to do, and maybe destroying Xinghai and Silver Emperor seems like the fastest way to do it. But I’m begging you,” Shao Zhan’s voice caught in his throat,
“I’m begging you to think of the kids on the team. They’re chasing their dreams, ready to dedicate their lives to esports. We can’t be the ones to destroy those dreams, because if we do…”
Shao Zhan’s words echoed in Yang Sa’s mind: “Otherwise, how are we any different from them?”
“Yeah… how are we any different?” Yang Sa questioned himself, the sting of unwillingness rising in his chest, accompanied by the prickle of tears.
“Back then, I didn’t know Max was your guy. If I had, I would’ve let Xinghai give him to you, really,” Shao Zhan said, reaching out his hand.
“Whatever it is you want to do—count me in. Let’s do it together,” he added, “as long as we don’t destroy the kids’ dreams.”
Yang Sa hesitated. He thought and thought again—then finally, he grasped the hand suspended in midair.
Though it was only the beginning of a mutual understanding, Shao Zhan never expected Yang Sa to suddenly open up to him. The other man left behind just a name before taking his leave, politely thanking him for the hospitality of the past few days. He said he would be taking the members of LAP with him today.
Captain Shao Zhan immediately expressed his understanding and promised that the doors of Xinghai would always be open to friends.
Before leaving the room, Yang Sa turned back and quipped: “But don’t leave the doors open for every friend—especially the ones who drive Mercedes-Benz.”
It was one of the rare playful moments since their reunion.
Shao Zhan thought for a second before realizing he was referring to Captain Weiguang—the one who caused the accident at the base.
After Yang Sa left, Shao Zhan made a call to the secretary at headquarters: “Help me look into someone.”
…
Meanwhile…
While Yang Sa was fruitlessly searching for his friends, he had no idea that his foreign teammates, under the ever-hungry Fat Tangyuan’s suggestion, were getting ready to enjoy a solid brunch.
“Honestly, the thing I’ll miss the most—the absolute most—is Chinese food,” said Little Blue, holding a pair of chopsticks in each hand as he tried to shovel seafood fried rice into his mouth.
Even while eating, Fat Tangyuan still remembered to pass a spoon to his friend: “So in front of fried rice, I don’t even deserve a name now, huh?”
“You do, you do,” Little Blue replied apologetically. “You’re the person I love the most in China.”
Fat Tangyuan squinted in suspicion: “What about Yang Sa?”
Little Blue thought for a moment, then replied, “He’s German.”
Fat Tangyuan clapped him generously on the shoulder: “I’ll let it slide, kid.”
With just one sentence—six words—all four foreigners stood up in perfect unison and began looking for something under the table.
Fat Tangyuan shielded the table, trying to maintain his last shred of reason: “Guys… is there a Jerry on the floor?”
His question startled Zhuang Bai, who had been keeping them company, and Jiang Ranan, who was closest to the door, had already started sidestepping away.
“We’re looking for it,” said Max, whose Mandarin was fairly decent. He spoke on behalf of the group:
“Where exactly did you let that horse run?”
“Maybe, possibly…” Fat Tangyuan tried to explain, but quickly realized—there was no way he was going to talk sense into these guys.
“Now I finally understand,” he sighed, lifting his bowl, “how teachers feel when they get so frustrated with their students that they cry from helplessness.”
“Let’s just forget about the horse. I’ll use porridge instead of wine—cheers, brothers!”
With that, he downed the bowl with heroic flair. The others followed suit, drinking porridge as if it were liquor.
Just as Fat Tangyuan was calling over the owner to order more dishes, he heard Max say he was going back.
“Back? Back where?” Fat Tangyuan asked casually, then realized what was happening. He looked at the varied expressions around the table and saw the bittersweet looks of farewell. “You’re all leaving?”
Max was heading back to Germany. Little Blue was going home to Australia. Litlle White was going to Egypt as an exchange student.
The most outrageous, though, was Little Black—whose game ID was White.
“White, what about you?” Fat Tangyuan asked while pouring vinegar over a crab soup dumpling.
“I’m going back to Saudi Arabia. Tons of business stuff is waiting on my decisions,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
“Sometimes I wish my dad had never found me—then I’d still be a carefree little native. My adoptive dad died thinking I was his biological son.”
Fat Tangyuan’s hand slipped, spilling half the dipping sauce across the table. He quickly grabbed some napkins to clean up while mentally calculating:
With your pure-blood looks? Doesn’t exactly scream Saudi…
Unaware that their Chinese friend had just mentally drafted a 300-episode soap opera, the foreign friends sat there looking deflated.
“What about Yang Sa?” Zhuang Bai, who was busy plating food for the guests, suddenly spoke up.
“He… still has things to do,” said one of the foreign friends. Their differently colored faces looked at one another before one of them asked, “So… can we ask our friends in Xinghai to help take care of Sa?”
“Well…” Fat Tangyuan scratched his chubby hand in hesitation. “The key to this… is whether Yang Sa wants us to take care of him.”
“Depends on if he lets us,” Jiang Ranan added helpfully, worried the foreigners wouldn’t understand the nuance.
“That’s easy. I’m the one who rented the villa on the mountain,” Max said, holding up his phone.
“I’ll just cancel the lease now.”
“Can’t he just stay in a hotel? He’s got money, right?” Jiang Ranan scratched his head.
“Should I email the bank and report his credit card lost?” asked Little White. He had been in charge of handling everyone’s documents for their trip to China.
“But he’s still got legs, doesn’t he? What if he just runs off?” Fat Tangyuan thought about Yang Sa’s temper and figured that was actually pretty likely.
Finally, Little Black, who was about to return to a life of luxury in Saudi Arabia, raised his hand: “How about… we install a tracking app on his phone?”
Little Blue finally couldn’t bear it anymore and grabbed his hair which was about to stand up: “If we are not friends, is what you said legal?”