Chapter 71 – Pitiful, Sensitive, and Weak
Although Tangyuan’s pitiful, sensitive, and weak little heart was under vicious attack from all directions, he still received scraps of elbow meat fed to him by the new team captain.
“I’m not eating that,” the chubby boy tilted his chin with principle. “I’ve gained weight.”
“Fight poison with poison—it might just have a miraculous effect,” Yang Sa said persuasively.
Under Yang Sa’s “persuasion,” the bright-eyed Tangyuan hugged the chunk of elbow meat, his overly plump cheeks squishing into folds of happiness.
…
In the shadow under the restaurant eaves stood the players of Team Xinghai, with only one round, full belly sticking out into the sunlight, basking in the warmth of the autumn sun.
Du Changcheng turned his face away in frustration, thinking to himself that the team members he led were getting worse every year. The old players might’ve been bad at competing, but at least they were hardworking and obedient. This batch? Chatty, lazy, with poor results and huge appetites. They’d ballooned into spheres, yet still thought highly of themselves.
“Pang’er, during New Year’s last year, I had a video call with your dad and promised him I’d make sure you lost weight this year no matter what.”
Du Changcheng began earnestly, only for Tangyuan to reply even more earnestly, “Breaking that promise for another year isn’t such a big deal.”
Qin Chuan came out after settling the bill and casually tossed the receipt onto a sunbathing watermelon belly, telling its owner to transfer the money to Shao Zhan.
“What the heck?” Tangyuan jumped up. “Didn’t we always just put it on the tab before?”
“To welcome the new coach, we got a special budget approved,” Qin Chuan said, moving closer to the shameless guy and warning, “Don’t think about pocketing it all yourself.”
Tangyuan said mysteriously, “I didn’t pocket it. I gave Lao Zhuang two hundred and Lao Du three hundred.”
“Why didn’t I get a cut?” Jiang Ranan complained. “That’s just unfair.”
Tangyuan burped and waved it off. “What’s fair or unfair—are we the kind of brothers who’d squabble over a few bucks?” Then, lazily, he spat out two words: “We… shouldn’t…”
Stuffed and satisfied, Tangyuan had originally planned to return to the base for a nap, so he could face the day’s training full of energy. But he fell asleep the moment he got in the car, only to wake up and find himself in an endless grassy field, nowhere near the base.
When he woke up, the car was completely empty—not even the driver was in sight.
“Bunch of old beasts, abandoning a poor guy out here,” he muttered, shivering as he climbed out of the vehicle, desperate for a bathroom. “Where even is this place…”
It wasn’t until he saw Shao Zhan in full riding gear, his arm in a sling, leading a horse with his other hand and guiding the new team captain who was mounted on it, that he finally felt a little relieved. He found a secluded patch of grass to handle his most urgent biological need, then started walking toward his teammates, grumbling all the way.
So it turned out this was the new coach’s suggestion. The most pressing issue among Xinghai Team One’s members wasn’t technique—it was trust. In terms of individual skill, each of them was outstanding in their respective roles. Even the opponents they’d face on the same stage were technically strong and tactically sound. At their level, what made the difference in matches was adaptability on the field—and even more so, mindset.
Although luck played a part, there wasn’t much the coach could teach them before a match. At this point, psychological readiness was more important than fine-tuning tactics.
In Li Bai’s eyes, Shao Zhan on the field wasn’t just the in-game commander—he was the team’s anchor. His presence inspired belief. With him there, nothing felt impossible.
Yang Sa, while technically excellent, was far from reaching that level of influence. And trust between teammates wasn’t something you could force into someone’s head. So Li Bai proposed a new approach. Yang Sa would take on both the commander and main sniper roles, while giving the rest of the team more freedom and space to operate. Their strategies shouldn’t mimic the ones used when Shao Zhan was leading; instead, they should bloom in all directions.
“Bloom in all directions?” Tangyuan couldn’t help giving a mental thumbs-up when Jiang Ranan repeated the coach’s words. “Our foreign coach is actually using our military’s guerrilla warfare strategy. Brilliant.”
He still didn’t understand what blooming everywhere had to do with horseback riding, but if it meant a little less training, he was all for it.
Despite being seasoned veterans on the battlegrounds of PUBG, in real life they were still just a bunch of kids around twenty years old. Rarely allowed off base, they were now bursting with energy and joy, running around like happy little wild things.
…
While Shao Zhan chatted with the riding instructor, Yang Sa secretly pulled out his phone to review his mistakes from the practice match the night before. It wasn’t until the former captain reminded him to stay present that he reluctantly put it away.
“Addicted much?” Shao Zhan teased. “Getting too attached to your gadgets isn’t a great habit.”
The late autumn sky stretched wide and high, with fluffy clouds clustered like handmade cotton candy, scattered across the heavens.
Shao Zhan stood beneath the shadow of one such cotton-candy cloud, looking up at Yang Sa on horseback. The richly colored grass swayed gently in the breeze, stretching in different directions like it was doing yoga.
“I’m not,” Yang Sa muttered, not caring whether the other man heard him, and awkwardly turned his face away. The peaceful moment was broken by Tangyuan’s pig-slaughter-level howls in the distance.
Watching his teammate from afar, Yang Sa asked worriedly, “Would you call that crying, or laughing?”
“Ignore him,” Shao Zhan said, recognizing that the little troublemakers were just fooling around. He didn’t bother intervening, instead leading the horse slowly down the trail. “Still scared?”
Yang Sa gently shook his head. The wind tousled his hair, and in that moment, he looked more alive—brighter than usual, like sunlight.
“This horse is called Cheese. She loves to sneak food and has the gentlest temperament.” As if understanding Shao Zhan’s words, the reddish-brown mare let out a soft, distinct snort.
Shao Zhan soothed her with a few kind words, rubbing her neck as he calmed her down. Then he looked up and said to Yang Sa, “Not scared now, right? After the competition, my cast should come off. I’ll bring you back a few times—soon enough, you’ll be riding like a pro.”
Amid Tangyuan’s dramatic, life-or-death howls came a pleasant voice: “Okay,” Yang Sa replied.
While Tangyuan was struggling with all his might just to get on the horse, Shao Zhan had already led the gentle little mare halfway around the field. Taking advantage of the fact that the new coach didn’t understand Chinese, the still-grounded Tangyuan grumbled sourly, “Are they here to ride horses or to fall in love on the company’s dime?”
The translator walking beside the coach mumbled a vague explanation, then quietly placed an online order for some digestive tablets on his phone.
“Hey, where’d that old bast*rd go?” Tangyuan seemed less concerned about getting on the horse and more focused on the pair of lovebirds in the distance. Without another word, he pulled his left foot out of the stirrup, lost his balance, and whipped out his phone to make a call.
Yang Sa stared at the caller ID on the screen for a long moment before finally answering.
The next second, a nosy voice came blaring through the receiver: “Captain! Where did Old Captain go? Why’d he leave?”
“Ask him yourself,” came Yang Sa’s cold reply—just as distant and aloof as always.
Tangyuan took a deep breath to steel himself and tried again, “It’s just that Captain Shao’s hurt and can’t answer the phone, right?” His eyebrows were practically dancing as he pleaded. “Come on, just tell me. It’s not some top-secret mission between the two of you, is it?”
Hearing this, Zhuang Bai and Jiang Ranan—who had been hanging around to help—exchanged a look, then wordlessly mounted their horses and rode away, abandoning the idiot before he dragged them down with him.
Yang Sa was silent for a while. When he realized the other person was still patiently waiting on the line, he finally said, “Something urgent came up at HQ. He had to go deal with it.”
“Oh…” Tangyuan responded vaguely, and before Yang Sa could say anything else, the call was abruptly hung up.
Reinvigorated, his posture straightened, his voice steady, and his tone confident, Tangyuan started grumbling at the darkened screen, “Can’t even ask a question? Is he your team captain or ours? I was being polite, and you really think you—”
He was mid-rant when a sharp whistle cut through the air. Yang Sa, reins in one hand, spurred the reddish-brown mare forward. The gentle little horse suddenly burst into a gallop, streaking like lightning into the forest, disappearing behind a curtain of green leaves.
“T-T-Team Captain is that cool?” Tangyuan stood on one leg, frozen like a broken statue, foot still stuck in the air.
The German coach muttered something under his breath. Tangyuan glanced sideways at the translator, who clearly wasn’t in the mood to engage.
“What’d he say?” Tangyuan asked.
“He said,” the translator replied with resignation, “a child raised in the Campbell family would of course know how to ride a horse.”
“What family?” Tangyuan narrowed his eyes and pressed further.
The translator snapped impatiently, “Don’t ask. You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”
“How do you know I wouldn’t understand if you don’t tell me?” Tangyuan huffed, slapping the horse’s rear in frustration. The horse, who had long wanted to rejoin its companions, took this as a green light and bolted—only to be yanked back by the riding instructor on the other side.
Still balancing on one leg, Tangyuan got thrown off balance by the sudden jolt and went tumbling the opposite way like a meatball. Luckily, he wasn’t moving too fast, and the translator, now standing nearby, kindly reached out a hand to help.
But that helping hand turned out to be a problem. Normally, Tangyuan was a nimble little chubby guy who was pretty good at protecting himself. The moment he got hit, he instinctively twisted to land on his side, curling up so that he’d hit the ground with his back. It’d hurt, sure, but with all that padding, he wouldn’t really get hurt.
Unfortunately, the translator’s well-meaning grab ended up throwing everything off. Tangyuan, already off balance, lost control mid-air and fell, dragging the translator down with him. He instinctively stuck out his left leg to brace the fall—his knee gave out on the spot.
The on-site medic rushed over with a first-aid kit, and after a quick check and basic stabilizing, the on-duty manager personally drove him to the hospital.
X-rays, diagnosis, treatment—it was well past 9 PM by the time everything was done.
Tangyuan, who had gone out of his way to request a hospital meal as a late-night snack, called Shao Zhan on video, proudly showing off his cast and the leg now suspended in a sling. He said excitedly, “Captain, we’re officially hospital buddies now!”
“Thanks for keeping me company,” Shao Zhan replied half-heartedly. “Now hand the phone to the new captain.”
“Why can’t you show a little humanitarian spirit and keep me company for once?” Tangyuan grumbled, but Shao Zhan hung up directly. The next second, Yang Sa’s phone started ringing.
As the new captain answered and responded to questions from the other end, Tangyuan poured all his misery into eating. “So heartless! Look at me, injured this badly, and not a single word of sympathy!” He devoured every last bite on his plate with grunting determination, licking it clean. Still not satisfied, he reached for the call bell, but before he could press it, the translator—who had been standing nearby—grabbed the tray and said he’d go ask for another portion. Then he ran off at lightning speed.
Jiang Ranan, who couldn’t take it anymore, gave his teammate’s bulging belly a pat through the hospital gown and said, “Brother, can you chill out a little?”
Tangyuan protectively hugged the wobbling waves of pale belly fat that spilled out and responded with pride, “You’re just jealous!”