Chapter 79 – Inner Trauma
Zhuang Bai’s footsteps gave away his position—gunfire erupted first from the S direction.
Yang Sa rushed to the vehicle refresh point on the outskirts of the residential area, bringing Jiang Ranan along. Over team voice chat, he checked in with the others.
“Took a little damage, nothing major,” Zhuang Bai replied while agilely shifting positions.
“No worries on Grandpa Fat’s end,” Fat Tangyuan boasted, followed by a kill notification: [Starcraft-Sweet has eliminated [enemy]].
Yang Sa analyzed the sound of approaching engines from the perimeter. “One minute… at most one-fifteen. Keen, hang in there. Sweet—”
“Don’t worry about Grandpa over here,” Fat Tangyuan fired while aiming down sights. “Grandpa’s busy teaching these grandkids a lesson. You guys go play somewhere else.”
…
“What the hell is he trying to do?” In the lounge, the foreign coach Li Bai was the first to lose composure. He stammered “Sa-sa” a few times, then burst into a stream of urgent German. The translator privately decided there was no need to translate—his tone said it all.
“He’s insane. He’s completely insane.” Qin Chuan slapped his forehead, his smile tinged with desperation. “Our new captain is a madman. This is an international tournament! How could he—how dare he!”
Du Changcheng crossed his arms tightly, face tense and silent. Meanwhile, an uninvited guest lounged on the sofa with one leg over the other, sneering coldly. “A madman?”
…
“This can’t be happening. No way, it’s impossible.” Jiang Ranan kept repeating the words in his head, too afraid to say them aloud.
In a match of this caliber, splitting up with no guarantee of surviving, attempting a pincer maneuver against pursuers while under interference and ambush? It was unthinkable.
This wasn’t some fanservice exhibition match where you could show off fancy plays.
This was a real, serious tournament.
Even though his heart was screaming, Jiang Ranan’s hands followed Yang Sa’s orders without pause. He was the youngest on the team. Yang Sa’s skills were undisputed. In Jiang Ranan’s eyes, there was no difference between old and new captains—but this strategy was just too bold. Even Shao Zhan had never attempted something like this in an international match. How could he not be worried?
“Ranan? Ranan?”
Yang Sa hadn’t called his ID, so the intensely focused Jiang Ranan took a fifth of a second to respond. “What is it?”
“Northwest direction.”
Jiang Ranan turned his aim as ordered, scanned twice, but saw no movement. A hint of anxiety crept into his voice—something even he didn’t notice. “Where is it?”
“Over the horizon,” Yang Sa said calmly while steering, his tone light and untroubled. “It’s beautiful.”
“Noth—” The overly tense Jiang Ranan almost blurted something rash, but stopped himself at the last second. This is a tournament, he reminded himself. Who talks about scenery now? Is this the time to admire the view?
He adjusted the positions of his special ops team, lifted his eyes from the crosshairs, and looked around at the game environment that had accompanied him through countless days and nights. In the distance, the green grass swayed gently in the breeze—perhaps this was one of those rare, peaceful moments.
Unconsciously, his restless heart began to settle.
But Yang Sa’s expression grew darker. A blocking squad had come looking for trouble. What Xinghai lacked most right now was time, and he had no spare energy to waste on this skirmish. The team had split up, and the most critical task now was an extreme fallback. Whether they could make it back in time would decide not only this round—but the entire team’s honor in the tournament.
“Don’t panic. Don’t panic.” Bullets rained down from the distance. Yang Sa pulled the car behind cover and repeated the words, as much to comfort Jiang Ranan as to calm himself.
When the enemies finally entered firing range, Yang Sa took out their tires with a well-placed tap shot. Working in sync with Jiang Ranan, they wiped out most of the enemy squad.
They didn’t have the luxury of time to hunt down the remaining hidden enemies—they had to drive on and rescue the Xinghai teammates who were still trapped and struggling.
Taking the risk of ambush, Yang Sa and Jiang Ranan broke through one obstacle after another, and finally, under intense pressure, made it to the outskirts of Zhuang Bai’s building zone—just in time to save their embattled teammate.
Zhuang Bai checked the time. One minute thirteen seconds. He had already gotten into a teammate’s vehicle. Healing up was the next step, but what mattered most now was locating the last Xinghai player who had been separated from the team.
Unfortunately, Fat Tangyuan didn’t hold out long enough to be rescued. Fortunately, Yang Sa’s group moved quickly enough—before the enemy team could even finish setting up their ambush spot, they were wiped out, and vengeance was claimed for their fallen comrade.
“Oh heavens, oh heavens,” Fat Tangyuan clenched his fists with excitement even though his screen had already gone dark. Watching his teammates’ plays, he shouted, “Little Captain, how did you dare—how could you dare?!”
If it weren’t for his limited mobility—and the referees watching—he would’ve rushed over and planted a kiss on Yang Sa out of pure emotion.
That was some guts. Probably none of the other teams expected Xinghai to make such a bold move. But as the saying goes, fortune favors the bold. Xinghai’s all-out assault was driving their score higher and higher at breakneck speed.
Round 7—Fifth place.
…
Even Qin Chuan, the manager usually guided by a sense of melancholy, couldn’t help but clasp his hands together in a prayer gesture, sincerely pleading to the gods above. “Please, please—top three, just top three. Doesn’t matter if it’s a gold pot or a silver pot, as long as we get a pot.”
As long as they won a trophy, he was confident in his silver tongue to persuade more investors to come on board.
Even the foreign coach, Li Bai, was moved by his earnestness and folded his fists in silent prayer.
In the lounge, a heavy atmosphere of solemn determination filled the room—until a mocking chuckle broke the silence.
“Top three? You’re really underestimating Xinghai right now, aren’t you?”
…
“Fifth, fifth, fifth place…” Fat Tangyuan muttered under his breath, his mind racing as he calculated what rank and points they’d need to earn a medal.
“No need to calculate,” Yang Sa interrupted his self-talk. “From now on, every match—we need to rank first. First in position, first in points.”
“Little Captain, that’s pure fantasy…” Even though Fat Tangyuan quickly stopped himself from being a downer, he awkwardly switched gears. “But hey, deep stuff.”
On the plane, Yang Sa marked the drop point. “Then let’s make it even deeper for them.”
Fat Tangyuan looked at the marker—airport—and resignedly followed with a parachute drop. “Little Captain, I seriously admire you right now. Really. You’re way crazier than that old bas— that old captain.”
Every team had a referee assigned to them, and at crucial moments like this, he couldn’t afford to get penalized for swearing.
“Oh yeah?” Yang Sa adjusted his posture mid-air, scouting for a good landing spot. “Then let’s give it everything we’ve got. Who knows… maybe he’s watching us right now.”
At the mention of Shao Zhan, Fat Tangyuan suddenly felt like a thorn had pierced his back. He straightened up in his wheelchair, opened his parachute, landed cleanly, and swiftly began looting weapons and gear inside a building.
And just their luck—it was another cursed zone.
…
In Xinghai’s team lounge, a collective sigh echoed through the room. But the players on the field remained completely unaware. Fat Tangyuan stretched his stiff shoulders and mounted his gun on the fast-moving jeep, staying alert.
All the way through, they had been rotating through the safe zone under pressure, constantly ambushed and chased—yet somehow, every time, they managed to outsmart and defeat their enemies. That had significantly boosted the Xinghai players’ confidence.
They won the eighth match, and again in the ninth. Xinghai’s points were steadily climbing.
In the lounge, manager Qin Chuan collapsed onto the sofa like he had no bones left in his body. “It’s solid, it’s solid—we’ve secured top three. At least now I can go back with a halfway decent explanation. Good grief, your dear ol’ dad nearly had a heart attack.”
On the other side, Coach Du Changcheng and the uninvited guest still hadn’t relaxed for a second. Their players were still charging across the battlefield, and they believed—Xinghai’s team still had more surprises to bring.
…
“This isn’t logical—this isn’t logical—this isn’t logical!” Fat Tangyuan downed a Japanese player with a shot, while Zhuang Bai and Jiang Ranan, who were lying in ambush nearby, quickly eliminated the teammate who came to revive him.
Maybe they were just used to playing from behind, but this round—both the landing point and the zone shifts—seemed to favor Xinghai.
Fat Tangyuan reloaded and adjusted his gun stock, ready to intercept the next teams entering the circle. What a reversal of fortune. He never expected to have a match where he, Old Tangyuan, actually had both the timing and terrain on his side.
Just as he was wistfully thinking about the vine-pepper boneless chicken feet that had been stolen by their heartless coach, Yang Sa’s expression grew increasingly grim.
Fat Tangyuan happened to glance at him—and got startled. “Whoa, Little Captain, what’s with your face? Are your hemorrhoids acting up?”
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Even the usually calm Zhuang Bai couldn’t help but chime in. “This is an international tournament. Every word we say is being recorded. The Little Captain has hardcore fans now—if people start spreading rumors about him having hemorrhoids, how are his fans supposed to handle that? He’s supposed to be the radiant face of youth!”
After lecturing their chaotic teammate, Zhuang Bai also noticed that something was off about Yang Sa. “Little Captain, what’s wrong?”
Yang Sa had just knocked down a Korean player—someone who’d been tailing Xinghai since the very beginning—with the GORZA. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. “It’s not enough. Still not enough.”
Zhuang Bai glanced at the scoreboard and instinctively shook his head. That goal was unrealistic. “You mean… the gold pot?”
“You’re not serious, right?” Fat Tangyuan adjusted his headset. “The coach’s goal was just top three. Climbing all the way from dead last to top three is already amazing. But now you want the gold pot? Isn’t that just wishful thinking?”
“Wishful thinking?” Yang Sa locked his gaze on the distant airdrop just released by the plane. He holstered his gun. “If it’s a dream—might as well dream big.”
Hearing his teammates charging ahead, Fat Tangyuan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What. Are. You. DOING?!”
“No, no, no, I really think we should be more cautious,” Fat Tangyuan said as he drove the jeep, still trying to talk some sense into the guy riding with him. “Little Captain, I know you’ve got guts, but isn’t this just a bit too reckless?”
Even if you’re dreaming, there has to be some basis in reality.
What they were doing now? Totally unrealistic. No—surreal, to be exact.
Abandoning a defensible, hard-to-attack position to go running through the danger zone?
What kind of lunatic does that?
Apparently, Xinghai was that kind of lunatic. Even the usually reckless, trouble-prone Fat Tangyuan could imagine the perfectly synchronized constipated expressions that must have appeared on the coach’s and manager’s faces when they saw this move.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered—just as the sound of an engine roared behind him.
It was Zhuang Bai and Jiang Ranan, following in a sedan to cover them. Which meant—Xinghai’s entire team had given up their comfy, winning position.
“Live long enough, and you really do see everything.” Fat Tangyuan forced a bitter smile. “Fifty chicken drumsticks, Little Captain. I swear—unless I get fifty chicken drumsticks, there’s no way I’m ever healing from this emotional trauma.”