Chapter 7: Add Me on WeChat?
Inside a hotel suite, Lin Ran, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, sat by the floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside the window was a view of the city at night.
On the table in front of him sat a black laptop. At the moment, the screen was displaying a game chat interface.
Lying flat on the table, his phone was playing a livestream on a certain platform.
Shi Cha’s clear voice came through the phone.
“This is a gaming friend I just met. I’ll team up with him in a bit and play a few rounds.”
There was a trace of cheerful excitement in his tone.
“Mmm, Cha… ‘Cha Buduo’ is a really skilled mid-laner—he definitely won’t be a burden.”
Now with a bit of indignant pride in his voice.
Then came a flurry of clacking as he typed on the keyboard.
Once the typing stopped, Lin Ran immediately received a message in the game chat.
[LR is the best]: I’m livestreaming on my end, so voice chat’s a bit inconvenient. Can we communicate by typing?
Lin Ran raised an eyebrow slightly and typed two words:
[Cha Buduo]: Sure.
His agent, Li Xin’an, picked up the materials Lin Ran had tossed onto the sofa and casually placed them neatly on the coffee table.
“You just got back and you’re already gaming. Can’t even take a little time to relax properly?”
Without looking up, Lin Ran kept his eyes on the keyboard as he replied, “Gaming is how I relax now.”
Though Li Xin’an didn’t play games himself, he’d seen kids in his family playing—when they got into it, they’d start hammering the keys or even open voice chat to argue. He couldn’t understand how something so emotionally intense could count as relaxing.
But after a moment, he added, “I mentioned this before—the All-Star tournament is coming up. The game’s official team changed the voting system this time. Viewers can vote not just for active pro players, but also for retired ones.
Of course, once a player retires, they’re out of the spotlight, with no matches, and their popularity drops quickly. So they usually don’t stand a chance at making it into All-Stars. But I just checked the numbers—you’re not only leading among retired players, you’re actually in the top three overall, even compared to the current roster.
At this rate, it’s almost certain you’ll be going to All-Stars.
So it’s a good thing you’re still playing here and there. Helps keep your mechanics sharp. Wouldn’t want to get crushed by active pros when the time comes and lose face.”
Lin Ran only gave a soft “Mm” in response, his attention still locked on the game. Shaking his head, Li Xin’an said “Don’t stay up too late,” and left.
In the game, Lin Ran and Shi Cha had already formed a duo and started queuing for ranked matches.
Shi Cha wiped the sweat from his palms with a towel. What he said earlier about not being able to use voice chat—was a lie.
Because the moment he got on voice chat with Lin Ran, the audience in his livestream would immediately recognize Lin Ran’s voice.
The trending topic from before had just started to cool down. He didn’t want to draw more attention to himself because of Lin Ran again.
Besides, deep down, he felt that this version of Lin Ran—as his gaming friend—belonged only to him, not to the masses who idolized him as a top celebrity.
He didn’t want the viewers to know what Lin Ran was like in private.
But since he was streaming, he had to give a heads-up. If he didn’t say anything and Lin Ran happened to let something slip, it could be taken out of context—and that would be even worse.
The game started quickly. Even without voice chat and with only minimal typing, their coordination was seamless.
After all, Shi Cha had spent over a year mimicking Lin Ran’s playstyle as a mid-laner, and then another year learning to jungle based on that experience.
Whether it was Lin Ran or Shi Cha, just a single movement was often enough for the other to grasp their intentions.
That kind of unspoken synergy felt incredibly novel to Shi Cha.
And for Lin Ran, it had been a long time since he’d had such a well-matched teammate.
The game ended quickly.
Shi Cha switched away from the game screen, only to see the chat feed flooded with praise for both him and Lin Ran.
[“That mid-laner’s really skilled. Is “Cha Buduo” a smurf account for some pro player?”]
[“From what I’ve observed, probably not. His style doesn’t match any active pros. If anything, he plays a lot like the retired legend Ran-shen. I think he’s just a die-hard fan trying to imitate him.”]
[“Wait… could it actually be Ran-shen himself?”]
[“Are you kidding? Ran-shen just got used for clout by this streamer not long ago. Why would he not only add him as a friend but also team up for a livestream? Actually… don’t tell me this “friend” is someone the streamer hired to impersonate Ran-shen and stir up hype again?”]
[” …Your conspiracy theories are seriously terrifying!”]
Shi Cha wasn’t upset at all by the suspicious comments.
He was practically bubbling with joy.
[“Hmph, this “Ran-shen” you’re all talking about? Right now, he’s my gaming buddy.”]
“That’s it for today’s stream. See you all tomorrow.”
The chat was still asking why the stream ended so early, but Shi Cha didn’t explain a thing—he simply cut the broadcast.
Once the stream was off, he cleared his throat softly, took a deep breath, and opened the team voice channel.
“Ra-Ran-shen? Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
The deep, pleasant voice on the other end never failed to make Shi Cha’s ears turn red and his heart race. Steadying himself, he explained,
“I’ve ended my livestream on my side.”
The implication being—they could now talk freely.
Then, he heard a soft chuckle from the other end. The sound, transmitted through the signal and into his headphones, seemed to vibrate directly against his eardrums.
For a brief moment, it felt like the laugh had happened right beside his ear.
Shi Cha’s face turned even redder.
Ranked matches didn’t start immediately, so while waiting for the rest of the team to load in, Shi Cha clicked on Lin Ran’s avatar and stared intently at the name displayed beneath it.
He pressed his lips together, blushing furiously.
Whether it was the previous name, “Cha Henduo”, or the current one, “Cha Buduo” (Almost the Same), both had the character “Cha” in them—just like his own name.
He didn’t dare assume it had anything to do with him, but the coincidence alone was enough to fill his heart with joy.
“Ran-shen, why did you change your username? Does the name mean anything special?”
Though he knew it probably had nothing to do with him, Shi Cha couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Oh? That? Well, isn’t everything in life either cha buduo or cha henduo? Of course, things that are cha henduo (far apart) can, through effort, become cha buduo (closer)… and eventually be achieved.”
Shi Cha: “……”
Why did that sound like a random dose of motivational chicken soup?
While Shi Cha was stunned by the sudden philosophical turn, another soft laugh came from the other side.
“I just made that up on the spot.”
“The ‘Cha’ in the username—was taken from a little friend’s name.”
Shi Cha thought to himself: Then I must be fated to that ‘little friend’—we even share a character in our names.
They kept playing until 11 p.m., and only under Lin Ran’s gentle urging did Shi Cha reluctantly prepare to log off.
His usual routine of going to bed promptly at 10 p.m. didn’t exist when Lin Ran was involved.
Just before Shi Cha logged off, Lin Ran suddenly asked,
“Best, want to add each other on WeChat?”
“Huh?” Shi Cha froze, not expecting Lin Ran to take the initiative. He hurriedly grabbed his phone.
“Oh—sure!”
But just as he was about to recite his number, it suddenly hit him—this was Shi Cha’s personal phone number, and he was a livestreamer now.
“Ah—s-sorry, my WeChat is, uh… experiencing an error. Yeah, an error. I haven’t had time to fix it. Once I get it sorted, I’ll add you!”
Shi Cha rarely lied. In fact, he barely spoke much at all—let alone lied. So the moment he started fibbing, he stumbled and stammered all over the place.
After he finished, his heart was full of anxiety.
Would Lin Ran think I’m being difficult? Would he change his mind about adding me?
What if Lin Ran just asks for my number directly?
There was a brief pause on Lin Ran’s end—one second, maybe two—before that same warm voice came through:
“Then take down my number. Once you get it fixed, just add me.”
Shi Cha let out a tiny, quiet sigh of relief.
“Okay. Once it’s fixed, I’ll add you right away.”
“Well then, good night.”
“Good night.”
After saying good night to Lin Ran, Shi Cha immediately got to work setting up his secondary WeChat account.
Half an hour later, he finally registered it successfully, set the profile picture and username, and nervously searched for Lin Ran’s phone number. Holding his breath, he tapped [Add to Contacts.]
Lin Ran was leaning against the headboard, a pen loosely held between his long, slender fingers. His head was lowered in concentration as he scribbled and sketched on a piece of paper.
Suddenly, his phone gave a short ding.
He paused, reached over, and tapped the screen.
It was a friend request.
“Ran-shen, it’s me—‘LR is the best.’”
Lin Ran clicked [Accept] and casually changed the remark name from the default “LR is the best” to “Little One.”
When Shi Cha saw that Lin Ran had accepted his request, he couldn’t help but roll twice across the bed while hugging his phone. Blushing, he typed a message:
[LR is the best]: [Ran-shen, does this mean we’re internet friends now?]
At the top of the chat window, the words “The other person is typing…” appeared, and Shi Cha’s heart started pounding wildly.
What if Ran-shen doesn’t like this kind of conversation? What if he regrets adding me?
Before he could spiral further, a message popped up:
[LR]: You’re the only one.
The only what?
The only internet friend?
Shi Cha couldn’t help rolling across the bed again. Blushing deeply, he kept typing.
[LR is the best]: [Then I won’t disturb Ran-shen’s rest. Good night, Ran-shen.]
[LR]: [Good night, little one.]
Seeing those words—“little one”—Shi Cha, who originally planned to stop chatting, couldn’t help but send another message:
[LR is the best]: [Why are you calling me ‘little one’? I’m not that young.]
[LR]: [You’re only twenty. I’m twenty-six. From my perspective, you are a little one. Besides, I can’t keep calling you ‘Best,’ can I?]
Shi Cha thought about it and figured “little one” was still better than “Best.”
He hugged his phone and typed out one last “Good night.”
This time, they really did stop chatting.
That night, Shi Cha fell asleep with a smile on his face, phone still in his arms.
In his dream, it was a thirteen-year-old Lin Ran telling a bedtime story to a seven-year-old Shi Cha. It was a tale about a brave warrior. Shi Cha dozed off partway through.
Little Lin Ran gently tucked the blanket around him and softly said:
“Sleep well. When you wake up, you’ll forget everything. Good night, Cha Buduo little one.”