“Just follow the same strategy we used in the scrim against KOG,” Wen Zhe said, analyzing the map. The four players were positioned too far apart to group up immediately.
“Captain, did you forget I wasn’t in that scrim?” Xu Xu complained.
Wen Zhe kept his eyes fixed on the Guardian Spirit’s position, calculating the fastest rotation. “Didn’t you study the replays a thousand times? Why does it matter?”
Xu Xu pouted but didn’t argue further. He knew he couldn’t win this one.
“Hey, what’s wrong with this keyboard? Everyone, try yours!”
Su Ze quickly tried to stop the commotion. At first, he had only pressed the “W” key while checking the map, but when he looked back, he realized his character had been moving backward the whole time.
“Oh man, mine too! What’s going on?”
“Referee,” Su Ze raised his hand and called out through the headset, but no one responded.
“Referee!” Su Ze shouted louder, and even Xu Xu joined in through the headset.
The referee should have been able to hear them through the headset, but for some reason, the referee lingering behind them showed no intention of approaching.
Out of urgency, Su Ze waved his hand again, finally catching the referee’s attention.
“What’s the issue?” the referee asked, removing his headphones to listen.
“Didn’t you hear us calling you? Why didn’t you come over?”
“I didn’t hear anything in my headset.”
“Get to the point,” Wen Zhe reminded him, knowing Su Ze would otherwise drag it out.
“Please pause the game. Our keyboards are malfunctioning,” Su Ze said, gesturing for the referee to try them himself.
But something strange happened—when the referee tested the keyboard, it worked perfectly fine.
“Are you sure you want to use your only pause opportunity?” the referee asked, sounding somewhat exasperated.
“How is this possible?” Even Su Ze began to doubt himself, turning to Wen Zhe. “Captain…”
“Not yet…” Wen Zhe’s calm voice was a reassurance to everyone. “Let’s continue for now.”
“Alright, call me if there’s an issue,” the referee said before stepping away from the players and returning to his post.
Wen Zhe furrowed his brow, trying to decipher the seemingly random key mapping on the keyboard. And behind him, unseen—
Only Jian Yao noticed that faint, eerie smile…
The difficulty in movement made AFG feel like ants on a hot pan.
Some fans grew confused, and criticism gradually took over.
The people behind Jian Yao were the very ones stirring up trouble: “What kind of garbage play is this? Can’t you press WASD properly? Are you playing house here?”
“Isn’t this blatant match-fixing?”
“Do you think the audience is blind?”
“If you can’t play, get off the stage! We didn’t come all this way to watch you throw the game!”
Jian Yao frowned and turned around, his sharp gaze sweeping over the troublemakers. “Will you die if you shut up?”
“Can’t you see what’s happening? Just because you’re sitting in the VIP seats doesn’t mean you can silence the audience. How much did they pay you? If there’s money to be made, share it with the rest of us. Why keep it to yourself?” The man’s tone was disdainful, but his eyes seemed uncertain.
“Hah,” Jian Yao scoffed. “You’re the one treating me like an insider, telling me how to make money.”
The man immediately flared up. “SG didn’t pay me anything!”
The crowd instantly shifted their focus. Jian Yao smiled sarcastically. “No brains at all. Serves you right for exposing yourself.”
Not only Jian Yao, but the fans of AFG standing around also began to chime in: “Who knows what they hired you for? Stirring up trouble only to have it backfire on yourself.”
“SG really went all out. If they can give one, they can give a hundred. Who knows how many are in the audience right now?”
“You all!”
The man’s face flushed red and pale in turns. He lowered his head and hurriedly fled the scene, still stubbornly muttering, “Trash, just trash! I don’t believe they can win like this!”
This remark made Jian Yao lose focus for a moment. He looked toward Wen Zhe on the stage—this was the first time Jian Yao had seen an expression on Wen Zhe’s face that wasn’t relaxed.
“Captain, it looks like we’ve really been set up.” Zhong Yuyi frowned tightly, his inner anger burning along with the chaotic tapping of his keyboard.
“Yeah, but there’s nothing we can do. You can’t wake someone who’s pretending to be asleep, let alone a corpse.”
“Exactly. They’re just doing their job for the money, so they’re being quite diligent.” Xu Xu’s hands never stopped hitting the keys, only pausing briefly when he accidentally pressed the forward key.
The four players’ actions grew increasingly confusing, to the point where even the commentators didn’t know how to cover for them.
The commentators had one chance to pause the match, requiring them to signal the referee without speaking directly. Mo Wen and Xiao Xiao exchanged a glance and, with perfect timing, made the gesture simultaneously.
But things didn’t go as smoothly as the two had hoped. They repeated the gesture several times, only to be ignored each time, as if it were intentional.
After all, both had seen their fair share of storms. Faced with such a situation, they felt powerless and could only brace themselves to continue commentating, automatically tuning out the audience’s protests.
Time ticked by, second by second. SG took the lead and eliminated the Guardian Spirit, leaving the four AFG players without their support.
Then, the spring rain descended. The four wandered aimlessly in the rain, with no chance of victory, as mocking messages popped up on the screen one after another.
[Oh, AFG.Sze got drenched and disappeared!]
[AFG.Zyy becomes drenched chicken number two~! Served up for everyone!]
[AFG.Xxu shh~ he’s thinking!]
Watching the messages on the big screen, Jian Yao’s gaze locked onto Wen Zhe, who was left with only a sliver of health. He silently prayed for a turnaround, but reality refused to comply.
The screen lit up with an exceptionally glaring message:
[Look at AFG.Wzhe! What a good brother, not forgetting to follow in their footsteps~]
Wen Zhe removed his headphones and looked down at his right hand, which was tightly gripping the mouse, his fingertips already pale. Frustration and anger churned inside him.
But as the captain and the core of the team, he couldn’t give in to the impulsive thoughts swirling in his mind.
Wen Zhe felt the gaze from the opposing side and lifted his eyes, sweeping a contemptuous glance across them.
The four opponents quickly averted their eyes, pretending to casually glance around the stage.
It would have been better if they hadn’t looked. As soon as they did, they caught sight of Jian Yao in the audience, whose aura was even more menacing.
This, this, this… better just look at the keyboard.
This keyboard is really a keyboard (the four trembling in fear edition).
Jian Yao’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head.
It had to be said, when it came to acting, these people still needed some improvement.
They have money to fake things but not to train?
Tsk.
His gaze returned to Wen Zhe. The moment their eyes met, Jian Yao caught a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability hidden deep within Wen Zhe’s eyes.
The screen lit up with the large characters announcing SG’s victory. As Jian Yao saw the four AFG players stand up, he quickly made his way to the backstage.
“They were definitely paid off. I’m so done. I’ve never felt so suffocated playing a match before!”
Su Ze unleashed a torrent of words like a machine gun, completely ignoring the staff on either side.
Just as he was about to continue his tirade, Zhong Yuyi covered his mouth from behind and pulled him into his arms, not forgetting to ruffle his hair. “Be good, stop making a scene. Save up some good karma for yourself.”
“Mmph! Mmph! Mmph!”
(Translation provided by Zhong Yuyi: “Save what karma?! I’ll curse them to death!”)
Even with his mouth covered, Su Ze kept muttering incessantly. Zhong Yuyi had no choice but to drag him toward the break room.
Xu Xu watched the two troublemakers, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, hands in his pockets, looking utterly nonchalant. “Captain, looks like I’m gonna leave a big stain on my record before I retire.”
Wen Zhe didn’t quite know how to respond.
Xu Xu was retiring—only Wen Zhe knew about it within the team.
Actually, Xu Xu missing the last training match wasn’t an accident.
He had just found out that Jian Yao was there, and Xu Xu wanted to see for himself whether the person Wen Zhe said was suitable really was suitable.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Wen Zhe, but when it came to the assassin role, Xu Xu understood it even more deeply than Wen Zhe did.
Eight years in the esports scene—for Xu Xu, this game, this identity, had seeped into his bones and become inseparable from him.
He wasn’t one of those naturally gifted players; in fact, his journey had been rocky from the start. That’s why he valued everything he had achieved now more than anyone else.
He had even imagined he might be able to play until he was thirty, but the recklessness of youth always comes with a price. His age no longer allowed him to keep going.
Xu Xu snapped back to reality and laughed at himself.
Esports players—it’s always a career tied to age.
With that, Xu Xu turned and walked into the break room, leaving Wen Zhe leaning against the corridor wall alone, lost in thought.
“Wen Zhe!”
Wen Zhe’s thoughts were abruptly pulled away by the sudden call—
He recognized Jian Yao’s voice.
Before Wen Zhe could turn around, he was pushed against the wall by a forceful impact. Reacting quickly, he shielded the person in his arms.
“You’re amazing. You can do it. I believe in you.”
Jian Yao’s forehead rested against Wen Zhe’s shoulder, warmth spreading through his embrace.
The overlapping beats of their hearts amplified endlessly in that moment. Wen Zhe couldn’t tell whose frantic heartbeat it was—his own or Jian Yao’s—but in that situation, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
What belonged to Wen Zhe now?
what was most important to Wen Zhe…
was right in front of him.
Wen Zhe gently ruffled Jian Yao’s hair, the heavy weight in his heart soothed by the soft touch. “Pinning me against the wall? And taking advantage of me? You’ve gotten bold, huh?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Wen Zhe could feel Jian Yao’s body gradually stiffening. A barely concealed smile flickered in his eyes.
Teasing him was truly amusing.
But Jian Yao, nestled in Wen Zhe’s arms, wasn’t feeling nearly as relaxed. He hadn’t expected things to unfold this way at all.
His stiffened body left him at a loss—should he pull away first, or answer Wen Zhe’s question? Or maybe just stay still until Wen Zhe made a move?
Jian Yao’s mind was still arguing with itself:
Isn’t this supposed to be a deeply touching moment?
Shouldn’t he be moved to tears, hugging Wen Zhe back and saying, “Jian Yao, thank goodness you’re here”?!
Shouldn’t he…
“Jian Yao.”
The call by his ear shattered Jian Yao’s chaotic thoughts, and he instinctively turned to look at Wen Zhe.
And that turn played right into Wen Zhe’s hands—
“This is how you do a wall pin.”
Wen Zhe, relying on his height and strength advantage, effortlessly flipped over and pinned Jian Yao against the wall.
At the moment their eyes met, Jian Yao saw a familiar yet unfamiliar emotion in Wen Zhe’s gaze.
It was the familiar, confident Wen Zhe who seemed determined to have his way, along with an emotion Jian Yao couldn’t understand or comprehend.
No, perhaps it was more accurate to say he didn’t dare to confirm.
This expression made Jian Yao’s first instinct to flee, but trapped within this small space, the only escape he could manage was to avoid Wen Zhe’s gaze.
Like a startled deer, he unconsciously revealed his aversion before the predator who was trying to show affection perhaps it was still too soon… too much for him to accept?
Wen Zhe said nothing, merely leaning in slowly, which “frightened” the person in his arms into curling up into a ball.