In the camera feed, Respit2 lifted both hands off the keyboard, muttering in confusion.
“This isn’t right… did I lose all my powers?”
[Wake up, you never had them to begin with]
[Maybe check your ID before dreaming]
[If you really had Mythic-tier aim, you’d be a pro already]
“I did hit Immortal rank back in college!” the streamer tried to defend himself—but the chat only laughed harder. The whole stream filled with cheerful chaos, until a message popped up in the in-game chat:
[And you call yourself a streamer?]
[You got carried to Mythic, didn’t you?]
[Trash.]
Respit2 paused, then opened the match details and gave a knowing smile.
“Oh, isn’t this that guy from the other platform? You really queue-snipe me every day—is it that fun?”
Those nice-looking hands returned to the keyboard, typing quickly.
[Camping my ranked games every day—are you secretly into me? Sorry, I’m rejecting you.]
Watching the message get sent, Ji Wenze couldn’t help but laugh under his breath.
Figures. No streamer lacked a sharp tongue.
Respit2 had hidden his in-game ID, so random players shouldn’t know who he was. The only explanation was someone deliberately timing their queue to land in the same match—just to flame him.
For pro players and big streamers, this kind of “stream sniping” was nothing new. Ji Wenze was used to it—but it still made him think: this kid really has made it.
Soon enough, though, Respit2 died again. Within the next minute and a half, three more teammates fell. The situation quickly turned into a 1v4—basically unwinnable.
Ji Wenze glanced at the score: 7–10. Lose this round, it’d be 7–11. Two more rounds for the enemy, and the match was over.
Respit2, however, stayed upbeat, muttering, “Next time I work overtime, I swear I’ll practice my aim before queuing.”
Suddenly, a frustrated male voice cut in over team comms:
“They’re at match point—can the ‘security guard’ stop feeding?”
Ji Wenze let out a faint chuckle.
Respit2 was playing Cypher—nicknamed “security guard.” His K/D was 9–15. Calling that “feeding” was a stretch—especially when someone else on the team was sitting at 4–17.
Anyone would get annoyed being blamed like that.
Ji Wenze adjusted his posture, waiting with interest for the streamer to fire back.
“…Sigh.” The streamer inhaled sharply, checked the scoreboard again, then—after a few seconds—turned on his mic. Surprisingly, his tone was almost apologetic.
“Sorry, sorry. Been working overtime lately, my form’s bad. That guy swung wide from behind the wall, I didn’t react in time… Let’s go, we’ve got this!”
[Others are trash-talk streamers—you’re an apology streamer]
[The corporate slave energy is leaking out]
[Sumimasen! (bows deeply)]
Ji Wenze raised an eyebrow.
So mild-tempered?
Then he remembered that trembling voice from years ago, insisting on paying him back—and it suddenly made perfect sense.
Still… someone like this probably got pushed around easily in real life.
He tapped the table lightly, taking another sip of his drink, lost in thought.
“Huh?” one teammate suddenly said. “Your voice sounds familiar… wait—aren’t you res from J-Station?”
Silence.
Dead silence.
In voice chat, that was. In the stream, Respit2 had already let out a pained wail the moment he was recognized.
“No no no—” He bonked his head against the desk, only the top of his fluffy hair visible on camera, as if trying to disappear into the floor. “This is like someone barging in while you’re in the bathroom!”
In voice chat, the teammate kept calling out:
“I know it’s you, res! You’re streaming! Don’t hide!”
Thud. Thud. Another couple of solid head knocks.
“…Yeah… haha… it’s me… sorry, man,” Respit2 admitted awkwardly.
The teammate instantly switched tone, delighted:
“You should’ve said so earlier! Why apologize? I know you’re always this level anyway—no worries! Damn!”
[??? That’s so rude!]
[Streamer exposed again lol]
[Best voice in the Valorant scene btw]
[Vanilla Cup champion right here!]
Vanilla Cup? Respit2 competed?
Curious, Ji Wenze searched briefly, found nothing, and messaged Xue Jian directly:
[What’s the Vanilla Cup? Respit2 played in it?]
He silently repeated the name Respite in his mind and chuckled. Not just the “2”—even the name itself echoed his own “Executer.”
Xue Jian replied with four full lines of question marks.
[???]
[Do you even know what you’re saying, CEO Ji?]
Ji Wenze narrowed his eyes and sent a voice message instead:
“The chat says Respit2 won the Vanilla Cup. When was that tournament?”
“I’m begging you, old fossil!” Xue Jian groaned. “Say it properly—xiang (third tone), cao (fourth tone). Read it yourself.”
…
A second later, Ji Wenze instantly deleted both messages.
His jaw tightened. For the first time after drinking, his head started pounding.
Back in the stream, the youthful teammates—very much unlike him, an “old fossil”—were already shouting:
“Guys, guys! Our ‘security guard’ is the ultimate spawn-point shotcaller! Once he dies, he can lead us properly!”
“We’re a three-stack—we’ll listen to everything you say!”
“Res, I’ve wanted to be your dog for ages!”
“Let me serve you, master! I just want to rank up!”
“I’ve got good aim! I hit 29 on hard bots!”
For some reason, Ji Wenze pictured a blurry-faced young man surrounded by college kids yelling “Let me be your dog,” looking overwhelmed in the middle of chaos.
The absurd mental image made him laugh.
But… Respit2’s shotcalling?
Interest flickered in his eyes. He fiddled with the setup and cast the stream onto the TV.
He’d known of Respit2 for eight or nine years, watched some of his analysis videos—but seeing him actually play? That was new.
Back when the CN region hadn’t even been established, Ji Wenze had once asked ICG to approach Respit2 about becoming an analyst.
They’d come back saying the kid was only seventeen.
A literal minor.
The idea was dropped immediately.
By now, that kid should be around twenty-five or twenty-six.
Ji Wenze drained the last of his juice and casually tossed the carton into the trash from afar.
Messages from Xue Jian kept popping up at the top of the screen—“CEO Ji this, CEO Ji that.” Ji Wenze chuckled, muted the chat, and enjoyed the quiet.
“Res, do you think we can win?” the 4–17 teammate asked.
Respit2 thought for a moment, then smiled lightly.
“We’re all Mythic players. Why can they win, but we can’t?”
The countdown began.
Ji Wenze set his phone aside, sat cross-legged on the carpet, holding the milk carton like a beer can, eyes fixed on the screen—unaware of the faint smile on his lips.
Yeah.
Why can’t they win?
He really did like this kid.
In truth, Yu Sibo didn’t enjoy shotcalling for random teammates—it was exhausting and thankless. But with his trio teammates eagerly waiting, he hesitated.
Just as he was about to speak, another voice cut in—irritated:
“Are you guys insane? If your aim sucks, don’t play FPS games. You’re simping for some trash streamer—he’s not gonna sleep with you.”
The speaker was their top-fragging duelist.
The cheerful atmosphere fell silent.
At Mythic rank, Respit2 was well-known. People who recognized him usually had one of two reactions—either excitement, like the trio, or annoyance, like this guy.
Yu Sibo sighed.
“It’s fine. I’m used to it,” he said calmly—while immediately reporting the guy for abusive language.
Then he added to chat, deadpan:
“Sounds like a rookie trash-talker. Too many banned words—his account won’t last long. His parents would be so disappointed.”
[Emotionally stable corporate worker energy…]
[Such a gentle res-mom]
[??? Momification happening]
[Corporate workers be like: stable outside, insane inside]
“Don’t listen to him, res!”
“Just lead us—I want to win!”
“You really trust me?” Yu Sibo asked, buying gear.
“Absolutely!”
As the next round began, he sat up straighter, reviewing their team composition.
“Hey… this is basically ICG’s championship lineup,” he said with a grin. “Want to try their strategy?”
“Wait—you didn’t even watch the finals! How do you know it?”
“I help with their scrims sometimes,” Yu Sibo said casually. “I had a hand in the strategy too… though they never paid me!”
The trio immediately started protesting on his behalf.
As they took positions, Yu Sibo explained calmly:
“They’ll default A early. I’ll take first contact—but you know me, I might not hit anything.”
“Got it, I’ll cover for you!” one teammate laughed.
“Perfect!” Yu Sibo adjusted the plan smoothly.
Moments later, his call about a sniper was proven right.
“Holy shit!” someone yelled.
“If I hadn’t listened, I’d be dead,” the duelist admitted quietly.
Yu Sibo didn’t mock him. Instead:
“I’ll draw fire—can you take him?”
“…Yeah.”
“Three, two—one!”
Gunfire rang out.
The sniper missed.
The duelist fired, but didn’t secure the kill.
At the last moment—
Yu Sibo stepped in.
A clean shot.
Kill secured.
“Sniper down. Let’s rotate.”
“Holy shit, nice shot!”
“Who said our streamer can’t hit anything?!”
From there, under his coordination, they turned the game around—7:11 to 12:12, then winning 14:12 in overtime.
Cheers erupted in voice chat.
His ID was revealed:
[I Can’t Hit Anyone]
12–19–12
Decent enough.
Before the voice chat disconnected, the duelist spoke:
“…Sorry, res. I was out of line. You’re really good.”
Yu Sibo didn’t reply.
He accepted friend requests from the trio, but declined their next invite.
Just then, a familiar voice rang out:
“Don’t queue with them—I’m here!”
Yu Sibo switched screens, smiling.
“Champion, you’re late—almost had to pull an all-nighter casting.”
They started reviewing the finals together.
“By the way,” Yu Sibo asked carefully, “did Ka-shen say if he’s coming?”
A pause.
“…He said no.”
Yu Sibo fell silent for two seconds.
“…Haha, figured. He’s always been hard to track down.”
[Stop smiling, you look like you’re breaking]
[Is Execut2 even alive anymore?]
[Online? Definitely dead]
“Don’t ship nonsense,” Yu Sibo cut in. “My husband just retired—not dead. I’m not remarrying.”
Then he changed the subject:
“Speaking of which… we got a new boss today.”
His tone turned lively—like a college student, completely at odds with his real, expressionless face.
“I almost told him off today… but then I saw his face…”
A pause.
“…and felt like maybe forgiving him for a second wasn’t impossible.”
[LMAO how hot is he??]
[Your type??]
“Not really,” Yu Sibo said. “Also, there’s no such thing as a cold, silent CEO in real life. How would they run projects—communicate with pie charts in their eyes?”
Jianglan Yufu.
Ji Wenze had to admit—Respit2’s voice was pleasant. Cool-toned, but not flat; there was warmth and brightness in it.
Maybe it was the excitement from the earlier match, but as he listened to the commentary, drowsiness crept in.
Unlike most people, alcohol didn’t make him sleepy—it usually kept him awake all night.
But now…
He let himself sink back against the sofa.
His vision dimmed.
Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he heard:
“Speaking of which… we got a new boss today…”
Ji Wenze frowned slightly.
“About one-third as handsome as my god Execut2!”
His eyes snapped open, still hazy with alcohol.
“…just always smiling… doesn’t seem like a good person.”
Ji Wenze jolted upright.
Fully awake.