Warm clouds, heavy with sticky winds, hung low over the dimming sky.
Somewhere in the city, the blare of heavy metal noise cut through the air. A third-rate musician hammered at his instruments on a fully rigged stage, roaring himself hoarse and sweating buckets as he poured his soul into the music. The annual electronic music festival had just kicked off, but the glowing signs clutched by the crowd weren’t for the onstage performers—they bore the names of the esports world’s hottest stars.
Hot on the heels of the music fest came the Cloud Summit Decisive Battle Chinese Division championship finals. This electrifying esports spectacle was raging through the month, with the qualifiers already culling the weak. The pro arena was a brutal crucible for geniuses, equal parts thrill and slaughter.
The festival itself was a rally cry for the national team hopefuls, its pounding anthems firing up every die-hard fan. Cameras prowled the scene, spotlights swept the crowd, and flashing signs swayed wildly. Even the singers grabbed their mics to bellow, “SK wins!”
SK—the undisputed champ of the domestic leagues and a top pick for the grand finals. Cloud Summit Decisive Battle had launched back in 2007, evolving through countless patches into the king of MOBA games.
Official numbers didn’t lie: 54 million daily active players worldwide.
Peak concurrents topping 25 million.
Over 100 million monthly actives.
In a sea of players that vast, precious few Chinese squads had clawed their way out of the division to the global server over more than a decade. This year, SK steamrolled over a dozen rivals with raw dominance, storming into finals contention. Fans hung their dreams on the team, bets flying on whether they’d break out internationally to conquer the EU server. The esports frenzy gripped everyone from top to bottom.
Right now, the Cloud Summit Decisive Battle pro stage crackled with tension.
Ten elite players faced off—representatives of the two esports titans, Shanghai SK and Guangzhou TKG. The match had hit fever pitch, a crucial step toward global glory.
The championship trophy every pro dreamed of gleamed golden on the Crystal Podium. The crowd held its breath, afraid to shatter the silence, leaving only the commentator’s fevered roars to echo through the arena.
“SK surges with their final all-in! If TKG can’t hold the line, it’s over for them! Can SK seal the deal?! Jiu Shuang dives in! Jiu Shuang deletes him! Jiu Shuang deletes Nenya!”
The support tanks the damage and tops off the heals just in time. Mid laner nails a clutch flash to burst down the enemy ADC, paving the way for SK’s unstoppable rampage to claim the final group stage victory.
~~~
6:40 p.m. in the Rest Room.
The players trickled back in one by one.
Beneath the vivid red team uniform lurked a slender frame. The oversized sports jersey sported the SK logo and player names across the chest. A smooth, jade-like hand slipped from the sleeve, its fingertips a tender pink that contrasted with the back of the hand. These were the hands that had sparked endless drama in the esports scene, belonging to the most overlooked role of all: support—Yun Qi.
For a support, victory was never his to claim, but defeat always landed squarely on his shoulders. Yet Yun Qi was anything but invisible. The face hidden under his cap alone was tabloid gold. Hailed as SK’s breakout star, he fueled a nonstop storm of headlines: sugar daddy scandals, fan-fic pairings with his straight-arrow captain, confessions of ex-boyfriends, shoutouts from rival streamers. Netizens scratched their heads, trashed him online, then snapped up every juicy update.
One streamer, P Dad, had dropped a live bombshell, admitting he’d hooked up with Yun Qi and vaguely teasing their fling. He even bragged that the Pure Desire War God was “fragrant all over.”
It exploded on Mai Lang, the streaming platform’s trending charts—and the buzz hadn’t fully died down.
Small wonder that fans and teammates alike couldn’t help letting their eyes drift south whenever they looked at Yun Qi.
“Not your turn yet?” Xue Yan caught Yun Qi fidgeting, crushing the half-empty mineral water bottle in his grip. Spotting the familiar nervous tic, he dragged over a chair and settled in beside him.
Yun Qi gave his head a small shake but didn’t protest the company. His fingers had gone bloodless from the pressure, and with his pale face tucked under the cap’s brim, he looked utterly drained.
“When can we get out of here?” he murmured, a thread of impatience weaving through his soft voice—miles from his polished on-camera charm.
“Captain’s tied up with interviews, then we’ve got the team poster shoot. Probably another hour,” Xue Yan said, leaning back as he studied Yun Qi’s shadowed profile. “If you’re feeling that rough, I can flag down the coach and let you head to the team car for a breather.”
“No need,” Yun Qi shot back quickly. “I’m fine.”
Xue Yan watched him for a little while and saw no major issues, so he relaxed. In the final ten minutes of the Grand Finals, Yun Qi’s old problem had flared up again. Xue Yan had spotted it right away and alerted the coach. The match had barely ended when the coach sent Yun Qi back to the rest room.
“What’s really going on with this condition of yours?” Xue Yan asked, genuinely puzzled. “This is the third time. I first noticed it during the qualifiers against TY. Is social anxiety… seriously this bad?”
Yun Qi’s face was ashen. “I don’t know.”
Xue Yan couldn’t resist reaching out to touch the ends of his hair. “You’re sweating.”
Yun Qi’s ears flushed red, as if blood were about to drip from them. The color wasn’t quite right—not simple shyness, but more like some involuntary physical response. He shoved the water bottle away. “I need to step out for a bit.”
Xue Yan didn’t try to stop him. He just stared blankly at his fingertips. Moments later, almost without thinking, he lifted his finger to his nose and sniffed. There was no trace of the scent he’d half-expected.
He chuckled to himself, amused at his own foolishness.
The rest room opened onto a long corridor. It was seven in the evening, and the official matches had wrapped up. Every pro player was holed up in their team’s rest room, waiting for interviews and the usual post-game busywork. Yun Qi paused in a quiet corner, leaning against the wall as angry voices spilled out from one of the rooms.
“Whoever screwed up that last teamfight knows exactly what they did! No need to spell it out!”
“I dove on their core carry, but nobody followed up! Huohuo was clearing minions like he was dead asleep! I called it out ahead of time, over and over, but no one synced with me. Are you even pros? F**k, you can’t even match my plays with random pubs!”
“Yuese had vision on me—how the hell was I supposed to flank? He was camping for my head. Support wasn’t with me; I had no safe path in. You want me to just hard commit without clearing?”
“Can’t you kite?”
“Bro, you think I’m on Tiger Head? Tell me how Mudman kites—that dude straight-up blocked my path!”
“Jiu Shuang flashed and burst me down in seconds. Zero counterplay. And SK’s support was velcroed to their ADC—I never had a window to delete him.”
“I don’t even wanna talk about it anymore. Back to the Exchange with you all!”
The room erupted in a cacophony of furious shouts and bitter regrets. Coaches and players clashing like this was par for the course. They might play up the team harmony for the cameras, but a loss like this meant waiting a full year for another shot. Even longtime teammates snapped at each other now and then, and freshly assembled starting rosters? Forget it. They weren’t just missing out on the championship—they risked getting shuffled by the club straight into the Exchange, the dumping ground every pro despised. Languish there waiting for a new buyer, and if none came? Your career was done.
Cloud Summit Decisive Battle stood apart from other MOBAs. Its barrier to entry was brutal, a nightmare for newbies. Every hero packed four main abilities and three passives, with some shifting between dual or even triple forms. The sheer variety made mastery a grind, spiking dropout rates. Player numbers were huge, sure, but nearly everyone languished in the low elo trenches. True top-tier talent? Rare as hen’s teeth. Folks called it the game that’d have you laughed out of an internet cafe without three to five years under your belt.
Back in the day, the steep learning curve kept it niche in the domestic scene—barely any Cloud Summit Decisive Battle lobbies lighting up net cafe screens. Then came wave after wave of reworks, simplifying hero kits to draw in the masses. Players poured in, dual-form heroes faded into the background, accessibility soared, and the game claimed its throne as an official esports staple.
Yun Qi knew those curses all too well—echoes of his own brutal past. He’d been there, flailing like a headless fly as teammates and the coach tore into him, head bowed in silence. Wins and losses weren’t always on one guy, but he couldn’t push back. Too green, too timid, no clout. He’d swallowed the Ls, choking them down alone. That was the savage, cutthroat dawn of Cloud Summit Decisive Battle. He’d never forget it.
The roars from inside hit him now, and Yun Qi tugged off his cap. Sweat plastered his hair to his cheeks, lending them a fragile sheen. He lowered his gaze to the red rash blooming along his arm beneath the hiked-up sleeve. He clenched his fist around it, clinging to calm and clarity amid the barrage of shouts and distant cheers.
Bang! A rest room door flew open, and two figures stormed out. One fumed, “That’s it for this year, bros. Catch you at the Exchange.”
The other tried, “Brother Jia, easy now.”
The first one wheeled back. “I’ve given everything on this stage. I pored over E God’s builds for a full week—optimized to the absolute limit. If we still can’t win with that? This team’s the problem!”
With that, he stormed off in a huff.
Muffled grumbling drifted out from behind the door. “You’re running Eidis’s build, but you’re no Eidis. What are you so smug about?”
The man was just turning back toward his room when he spotted someone crouched in the corner. He frowned and called out tentatively, “Qiluo?”
Yun Qi looked up. He hadn’t taken off his team uniform yet, so the man recognized him right away. He sauntered over, eyeing Yun Qi with leisurely amusement. “What’s this? SK’s on top of the world this time, huh? Come to eavesdrop on us?”
The other man had clearly gotten the wrong idea about why Yun Qi was there, but Yun Qi didn’t bother explaining. He clutched a small bottle in his hand, greedily sniffing it under his nose.
Muttering half to himself, the man went on in a desultory tone. “Lang Xian’s a beast, isn’t he? The most valuable top laner in the game right now. Your team’s got a killer jungler who dictates the pace, an ADC who can keep up, and Jiu Shuang’s just on another level. No shame in losing to that.”
He lavished praise on every position on the team—except support.
Yun Qi stayed silent. After a brief pause, the man added, “Man, I wish I could just pick soft support and coast to an easy win.”
Yun Qi shoved his sleeves up his arms. After the man tossed out a few more snide barbs, Yun Qi finally replied, “Then pick it.”
The debate over Yun Qi’s role wasn’t anything new. He’d heard all the bias against soft supports more times than he could count. Usually, he’d just shrug it off with a laugh and move on, but today he was uncharacteristically aggressive. He stood up and faced the man squarely. “A jungler who can’t farm eight thousand gold in ten minutes, a top laner suppressed so badly they can’t even step out of tower after two minutes, a shooter who can’t land last hits, a mage riddled with micro mistakes—good luck coasting to victory with that lineup.”
The man flew into a rage. “You know exactly how you wormed your way into SK!”
“Of course I do. I know my place.” Yun Qi’s expression remained perfectly calm, laced with sincere honesty. “SK’s an idol team. You’ve got to bring something to the table—looks or skill. If you think I don’t measure up, go talk to the guild. Get them to boot me.”
The man clearly harbored a grudge against Yun Qi and had no intention of pulling punches. He fired back with cutting precision. “Pro player? Please. You’re just a pretty face for marketing. SK’s not long for this world.”
“That’s not for you to worry about.”
The man clenched his fist. “No wonder you’re letting guys fuck you with a face like that. You’ve got everyone at SK head over heels, don’t you?”
Losses, taunts, the yawning gap in skill, resentment toward the victors—these emotions had all piled up, and now the man had dropped any pretense.
Too bad Yun Qi’s reaction fell flat.
His face showed no ripple of emotion, as if the insults weren’t aimed at him at all.
“Can’t beat us fair and square, so you resort to trash-talking after the match? That last line could end your career on the spot. Believe me?”
The two were locked in a tense standoff when Xue Yan came looking. He glanced at the man in front of Yun Qi and clocked him from the team uniform as one of their defeated rivals.
Yun Qi glanced back over his shoulder. Xue Yan strode up to stand beside him.
“If you’ve got a problem with SK, take it to the rift and prove it. Personal attacks? That’s weak. No matter what he’s like, it’s not your call to make.” Xue Yan made a rude gesture. The man ground his teeth, fully aware of Xue Yan’s standing at SK, and didn’t dare clap back.
A moment later, he snorted and stormed back to his room.
Xue Yan brushed it off, rolling his eyes at the man’s retreating back. “Next time you run into trash like that, don’t hold back. Just roast him.”
Yun Qi lowered his gaze. “Mm.”
Xue Yan relayed the message. “Coach is back. He’s calling for you.”
“Got it.”
Yun Qi fell into step behind him. Even after the matches wrapped, the venue hummed with energy. Fans mobbed their favorite teams, and backstage interviews were in full swing. Amid the throng, Yun Qi spotted Lang Xian standing next to the host.
“Captain Lang, are you and Qi Qi super close off the rift? We keep seeing those training vids from the studio with you two. Netizens are saying you’re the real deal—is there any truth to it?”
SK’s team captain Lang Xian was also the hottest top laner on the market right now. Personal questions like that didn’t faze him. He answered with disarming candor. “Yeah, I like him a lot.”
Yun Qi tugged his cap low over his face and headed off in the opposite direction.
