Chapter 7

In the blink of an eye, the Grand Finals were upon them.

The night before the Grand Finals, every member of SK holed up in the Training Room and didn’t emerge. Everyone knew what a victory here would mean—no one dared slack off. The usual loafers and corner-cutters were all present, glued to their stations in silent practice.

Truth be told, the coach didn’t recommend grinding on the eve of a match. He wanted the team to rest up and hit peak form. But with KRO on the schedule for tomorrow, sleep was impossible for anyone that night.

The Head Coach hovered in the Training Room all day, pacing left and right. He had top Youth Trainees scrim with them, set up National Server duels, and pored over their micro for any weaknesses.

“Tomorrow’s the biggest pressure on Chen Xia,” the coach said, standing behind him. “Liu Ying’s a jungler Eidis trained himself, so his style will mirror Eidis’s. Expect Carmilla or Riven—heroes with dominant jungle tempo. Everyone, stay vigilant in the Jungle. Group up tight and don’t let them counterjungle.”

He scratched his head. “Besides Liu Ying, keep tabs on Ziwu too. He might snag Water Moon Princess. Save the bans for Liu Ying; Water Moon Princess should slip through. She’s a handful in teamfights, Captain Lang, so watch for a pick-off chance before the big clash.”

“Got it,” Lang Xian replied.

The coach sighed worriedly. “As for Jiu Ke… no clue what he’ll take. KRO’s still an enigma to us. We’ll have to read it live.”

Every role on KRO gave him a headache. Their strategies were a mystery—they hadn’t clashed much, leaving nothing but guesses. KRO tore through the Foreign Servers and lorded over the domestic scene without a single loss. Local teams crumpled before them. Pull any player out, and you’d have a National Server celeb worth a fortune, all teammates of Eidis. Who wouldn’t feel their knees buckle?

Countless prodigies in the Pro Scene begged for a scrap of Eidis’s wisdom, and KRO boasted a jungler he’d mentored straight from Youth Training. They called Liu Ying Little E God, the next big thing to redefine the meta.

No jungler didn’t envy him. A pointer or two from Eidis was the ultimate badge of honor.

The coach rattled off instructions. Yun Qi, meanwhile, was lost in his own head, mulling the Grand Finals tomorrow. Would he show?

“What’re you zoning out about?” Xue Yan nudged his arm. “Heard KRO and got cold feet?”

Yun Qi admitted, “Can’t say I’m not a little scared.”

Xue Yan’s mood was dour, energy flat. “I’ve called it already. No point stressing.”

“What’d you call?”

“We lose,” Xue Yan said. “Not trying to demoralize, but KRO’s a monster. Undefeated domestically for years. Foreign results aside, they own this server. Our team’s a fractured mess—can’t even gel. Hitting this stage is a miracle.”

Internal strife was poison in esports. Fine against peers, maybe, but KRO? Divergent plays, core carry and support out of sync—good luck going far.

It was a team game, after all.

Xue Yan was honestly stunned they’d lasted this long. The coach could spin gold from straw; he still saw zero shot at finals glory.

Jiu Shuang and Chen Xia brimmed with fire, vowing peak performance tomorrow. The coach just smiled. “No need for heroics. Stay clean, no blunders.”

Once he’d wrapped with them, he turned to Yun Qi. “Qiluo, come with me.”

Yun Qi rose in a fog and trailed him to another room.

“Any guess why I pulled you aside?” The coach was young, with a kindly face. SK had burned through two coaches before him—the last ousted for prickly vibes and sour looks.

“No clue,” Yun Qi said. “Tomorrow stuff?”

“Grand Finals? Win or lose, that’s on them. You’re support—your lane’s narrow.” Even pros overlooked supports—not shade, just reality. Less flashy mechanics, more raw game sense. “Chatted with the manager yesterday. We gotta snag Danwan. He’s on it; should join soon. This isn’t shade on you—a talent like that can’t feed a rival team.”

While claiming that the support position had limited room for operations, he was also afraid that Danwan would end up flowing to another team. There were many things a support could do, but the hardest part was eliminating others’ prejudices against the position. The coach repeatedly insisted that tomorrow’s win or loss had nothing to do with him, yet he couldn’t wait to bring Danwan under his wing. The implication was already crystal clear.

Yun Qi was still not truly recognized by the team. They still believed his value lay in his popularity rather than his performance in matches. If one day his popularity dropped and he no longer had as many fans, bringing no benefits to the team, that would be the moment he was booted from SK. That much was certain.

Yun Qi desperately wished his coach would offer him a bit more guidance. Now, it seemed he had still been harboring naive hopes, thinking the coach was different from the other members and would understand that the support position wasn’t simple at all.

“Understood,” Yun Qi said.

“Give it your all tomorrow anyway. Danwan was just bought over, so he definitely won’t start right away. But if we lose tomorrow, the team will have to make strategic adjustments internally. At the latest next season, Danwan should be able to sub in for you.”

Yun Qi wasn’t stupid. He knew the underlying meaning: if they lost tomorrow’s match, he would be the one replaced—a reasonable swap with the new support. That was what they meant by “strategic adjustments,” and they’d already put it very diplomatically.

“Do your best,” the coach said, patting Yun Qi’s shoulder. “I’m still optimistic about you.”

Yun Qi nodded and lowered his gaze. “Thank you, Coach.”

After leaving the meeting room, Yun Qi lingered in place for a moment. He watched the coach head out, while the lively sounds from the Training Room echoed in his ears. Ever since joining SK, his heart had never settled—like a headless fly buzzing around aimlessly, unsure which team to join or which one would even want him. When SK had bought him out, he’d thought he’d finally been recognized. Turns out, it was all wishful thinking on his part.

No one recognized supports, and even fewer acknowledged soft supports. This controversial position of his had never truly gained acceptance.

“It was my call on Danwan,” a voice suddenly rang out beside him as Yun Qi zoned out. He didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. Lang Xian said in a low voice, “I told you I needed an answer from you before the Grand Finals. If you won’t take the initiative, then I will. I’ll bring Danwan in proactively.”

For some reason, Yun Qi suddenly felt enlightened upon hearing this—he wasn’t annoyed at all, as if he’d seen it coming. “A great decision. I’ve been tired of competing too. I can rest next season—I’m thrilled about that.”

It was a failure for a pro player to lose their starting spot, yet Yun Qi claimed to be thrilled. Lang Xian latched onto this insincere statement and pressed aggressively, “Whether you’re really thrilled or not, only you know. I don’t want to do this to you, Yun Qi, but people’s patience has limits. Don’t blame me for it.”

“I wouldn’t dare. What are you saying, Captain?” Yun Qi stared at the reflective floor, his expression calm. “Once Danwan joins, maybe I can even pick up a few tricks from him. That’d be way more efficient than me fumbling around alone, don’t you think?”

Lang Xian’s face turned ashen. He’d waited two days just to hear this kind of answer from Yun Qi, and frustration surged through him. In that moment, he truly hated that face of his.

“Heading to training, Captain.” Yun Qi walked into the Training Room, refusing to confront Lang Xian any longer. He knew the other man must be fuming inside—no matter. Things had already come to this, and Yun Qi wasn’t afraid of them getting worse.

That day, Lang Xian barely acknowledged him.

They trained separately despite sitting together, their hearts not aligned. Yun Qi put on his headset, pretending to be completely unaffected by the world around him.

Before bed that night, Yun Qi checked his streaming account. Fans were cheering him on, some saying they’d snagged tickets to the Grand Finals and leaving messages like “See you at the venue tomorrow!” They even reminded him to rest well and aim for a strong performance.

Yun Qi wanted to rest well too, but tonight was destined to be sleepless. He stood by the window in a daze until the early hours of the morning.

He wondered how many more days SK would tolerate him.

He wondered how many more days he could tolerate Lang Xian.

The next day, the Grand Finals arrived as scheduled.

The pro scene was abuzz with energy. Crowds of spectators filed in according to procedure, filling the seats with glowing light-up signs and banners. Pre-match hype blasted through thundering rock music, making the atmosphere far more tense than at the qualifiers.

The three big-name commentators from the scene were testing their mics and adjusting their outfits. Spectators trickled in steadily, while staff moved through the stands, checking on everyone.

KRO’s members had already arrived, including their head coach, and they’d bumped into SK backstage.

As expected from a team that had competed on the foreign server, KRO carried themselves with the nonchalance of those who’d seen far bigger stages. There wasn’t a hint of panic on their faces. When greeting SK, every member smiled politely yet distantly. Even the usually arrogant Jiu Shuang acted deferential and courteous in front of this team, calling them “bro” left and right, a complete departure from his sharp-tongued nature.

The coaches knew each other well and exchanged laughs and banter. The competitive tension between the teams had eased for the moment—not out of any harmony between them, but because KRO simply didn’t regard SK as a threat.

It was true, after all. How could the dark horse SK, freshly risen to prominence, compare to KRO, the veteran squad that had dominated the EU Server for years? The championship favorites and the three-time champions weren’t even in the same league. Back home, KRO had no rivals. SK’s momentum this year—blasting through to the Grand Finals amid high hopes—was undercut by their own operational issues. When it came to raw strength, SK had no grounds for arrogance.

Yun Qi eyed their opponents. The enemy’s support player was a big name in the scene, with a string of legendary tales to his credit. Yun Qi wasn’t one for small talk, so he had no intention of forcing a conversation. To his surprise, though, the man deigned to speak first. “Your Mudman’s pretty solid. Good luck out there.”

Yun Qi replied politely, “Thanks.”

After a brief encounter backstage, each team retreated to their rest room to prepare. Before leaving, Yun Qi scanned the KRO members several times, searching for that familiar figure.

He wasn’t there.

Back in the rest room, Xue Yan sighed. “I just shook a hand, and my morale’s shot. KRO’s intimidating as hell.”

“Yeah, smiling tigers,” Chen Xia agreed, feeling the same chill. They changed into their team uniforms while mulling over the strange vibe from that short exchange of greetings.

“Stick close to me out there,” Jiu Shuang said. “We can’t let them shut us out clean. Never mind the others—that Liu Ying alone, trained under E God… he’s got me spooked.”

“Enough,” Chen Xia said, drawing a deep breath. “I’m tense enough already.”

Yun Qi was fastening his uniform when Xue Yan sidled up behind him. “Did KRO’s support say something to you?”

Yun Qi glanced back. “Yeah. Caught me off guard too.”

“Seemed pretty friendly,” Xue Yan noted. “The rest barely acknowledged us—just smiles at most. What’d he say?”

“Nothing much. Told me to do my best.”

“Cheering on the enemy. All surface-level courtesy.”

Yun Qi didn’t respond. Lang Xian approached, and Xue Yan tactfully stepped back. Yun Qi spotted him but pretended not to notice until Lang Xian broke the silence. “Disappointed your idol didn’t show?”

Yun Qi kept his head down, quietly adjusting his clothes.

Lang Xian shadowed his every move, speaking out of nowhere. “I told you, Eidis won’t stoop to notice you. Get real. You can still give me a different answer. Danwan’s in now, but I could get you back on the roster next season.”

“No need,” Yun Qi said. He finished dressing, turned to face Lang Xian, and met his eyes coolly. “Save the captain’s kindness for someone else. Plenty of people could use your care. If you want to shine, aim it at the darkness—that’s where you’ll get the response you’re after.”

Lang Xian glared at him.

“I’m heading out.” Yun Qi left the rest room first, ignoring Lang Xian’s mood.

Backstage, he spotted the KRO members waiting for the signal to take the stage. The roar from the arena ahead grew louder—the hosts and casters were in position. Yun Qi could almost hear everyone’s heartbeats.

They were all on edge.

“Your chest badge?” Chen Xia noticed something and nudged him.

Yun Qi looked down. Sure enough, he’d forgotten his team badge. He patted his pocket. “Coach, I’ll run back and grab it.”

“Make it quick,” the coach said.

Yun Qi nodded and hurried to the rest room.

He found the badge on the table, snatched it up, and bolted back out. Passing one of the rooms, he suddenly felt a jolt—not from anywhere external, but from his heart, as if something had struck it dead center.

He turned his head. Through the crack in the door, he saw a hand with prominent knuckles resting on the armrest, idly toying with an unlit cigarette.

The man was sunk deep into a brown leather sofa, his black short boots propped high. The gray pants tucked into them radiated casual ease. One leg crossed over the other, a spotless ashtray on the table beside him. He sat with his back to the door, and a little boy sprawled across those powerful thighs, staring wide-eyed toward the entrance.

Their voices boomed with easy conversation, laced with hearty laughter. It stood in stark contrast to the tense, high-stakes arena beyond—like they were mocking the nail-biting match ahead, or perhaps secure in their control over its outcome, the true backers pulling the strings.

Suddenly, the man turned his face.

Yun Qi jerked away, his heart leaping to his throat. In that instant, he wished he could vanish on the spot, wished he’d been mistaken. But his heartbeat didn’t lie.

He had come.

That hand—which had caressed his body countless times, wrought countless miracles on the esports stage, and could make Yun Qi tremble from head to toe with just a single glance—was now pounding wildly against the door to Yun Qi’s heart.

Turbulent and shocking.

Secret and brazen.