Yun Qi’s eyelids fluttered.
Yu Jin slipped the room card into his pocket, withdrew his hand, and took a step back.
But Yun Qi’s cheeks were still burning hot, and the spot where those fingertips had lingered carried a faint itch. Unable to resist, Yun Qi reached up and scratched it.
“Three months without results means elimination. Got it?” Yu Jin stood two steps away, fixing Yun Qi with a steady gaze. The room door hung open, but this suite was tucked deep in the hall—no one would pass by. Total privacy.
“Got it,” Yun Qi replied, pressing a hand to his face. “They already told me.”
He didn’t dare meet Yu Jin’s eyes. In that moment, Yun Qi couldn’t have said why, but he felt the other’s scorching gaze pinning him without restraint, amplifying his unease.
“I’ll give you one month. You’ve got the fundamentals—you’ve competed before, unlike the others. Your support play is solid, no glaring errors. In your old team, nothing flashy, but no slip-ups either. Steady as she goes. At best, that gets you one rank up as support. Not starting roster material.”
Yun Qi knew it all too well. Support had its mechanical flair, sure, but it boiled down to basics: initiate fights, protect your carries. That’s table stakes for a competent support. Win the teamfight, and support shares the glory—the rest rides on your teammates.
Especially for Yun Qi’s soft support style. No initiation burst from him. He excelled at flexible peels without mistakes, but he’d filled the role late, not risen through youth training on elite support instincts and results. Plenty outshone him there.
Against that crowd, he was solidly average.
“But I haven’t touched other lanes in ages,” Yun Qi ventured.
“Practice,” Yu Jin said. “Hands gone rusty?”
Yun Qi curled his fingertips inward.
“Talent isn’t something you catch in a couple days of grinding. By the same token, it doesn’t evaporate if you slack off short-term. It’s still there in you. Question is, do you want to tap it?”
Talent. Yu Jin was the last word on it. In his teens, he’d torn through the esports circle with an indie team. What else could you call that? From first keystroke to global server #1 in a few short years—prime-time drama wouldn’t touch a script that neat. Esports was a grand stage riddled with heartbreak, yet none of it had ever touched him. He seemed born for it, born to claim the peak.
The tragic falls of those esports gods who’d burned bright and faded? Nowhere in his story. Years in the wilderness, and he picks up the keyboard to unleash that same terrifying dominance. Talent alone didn’t cover it—his prime lasted longer than most. Undeniable genius. The kind the scene might not see again for years.
“You act like I’m guaranteed to win,” Yun Qi couldn’t help saying. “Why?”
So many rivals, so many contenders. One month? What kind of faith backed that? The certainty he’d crush them all in weeks, stand at his side.
He’d graduated youth training as top laner server #1, but SK and KRO were worlds apart. Beyond trial trainees, they had veteran players jumping from other squads—geniuses stacked deeper than any mid-tier team.
Even Yun Qi couldn’t bet on making starting roster with 100% odds. Yet Yu Jin was more convinced than he was.
“Why?” Yu Jin echoed. “Dig deep for you, then watch the team boot you? That the plan?”
Yun Qi froze.
“Right now, you look like a bad investment. Even at full price, I can’t afford my old team fleecing me that hard. But I paid it anyway. Why?” He leaned back against the desk. “For an esports pro, what else justifies top dollar?”
Yun Qi parted his lips, then pressed them shut.
“Your old team had no clue what they let slip away. No idea that scrawny kid they scooped up had senses like no other. Thinks thirty million’s his jackpot? Let’s check back in a month: who profited, him or me?” Yu Jin closed the distance again.
Yun Qi looked up. Yu Jin gripped his chin, leaning in close to search his eyes. Their breaths mingled over that striking face, Yu Jin’s gaze burning fierce. “One year slinging support at SK and you lost all your fire? Forgot what I told you three years back? You were my dream top laner then. Still are.”
Yun Qi gazed into Yu Jin’s eyes. A scorching heat climbed from the soles of his feet straight up to his brain, spilling out through his eyes and turning his sockets faintly red. In that instant, a sensation he hadn’t felt in ages swept him back to his youth training days. Back then, there was no deeper reason for it—he had simply been enthralled by this feeling, utterly convinced by it.
He had gone mad for it.
Willing to stake his entire life on it.
Yu Jin released him. He clearly hadn’t planned to say so much tonight, nor to linger any longer, but something unexpectedly held him back. He turned around without another word. “Get some good rest. Formal practice starts tomorrow.”
Then he left.
Closing the door behind him.
Yun Qi stood rooted to the spot, his heart refusing to settle. As a total newcomer, he had arrived brimming with anxiety and fear—but in the moment Yu Jin spoke those words, it all vanished in a flash.
He wants me. Just like three years ago.
Don’t you blame me? Don’t you hate me? Don’t you want to know the truth about why I dumped you back then? Aren’t you going to twist the knife with those harsh words I threw at you today? You should be mocking me—mocking how I’m all talk and no delivery, a total letdown, delusional for even dreaming of the starting roster.
Why say all that? Do you want me to love you even more?
Yun Qi raised a hand to his lips. They felt hot and damp, as if they’d just been kissed. He pursed them, and an unbearable itch bloomed across his skin—the kind that burrowed too deep to scratch, right into his lungs.
A moment later, Yun Qi turned and walked to the window.
It stood open, letting in a clear breeze that slipped between his fingers. He pressed his cheek to the cool glass, a rush of relief washing over him. He felt on the verge of ecstasy, hurtling toward the clouds.
“Do you want me?”
“I haven’t gone a single day without wanting you.”
“But what if I don’t end up on your team? Or… what if someone else buys me out?”
“Then I’ll buy you back.”
“It’d cost a fortune.”
“I’ll buy you anyway.”
“You want me that much?”
“Because you’re worth it.”
They paused for a full minute, eyes locked.
“Brother, I’ll play alongside you. We’ll stand at the peak together. I’ll lock down top lane for you, make the stage a breeze, be the perfect boyfriend you deserve. And then… the whole world will only be able to look up to us.”
“Look up to us?”
“Yeah. My boyfriend’s going to be the world number one, and I won’t be far behind. I’ll be his left hand and right arm, his most reliable top laner. I’ll propel him upward, and he’ll carry me to the summit.”
Yu Jin looked at him, his gaze like a torch.
“Isn’t that what you said? You called me the best top laner you’d ever seen.”
“Yeah. You’re the best top laner I’ve ever seen. The top laner I want most.”
Arrogant. Conceited. Spoiled rotten by affection.
That was him—the vibrant him, before reality dulled him into numbness.
But reality was cruel. None of those dreams had come true. It had all been a beautiful illusion, and now, awake and alone by the window, unease gripped him about the here and now.
How strange. Why had he lost that pride?
He was the top laner Eidis had craved most. The Server #1 forged in countless battles, still worth a king’s ransom today. He wasn’t washed up or pitiable. He possessed gifts no one else had, favored by the god of esports with sky-high hopes. What pity was there to claim? He’d broken free from a toxic, mismanaged team. He had killer esports instincts. Now he was on a top domestic squad, armed with pro-level experience no trial trainee could match. And he was at his lover’s side. What right did he have to wallow in self-pity?
Yun Qi smiled.
He let out a long breath, pulled back his fingers, and turned to his suitcase. He began unpacking, settling into the room.
~~~
The next day, Yun Qi picked up a trial card from Chen Wen.
The account wasn’t fresh—it had belonged to the previous player, loaded with marksman position records, every one a shooter hero.
Yun Qi logged in without a hitch. The username was Milk Cap: 1,600 games total, cycled through by a few unknown players along the way.
Yun Qi didn’t mind.
Old accounts came preloaded with all sorts of settings that needed personal tweaks—map layouts, shop positions, minimap placements, hotkeys, the works. Every player had their quirks.
Yun Qi dialed them all in, spending five minutes molding the account to his preferences.
Chen Wen hovered nearby, as if under strict orders—or maybe just extending the newbie courtesy. He leaned in. “How’s it feel? Any problems?”
Yun Qi had adapted in seconds. “Nah, it’s perfect.”
Chen Wen said, “This account was left behind by the previous player. You can change the account name or whatever—no problem. You can even reset the match history if you want. From now on, the account is yours, completely under your control.”
Yun Qi nodded. “Okay.”
“You played Support in your old Esports Team, right? Looks like you had your own team name too. You could switch it back to your previous account name, but you’d need to change the team prefix.”
“No need,” Yun Qi said. “I didn’t really like that name anyway.”
Since this was a fresh start, keeping the old account name didn’t feel right. It had been chosen to fit someone else; it wasn’t all that important either way.
Most players took their accounts with them when they transferred teams. They’d poured so much effort into building up their records and gaining recognition—who’d want to start from scratch? And if a player left, there wasn’t much point in the team clinging to his name. At worst, they might hold onto the account itself, but they weren’t strict about the names. Yun Qi had pro competition experience, and he’d blown up online as “Qiluo.” He probably didn’t want to use it anymore because things hadn’t gone well in his old team.
That was Chen Wen’s guess, at least. Yun Qi had been dogged by controversy for quite some time now.
