“I just added you—use your personal account,” Yu Jin said. “Oh, and later, log into this software with your own game account. See it on the screen?”
Yun Qi checked. “Yeah.”
“Once you’re in, it’ll sync all your training data automatically. Every match will be visible, and if there’s an account issue, backstage will flag it right away for a quick fix.”
Yun Qi nodded, still jittery like the new guy he was. “Mm-hm.”
Yu Jin spoke at a leisurely pace. “No prefixes or anything on this account yet. Change the name when you head back—I’ll send you the format. But first, confirm if this is the one you want to stick with. If not, I can get you a fresh one.”
A lot of players ditched their old accounts. Before making the starting roster, everyone wanted something uniquely theirs. New accounts also started with a clean win-rate slate—fewer games meant a higher percentage, which looked sharper on paper. But after the drama Yun Qi had been through, he didn’t sweat the optics anymore. Old or new, it didn’t matter; he’d follow the team’s customs like everyone else. No point standing out.
So he asked, “Does everyone start fresh with a new account?”
Yu Jin glanced up. “All sorts of cases, but even trial trainees bring ones that are pretty recent—not handed off a dozen times. Once it’s locked in, that account might stick with you for your whole career. Choose wisely.”
“I’ll go with whatever you say.” Yun Qi rested his hands on his knees, gaze locked straight on Yu Jin.
Yu Jin couldn’t miss that look. When he turned to meet it, Yun Qi didn’t flinch—like he’d snapped awake overnight. No more playacting, no more holding back. Straightforward, just like old times.
It was worth encouraging.
Their eyes held as Yu Jin said, “I recommend a new one. Accounts that’ve been through too many hands look cluttered. You’ve locked in Top Laner, so a blank slate will help you carve out your own style. KRO starting roster spots come with accounts you can take when you leave—real pro accounts, yours for life.”
“Then I’ll take a new one.” Yun Qi didn’t hesitate, a warm, compliant smile lighting his face.
Yu Jin studied him for a beat. He was like a soft breeze—every glance eased the tension. Yesterday’s spat hadn’t been for nothing. Neither mentioned it, but they both knew the ice was thawing, bit by bit.
“In ten minutes, I’ll send you the account details. Use the new one for official matches from now on. Training’s whatever you want.”
Yun Qi nodded. At that moment, he was like a cat fawning over its owner, going along with whatever the man said. In the entire training room, Yun Qi’s eyes could only see Yu Jin’s face.
“Is Master’s cooking edible?”
Yun Qi was still lost in his own thoughts when Yu Jin abruptly changed the subject. A warm feeling bloomed in Yun Qi’s heart as he replied, “Yes, it’s delicious.”
“As long as it’s edible.” Yu Jin only asked that one question and left it at that.
Yun Qi hesitated, unsure if he should leave.
But Yu Jin hadn’t dismissed him yet, and Yun Qi had no idea if he’d finished making arrangements for him. So Yun Qi obediently stayed by his side, watching the others train frantically. Anxiety gnawed at him inside. Recalling what he’d overheard at lunch, he ventured, “Um… the Foreign Server tournament starts next month. Do I have a shot at playing too?”
Yu Jin was busy picking out a backup account and handling the verification process—not something that could be done in a hurry. He replied patiently, “Yes.”
Relief washed over Yun Qi. “Then I’ll train hard during this time. When the Korean Server tournament rolls around, I can fight for a spot too.”
“Do you want to compete?” Yu Jin’s gaze turned serious.
Yun Qi glanced at his computer screen. “Of course. No player ever turns down a chance to play.”
“Some do,” Yu Jin said. “You know the player from KRO called Fu Guang?”
Yun Qi nodded. “I’ve heard of him. Did he really throw matches?”
“Yeah, he was my teammate. During the two years I was suspended, the team didn’t claim the Foreign Server championship, but Fu Guang took first in the individual tournament. His market value exploded. You know how much weight first place in the Foreign Server individual rankings carries. After that, he got bought off by the Foreign Server side. He made every excuse not to play, and when he finally did step up, he straight-up threw the game against KRO. The association investigated, confirmed he’d taken money to fix matches, and hit him with a lifetime ban.”
Fu Guang had been one of the top players a few years back. After Yu Jin’s suspension, he was the most reliable Chinese face in international tournaments. Truth be told, plenty of teams these days were suspected of match-fixing. Where there’s a competition, there’s profit to be made. Players who couldn’t break through the ranks would take dirty money to throw games for other squads and pocket a quick payday. A real investigation would drag down a ton of them. But Fu Guang got the harshest penalty of the bunch because he’d thrown an international match—what was that if not treason?
The Pro League ban was no less than he deserved.
“With skills good enough to compete on Foreign Server, why throw matches? Just for a quick cash grab?” Yun Qi couldn’t wrap his head around it. Esports was brutal enough as it was. This wasn’t about personal glory—it was the team’s honor. One player could swing a win or force a loss. After grinding together in training for so long, no sum of money could make you sell out your conscience.
The glow from the computer screen lit up the sharp lines of Yu Jin’s face. His eyes darkened, his voice calm and detached. “It has nothing to do with that. Some know the team’s doomed to lose anyway, so they cash in while they can. Others figure the championship prize money doesn’t stack up to fixing payouts—they don’t give a damn about the long game, just the payout right now. Spotting the rot in esports matches isn’t straightforward. He didn’t make it obvious; his teammates just knew him too well and could tell something was off with his play.”
Yun Qi met his gaze. He saw the disappointment in Yu Jin’s eyes. Thinking it over, Fu Guang had come up in the same era as Yu Jin. Back then, everyone said KRO was finished once Yu Jin got suspended, though some argued Fu Guang could keep them scraping into the top three. But KRO got absolutely demolished on Foreign Server those two years—not even top ten. Then the bombshell about Fu Guang’s lifetime ban for match-fixing dropped, and the scandals just kept coming.
Yu Jin’s expression spoke volumes. Yun Qi got the picture without needing it spelled out. Fu Guang and Yu Jin had been from the same generation, teammates who’d once ruled Foreign Server. Even with Yu Jin sidelined, KRO shouldn’t have plummeted outside the top ten—that was ridiculous. Fu Guang had been number one Top Laner in individuals, the undisputed Top Laner Grandmaster, the god summoner of Fist Lion. No matter how the later junglers stacked up to Yu Jin, Fu Guang’s skill alone should’ve kept KRO from getting steamrolled like that.
If Fu Guang had thrown matches, it explained KRO’s fall from grace perfectly.
“You were the one who exposed him,” Yun Qi murmured. “Weren’t you?”
Yu Jin’s voice softened. “Do you think I shouldn’t have?”
Yun Qi laced his fingers together. “No, you should have. So… you bought me because you believe I won’t betray you?”
Yu Jin fixed Yun Qi with his stare. “Will you?”
Yun Qi replied, “Never.”
Their eyes locked, resolve burning in both their gazes.
Moments later, Yu Jin turned his head. “Everyone pursues different things. Plenty of players have killer skills, but few can keep a steady heart. Most of the guys who competed with me back in the day have already retired. I haven’t. And it’s not for any other reason—just Fu Guang. Whether he’s throwing games or not, at least he gave me a reason to keep going. Truth be told, a smooth ride to the top with no bumps along the way is pretty damn boring. Esports is like life: top players have the patience to pull off a comeback from a hopeless deficit. That’s what makes it exhilarating.”
The training room fell silent as Yu Jin spoke, every word carrying clearly to all of them—especially Yun Qi, who sat right beside him.
Beneath the rapid clatter of keyboards, his words struck a chord deep in their hearts, like adding a haunting soundtrack to a simple image, weaving a dreamlike spell that pierced straight to the soul.
“Yeah,” Yun Qi murmured after a long pause. A comeback—that was what made it all worthwhile.
Liu Ying wrapped up his game and leaned over. “Bro, you playing today? Mind if I borrow your account real quick? I wanna jump on the international server.”
Yu Jin tapped out a string of numbers on his keyboard and hit send. Liu Ying clapped his hands. “Thanks, Brother Jin.”
He pulled back to his spot.
Yun Qi had been parked there for a good while now and was just about to stand when Yu Jin spoke up again. “What’s the deal with sitting all the way over there like it’s a million miles away?”
Yun Qi froze in a half-crouch, not quite sitting or standing, gripping the edge of the table. “Nothing. There weren’t any open seats when I got here.”
“You see that empty spot right across from me?”
Yun Qi glanced up and fell silent.
“Starting tomorrow, I want to see you training there.” It wasn’t a request—it was an order. As captain of the First Team, he had every right to assign seats. But that wasn’t even the main reason. The main reason was that they’d just had a spat last night about drifting apart, and Yun Qi had zero interest in kicking up the same dust again.
“Got it,” he said.
“I saw the statement you posted,” Yu Jin continued. “SK’s gotta be seething at you right now.”
Yun Qi straightened up, utterly at ease. “I don’t care.”
Yu Jin shot him a glance and picked up the cup from the side—one he hadn’t touched. Liu Ying filled it for him every day. Taking on an apprentice wasn’t nothing but trouble, after all. In a low voice, Yu Jin asked, “Lang Xian’s been harassing you every day, hasn’t he?”
That run-in with Lang Xian at Esports Night, the one Yu Jin had walked in on, had left Yun Qi mortified. Yu Jin had never brought it up, but it gnawed at him like a thorn in his side. Deep down, he hadn’t wanted to air the harassment—it wouldn’t do his reputation any favors. Blowing it all up had been a last resort. Anyone else could misunderstand things between him and Lang Xian, but not Yu Jin.
Afraid of any misconceptions and grateful that Yu Jin had finally raised it, Yun Qi seized the chance to clear the air. “It’s always been just marketing between us. All fake. Nothing real—don’t buy into it…”
Yu Jin cradled the cup, gazing unhurriedly at the clear water inside. “So why agree to ship with somebody else in the first place?”
Yun Qi flushed with discomfort. “Team strategy…”
“Did it boost your followers?”
“Yeah,” Yun Qi admitted, unable to deny the perks of playing up the pairing. “Fans eat that stuff up…”
“You wanna keep doing it?”
Yun Qi blinked, his gaze flicking toward the others in the training room. He got the picture. There’d been no choice before, but now? No way he wanted any part of it. Especially not flirting for the cameras right under Yu Jin’s nose. For once, he stood tall and laid it out plain. “No. And I never will again—with anyone.”
But no sooner had the words left his mouth than Yu Jin set the cup back down. He looked up, eyes locking onto Yun Qi’s, his expression anything but friendly. “Oh? So shipping with Lang Xian’s fine, but not with me?”
