Chapter 26 Part 1

Yun Qi’s fingers hovered above his phone screen. He pored over that single word again and again, hoping he hadn’t misread it or gotten the wrong idea. He swallowed that brief message whole, turning it over and over in his mind, terrified… terrified that he might be indulging in wishful thinking.

No reply came from the other side. Yun Qi gripped his phone tightly, frozen in place for a long moment.

Knock knock.

Yun Qi looked up. Yueqiu stood in his doorway. “Brother Li’s here,” he said.

Yun Qi rose to his feet, slipped his phone into his pocket, and asked, “He wants to see me?”

Yueqiu nodded. “He wants to see everyone. Come on downstairs and take a look.”

Yun Qi snapped his suitcase shut, set it aside, and followed Yueqiu down the stairs.

Every member of the team was gathered in the living room below. Li Meng, who hadn’t been around in ages, stood in the center, addressing the group. He glanced up, spotted Yueqiu and Yun Qi on the staircase, and waved them over before telling the others, “Go on and get back to it.”

The team members turned to glance at Yun Qi, then filed off toward the training room.

Yueqiu discreetly made himself scarce. Yun Qi faced Li Meng alone and said respectfully, “Brother Li.”

Li Meng was nearly a decade older than him, a gaunt man whose old nickname was Monkey. Yun Qi and the rest of the team had overheard it during a dinner with some headquarters bigwigs, who called him that to his face. They’d committed it to memory ever since. He managed their team, so no one dared gossip about him much on the daily, but the moment they laid eyes on him, that nickname always sprang to mind unbidden.

It was because Li Meng wasn’t just skinny—his sharp, pinched features really did make him look like a monkey. He was built like a skeleton, so emaciated it was downright unnerving.

That made his smiles all the creepier, like they weren’t genuine at all but some kind of veiled mockery.

Li Meng flashed Yun Qi a smile first and beckoned him over. “Come on, have a seat.”

Yun Qi eyed the sofa warily but stayed put. “I’ll stand.”

“What’s the matter, scared I’ll bite?” Li Meng plopped down anyway, crossing his legs. “You looming there like that makes it feel like I’m interrogating you. Am I really that intimidating? Sit.”

Yun Qi hesitated for a couple of seconds, studied Li Meng’s face, and detected no hint of troublemaking. Only then did he lower himself onto the sofa opposite.

Li Meng tested the waters. “You got connections at KRO or something?”

Li Meng would have gotten the inside scoop on Yun Qi’s transfer first. Yun Qi had no clue what the higher-ups had debated, but now the whole team was side-eyeing the massive price tag on his buyout. KRO was one of the top esports teams in the country, backed by rumors of genuine tycoon money and serious clout. SK couldn’t hold a candle to that kind of power yet. Had Li Meng shown up today out of worry that Yun Qi was tangled up with the forces behind KRO? If so, he had it all wrong.

“No,” Yun Qi said.

Li Meng helped himself to a glass of water and took a sip, never taking his eyes off Yun Qi. “That so? Thirty million—that’s throwing cash around. Even KRO doesn’t splash it like that just ’cause they’ve got deep pockets, do they?”

Yun Qi had no intention of answering and had already pegged the reason for Li Meng’s visit. He lobbed the question right back, hoping to drop the subject. “Does Brother Li think I’m not worth that much?”

Li Meng chuckled and waved it off. “Hey now, that’s not it at all. You deserve top dollar. With your fanbase, and KRO swimming in money? Makes sense they’d snap you up.”

His eyes, though, told a different story.

Before long, Li Meng came at it sideways again. “I’m just saying, you warrant a premium, sure, but thirty mil’s a stretch. If KRO’s after your popularity, fine by me. They’ve got talent in spades, no doubt, but not many draw crowds like you do. So on raw skill, are they coming up a bit short? We just barely missed the championship, after all.”

“Then let’s say they bought me for the hype,” Yun Qi replied. “What’s wrong with that?”

No matter how Li Meng poked and prodded from every angle, Yun Qi gave nothing away. Li Meng could sense he wasn’t getting the straight story—Yun Qi was just dancing around it. But given how things had gone for him on the team lately, who could blame him?

“Since the bosses already cashed me out, what’s the use in fixating on their motives? The team’s laughing all the way to the bank with thirty million. And with ops as sharp as they are, whipping up another scandal-plagued player like me should be a breeze.”

“You’re letting some bitterness slip there.”

“No bitterness, Brother Li,” Yun Qi said calmly, softening his tone. “Just facts. You’ve been playing me from day one. Am I a support main? I clawed my way out of youth training as the number-one top laner prospect. You said SK didn’t need more top laners—we needed buzz—so stick me on support, stir up some heat with the team, then slide me back to top once we hit our stride. But top lane’s the cash cow. You think I stood a chance against Lang Xian?”

Li Meng soured at the rehashing of old gripes. “Yun Qi, you’re crossing a line.”

“Not at all, Brother Li. Aren’t these all the words you once advised me? From the very beginning, you guys had your eyes on my face and the value I could bring through hype. You coaxed me into joining the team, step by step, one scheme after another, until now you’ve sidelined me in this awkward position where I can’t go up or down. Everyone ignores my achievements and just assumes I rose to the top through other means. What can I even say?”

“SK has Lang Xian dominating the top laner spot. You know I could never play top laner, and SK would never lack for one anyway. Plus, with my good performance back then, you also eyed my value in other areas, so no matter if SK needed a top laner or not, you’d never let me go to another team. You asked me to switch positions, and I did. I practiced support for a year and played it for a year. Now, after four seasons, I’ve grown rusty with top laner mechanics and game sense. I can’t hold down that position anymore, so I should just willingly stick to support, right? What a perfect scheme—layer upon layer, manipulating a kid. Does it give you a sense of accomplishment?”

Li Meng pursed his lips. He’d almost forgotten these old matters, but Yun Qi remembered them crystal clear. Some of those words, he didn’t even recall saying himself. Li Meng chuckled. “You’re leaving now, so you’re bold enough to say anything.”

“Yes, I’m leaving, so now I can say it,” Yun Qi shot back. “Can’t I?”

Li Meng shook his head. “Yun Qi, don’t blame me. I have people above me, and some things aren’t my call. Isn’t it unfair to pin it all on me like this?”

“I know you have people above you, so I’ve been trying to understand you and cooperate all along. Did I do anything wrong this year? Now that I’m leaving, you’re still scheming against me. If KRO hadn’t bought me out this time, what were you planning to do? Sideline me completely and just have me do commercial gigs?” Yun Qi gave a bitter laugh. “Brother Li, I really want to ask—does SK even know what esports is? What an esports player is?”

Seeing such deep resentment and grievance in him, Li Meng had originally just come to pry out Yun Qi’s connection with KRO, but he’d ended up listening to all these complaints and questions. “Yun Qi, even when you’re leaving, you should leave yourself a way back. Bashing your old team right after joining a new one—that ungrateful wolf behavior isn’t endorsed in any industry. Can you guarantee you’ll succeed at KRO? If not, your old team might be your only lifeline someday…”

“No need,” Yun Qi replied. Hearing these words from Li Meng made him think back to what Lang Xian had said. These two were birds of a feather; no one cared about his thoughts or feelings. Yun Qi gave a self-mocking smile, mocking himself for still holding onto a shred of goodwill toward Li Meng until today, thinking he might just be a hatchet man following orders. Now he fully believed Li Meng had never been on his side. He stated resolutely, “If KRO kicks me out, I’ll disappear from the esports circle.”

Li Meng jumped in shock. He watched as Yun Qi stood up, his resolute eyes burning with the unbreakable determination of a warrior who had burned his boats. “What did you say?”

Yun Qi repeated calmly and heavily, “I said, if I don’t pass KRO’s test, I’ll exit the pro scene and leave this industry entirely.”

Li Meng froze in place. Nothing carried more weight than those words. He looked at the man before him—he was no longer that kid who couldn’t even speak loudly.

Back then, Yun Qi had stood before him, green and innocent, like a child who could be lured away with a lollipop.

But now, he was calm and resolute, his aura completely transformed. In just two short years, he’d shifted from soft, pliable cotton to a cold blade, a flower bristling with thorns.

Li Meng hadn’t pried out a single word he wanted and had even ended up being interrogated himself.

He felt a fleeting pang of guilt for Yun Qi’s experiences over these two years, and a chill at his words.

Damn.

The kid’s got spine.

Yun Qi returned to his room, and the issue he’d been agonizing over suddenly cleared up. Looking at the piles of stuff in the room, he suddenly didn’t want any of it.

What was there to agonize over? Just leave it all here. No need to drag things out muddily; the stale past shouldn’t taint his new environment.

Yun Qi stopped packing anything. He just sat there, watching time tick by second by second.

Finally, that day arrived.

Yun Qi grabbed his suitcase and headed out, handing the keys to Yueqiu. Xue Yan followed him for quite a distance. Yun Qi said to him, “No need to see me off.”

Xue Yan scratched his head but didn’t stop walking. He came up to Yun Qi and, seeing him hauling the suitcase alone, asked, “Want me to drive you there?”

“No need,” Yun Qi said. “Brother Yan, head back. They’re all watching you.”

“It’s fine. It’s today already—who cares if they’re watching,” Xue Yan replied. “But after how things blew up with you and Captain Lang, you probably won’t fare well either.”

Yun Qi looked up at him. “It’s okay. I’ll bear whatever comes.”

In the SK Training Room, Lang Xian was slamming his keyboard against the computer.

“Damn it!” He trembled with rage, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Does he have a death wish?!”

Yun Qi had barely walked out the door when Lang Xian’s comment section exploded. The culprit? A scheduled post from Yun Qi titled “My Years at SK.”

Unfolding beneath that theme was nothing but the dirt on Lang Xian—their messy history laid bare. Sure, it was called “My Years at SK,” but aside from exposing the ugly secrets Yun Qi knew about Lang Xian, it didn’t mention a soul else.

Screenshots of chat logs and raw confessions in the post painted a clear picture of Lang Xian’s harassment and threats. One passage stuck out: He even tried forcing me to submit, groping me in countless moments while shouting that he liked me. In the dead of night, away from prying eyes, he hooks up with others. Qingmo fans, watch out—the one pinned against the mirror or window next could be you…

His words were plain and brutal, each line dripping with implication. Paired with screenshots of Lang Xian’s flirty chats with various others—different targets, same sleazy tone, same intimacy—it took just ten minutes for SK’s veteran captain to become the eye of the storm.

【My god, has Qiluo lost it?】

【Captain Lang banging fans???】

【No way, holy shit, this is insane. Did someone hack Qiluo?】

【This is terrifying!!!】

【This melon’s too big, I can’t finish it—help! Screenshotting for safety, it’ll probably vanish soon.】

【WTF? Aren’t those two a thing?】

【Those chat logs are straight-up nauseating. Qingmo hits on tons of people?? All these screenshots, then bangs fans? Sexually harasses his own teammate? Nailed the summary, right?】

Thud!

Lang Xian hurled his phone to the floor.

He jabbed a finger at the door and bellowed, “Has he left?!”