“Brother Mianmian, why have you been wearing turtlenecks so often these days?”
Jing Mian’s fingers paused on the keyboard.
He removed one side of his headphones, looking slightly awkward. “If I don’t wear them now, the season will be over.”
Song Xianyang picked up a sniper rifle, crouched in the grass to aim, and let out an “Oh.”
“Speaking of turtlenecks, there’s a top player on the PK leaderboard who also loves wearing them, it’s practically his signature outfit for streams and tournaments,” a teammate chimed in with interest.
“Who?”
“Shock, Cen Xian’s old classmate.”
Song Xianyang vaguely recalled, “Oh right, last year’s national champion?”
“Yep, the captain of AUB.”
Jing Mian pursed his lips, suddenly remembering something. “He took first place in the provincial qualifiers this time.”
“Exactly.”
The teammate tugged off his headphones, his bangs ruffled into disarray. “Don’t let Shock’s ranking being lower than Greek’s fool you, he went from beginner to the top in just three years!”
A chubby teammate nearby gave a disdainful look. “Look at you, fangirling like crazy. He’s our opponent in the national tournament, you know.”
“I know, I know…” The teammate waved a hand. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get his autograph on my mousepad.”
“Besides, Cen Xian knows Shock—”
“I don’t.” Cen Xian walked past expressionlessly, grabbing the teammate’s cap with his left hand and yanking it down over his face. “Kid, don’t count on me.”
Rebuffed, the red-haired teammate slumped onto the table with a wail. “Bro, why do you hate Shock so much? Weren’t you two super close back then, gaming together every day? He’s literally the strongest god in Glory right now—”
“It’s Ash.”
Jing Mian’s voice was soft but clear.
He reached up to remove the other dangling side of his headphones, his tone gentle but firm. “Ash is the strongest.”
…
Well, damn.
Teammates mid-teamfight pricked up their ears, casting sidelong glances.
Was this a fan war brewing?
And one of the parties involved was their team’s sweetest, most well-behaved MianMian?
The redhead sat up. “MianMian, I know you love Ash.”
“And yeah, the last time Ash logged in, he absolutely wrecked Greek.”
He continued, “But Ash has never faced Shock. He quit five years ago, and Shock only started playing three years back. Yet in just three years, Shock climbed to the top. Who’d win between them? Hard to say.”
Jing Mian froze, not with defiance or aggression, but with quiet conviction as he replied:
“Ash only needed one year.”
The redhead countered, “But back then, Glory was just gaining traction, the player base was nowhere near as big as it is now. The ranking and point systems were way more lenient back in Ash’s era. You can’t compare the two.”
…
Jing Mian visibly faltered.
He turned away, brows knitting briefly before murmuring, “I don’t agree.”
“…” The redhead held back for a few seconds.
Then he suddenly bear-hugged Jing Mian, his fluffy hair tickling the other’s neck. “How are you this adorable, MianMian? You can’t even argue properly…”
Xuan Cheng reached over with a sigh, pulling the redhead off. Then, abruptly, he asked, “MianMian, did you know Dawn is competing as a core player in this year’s national tournament?”
Jing Mian blinked. “Dawn?”
Xuan Cheng asked, “When you first started playing, you often teamed up with Dawn, right? Do you still keep in touch?”
His hoodie slightly disheveled, Jing Mian shook his head. “We haven’t been in contact for a long time.”
Song Xianyang curiously leaned in. “Why’s that?”
Jing Mian hesitated.
After a moment’s thought, he replied, “As time passed, we gradually lost touch.”
“Dawn’s Team is QT. Last year, they were eliminated after just two matches in the provincial competition. But this year, they’ve fought their way all through to the national tournament with an undefeated record.”
“All because Dawn took over as captain again.”
The redhead suddenly remembered something. “Wasn’t Dawn rumored to have gone abroad to study years ago? Didn’t he quit the game?”
Xuan Cheng said, “Maybe he’s like Ash—making a strong comeback after several years.”
The redhead sighed. “If only Ash could return to Me. Team.”
“Then whether it’s Shock or Dawn…”
“We’d settle it in one match.”
There was one day left until the national tournament.
Jing Mian began packing his suitcase. Since his husband was busy and wouldn’t be home tonight, as departure neared, Jing Mian stared at the medication tucked in his bag’s inner pocket. After hesitating for a long while, he finally took it out.
The national tournament, in terms of scale and formality, was incomparable to provincial or Cross-Server Competitions. Jing Mian wasn’t sure if his medication would affect his body or blood, potentially backfiring and raising suspicions of doping before or after matches.
He had no one to consult about this, and online answers were ambiguous. Moreover, Jing Mian didn’t want his teammates or the organizers to know about his condition.
After all, until now, his teammates only occasionally noticed his quietness and never associated it with anything else. So for now… he didn’t need to be seen as different.
Besides, in such a serious and formal large-scale competition, being preoccupied with nervousness over his heartbeat would most likely not trigger any relapse.
To avoid complications, Jing Mian decided not to bring his medication to the tournament.
Once packed, he set out from home.
Master Ye was waiting punctually outside the door.
The man opened the car door for Mr. Jing and, noticing his newly changed esports uniform, couldn’t help but praise, “Mr. Jing truly lives up to being a young talent. Not only is your academic record impressive, but you also actively cultivate personal hobbies. Even your gaming skills are at a national tournament level…”
Blushing, Jing Mian fastened his seatbelt and said, “Master Ye, let’s go.”
“Alright…”
While waiting at a red light, the driver showed Jing Mian photos of his now four-month-old baby. Jing Mian remembered Master Ye had told him the baby’s name was Ye Xian.
“He just doesn’t smile much.”
“We took him to the hospital, and the doctor said the baby is perfectly healthy with no issues.”
Master Ye turned the steering wheel while analyzing, “Seems our Ye Xian is just not the smiling type.”
Jing Mian thought for a moment. “Maybe he’s a cool and aloof baby.”
Master Ye laughed. “Haha, you might be right.”
Mention of the baby made Jing Mian think of the child he’d been longing for.
He lowered his head and opened his phone’s photo album, scrolling through the pictures one by one.
The newest photo in the album was of Suisui, who was almost full-term.
Due to the cultivation chamber’s protective mechanisms, parents couldn’t see their baby completely clearly. To truly observe and interact with the baby up close, they had to wait at least ninety days from the start of cultivation.
It was the weekend three days later.
A slight regret was that he would still be in the middle of the competition by then.
As Jing Mian was lost in thought, he felt the car gradually slow down. Through the window, he saw the dark blue bus that had sent off the Me. Team parked not far away.
Jing Mian shouldered his backpack and bid farewell to Master Ye.
Since the national competition was held in their city, the International E-sports Arena wasn’t too far, located near the coast, about an hour’s drive. Jing Mian put on an eye mask and took a short nap during the ride.
The first time Jing Mian noticed the difference between the national competition and the provincial one was when he and his teammates got off the bus. Several cameras that had been waiting nearby immediately swarmed over, flashing incessantly at them.
Xuan Cheng first took them to the hotel for rest, handing out room keys one by one. This time, Jing Mian had a room to himself because Song Xianyang had family matters to attend to and would miss the first two matches. Although the hotel room had been reserved, he wouldn’t be checking in for the first two days.
After completing pre-match interviews and having a meal at the hotel, Jing Mian and several teammates returned to their respective rooms.
Jing Mian lay on the bed, watched some TV, and dozed off for a while. By eight in the evening, he called Mr. Ren again.
Although it was advised to rest well and sleep early before the competition, Jing Mian turned off the bedside lamp but found himself uncontrollably struggling with insomnia.
…He seemed busy, yet not really.
In his memory, there were things he had been nervously anticipating and eagerly awaiting—like the national competition, like Suisui… But now, he had to calm down, nestled under the covers, staring at the silent and profound moonlight.
By the time Jing Mian finally fell asleep that night, it was nearly one in the morning.
Morning.
Two knocks sounded on the door. Jing Mian, eyes heavy with fatigue, got up and went to the restaurant with the team for breakfast. After a few sips of milk, he picked up a small steamed bun with his chopsticks, eating while nodding off.
Xuan Cheng ruffled Jing Mian’s hair and sat down beside him, asking, “Didn’t sleep well last night?”
Jing Mian nodded. “A bit of insomnia.”
Xuan Rui comforted him, “Everyone’s like that. It’s the national competition, after all. It’s normal to be more nervous than usual before a match.”
The red-haired teammate leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep last night, so I played games for hours and even trash-talked with someone over voice chat. Ended up winning the argument, feels great now.”
Another teammate chimed in, “I chew gum when I’m nervous. Now my mouth’s full of mint flavor. Hilarious, couldn’t sleep at all.”
Beside Jing Mian’s plate was a white coffee cup. He held it in his hands, warming them, and said, “I brought coffee too. It won’t affect my performance.”
Jing Mian added, “Six shots of espresso.”
Xuan Rui was about to die from how adorable her team member was.
She clenched her fist and cheered, “Looks like our MianMian is going all out.”
After breakfast, the team members headed to the lounge to change into their uniforms. Before entering the arena, the live broadcast of the competition had already begun.
The cameras were focused on the empty seats as the hosts and commentators, dressed in formal suits, enthusiastically discussed the upcoming matches.
Before the broadcast started, the organizers had already posted the team’s pre-match interviews on the forum website. Prediction threads and analysis posts were everywhere. Since the match lineup had been announced long ago, the intense and dramatic highlights had players flocking in unprecedented excitement.
【Mole and Sheep in the first match!! I’m ascending to heaven from happiness】
【Wuwu my darling MianMian, when will you take off your mask】
【ME. Starting first is the norm, the problem is they always lose the first match. The sightseeing ticket team lives up to its name.】
【Sheep was exposed before as a mask fraud. Don’t be fooled by how cool he looks with the mask, take it off and it’s instant death by sunlight. And yet people still like him…】
【Here we go, another rage-quitter.】
【ME. introduced fresh blood this year and has performed exceptionally well in both the Cross-Server Competition and provincial tournaments. I bet ME. might not get eliminated in the first round this year, they could even be the dark horse for the championship.】
【Wake up, dreamer.】
【This year’s champion will only be Shock.】
…
The barrage comments chatted intermittently until the players entered the stage. The few arguments that had sparked earlier were instantly drowned in the flood of messages.
Jing Mian sat down, put on his headphones, and let the staff behind him check his equipment. The surrounding lights flickered between bright and dim, while the distant stands were packed with spectators.
Live broadcast.
Then suddenly.
An inconspicuous comment caught the players’ attention.
Delusional Syndrome: 【Glory friends】
Delusional Syndrome: 【Just now, Ash updated his status!!!】
At first, only a handful noticed this comment.
But due to the sheer shock value of the news, it quickly spread, drawing widespread attention:
【???】
【For real?】
【What are you talking about?】
【Dude, wake up. Ash never posts updates—he didn’t even post before quitting the game.】
【This ID is obviously fake.】
【Damn, fishing for attention during peak hours again】
…
Soon, amid the wave of skepticism and insults, the original poster reappeared:
Delusional Syndrome: 【It’s real】
Delusional Syndrome: 【Go check for yourselves if you don’t believe me.】
…
Strangely, just over ten seconds later.
Comments began shifting in support of the user “Delusional Syndrome”:
【Holy shit, it’s true】
【?!!】
【Just checked】
【Glory friends, this guy isn’t lying】
【Ash really updated his status!!!】
【AHHHHHHH】
The tide turned abruptly. Players went from confusion to shock, then erupted into endless excitement.
More and more users exited the livestream to search and check Glory’s interface, heading straight to the profile of the undisputed champion atop the PK leaderboard.
Ash’s personal page was dark and desolate.
A solid black background, no bio—silent, just like the man himself.
In players’ memories, Ash’s last status update dated back five years.
And it wasn’t even posted by him.
It was an automatic announcement by the Glory system when Ash’s achievements and stats topped the charts, a server-wide broadcast symbolizing the highest honor for elite players.
But now.
The legend himself had actually updated his status!?
Ash’s iconic black avatar, a mix of embers and sparks, seemed to glow yet remained static. As ecstatic players rushed over from the national tournament livestream, they discovered—
Ash’s latest update contained just one short line:
【May the little one cross the sea of flowers, golden at the finale.】