Chapter Two

Ning Nanzhou returned to his dorm with his takeout. His roommates had gone home for the weekend, so he ate his cheap braised chicken while opening Yellowbird.

…No, it wasn’t an indecent website.

Yellowbird was the nickname for Starry Sky TV, one of the country’s largest streaming platforms, named for its chick-yellow logo. He was a game streamer on Yellowbird, making a living from his broadcasts. Wanting to keep his online persona separate from his real life, he always streamed without showing his face.

Top streamers could earn millions a month, but his channel had only two or three thousand followers, so he had to work hard to hit every attendance bonus.

Yellowbird’s reward system was sophisticated—unlike Green JJ, it greeted you with a friendly yellow chick as soon as you logged on.

“Dear V1 streamer, you’ve already made 20,000 yuan on Starry Sky TV. Keep up the good work today!”

He hadn’t minded until money was mentioned; the reminder stung, recalling the 2,000 yuan he’d been swindled out of by a scalper.

Calmly, he changed his stream title to “Scalpers All Deserve to Die (smile).”

Not long after he started streaming, his viewers flooded the chat.

[Son, do you know you’ve gone viral?]
[Ahhh, Mom’s so embarrassed for you.]
[You made the trending list before you were even famous—how will you survive in this circle now, baby? QAQ]

Gone viral? What’s that supposed to mean?

Ning Nanzhou didn’t take the barrage seriously. His viewers loved to stir things up. He was shy when he first started, but now he was part of the crowd.

If only they knew his thoughts, they’d be bewildered—was this the same “shy boy” who called Caesar “husband” on his second day streaming?

We’re not buying that!

He replied indifferently, “So what if I want to ride Caesar for three days and nights?”

[??? Son, you’ve changed.]
[I remember you weren’t like this before—your mom-fans are heartbroken.]
[Hmm… ‘before’ as in three years ago, right? South was only innocent for a day.]

He didn’t believe the trending list thing was real, but the chat wouldn’t let up, so he opened Weibo while still streaming.

The top trending topic was—

#Caesar’s Stream Shocks Fans with a Hardcore Stan#

Ning Nanzhou clenched his fists. “Caesar’s got hardcore stans now? Who’s that much of a freak?!”

[…]

[Son, is it possible the trend is about you?]
[What do you mean ‘Caesar’s got hardcore stans’? You’re the biggest one, aren’t you?]

Oh, it’s about me.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He did tend to leave some bold comments when excited; it wasn’t surprising people thought he was a hardcore stan. But then the realization hit him—

Did Caesar see his comment?!

Impossible!!! Absolutely impossible!!!!

He’d followed Caesar for seven years and knew what kind of person Caesar was—not interested in this sort of thing, never streamed on Weibo, and certainly wouldn’t notice fans.

Without thinking, he clicked into Caesar’s profile.

[FKW.Caesar is live now]

!!! Could it be true?

Even now, he couldn’t help but wonder—would Caesar show his face?

The video showed no face, just the comment section, with that pleasant voice coming through: “Thank you all for your support.”

Ning Nanzhou wore headphones while streaming, and that voice was so low and soft in his ear, it felt like feathers were tickling him.

His mind went blank for a moment, regretting he hadn’t left a better comment—like asking how many more years Caesar would play, or what kind of birthday gift he liked.

Because his bold comment was now at the very top.

Luckily, his idol was the untouchable type—the real “high mountain flower”—who would never respond to such… suggestive words.

His gaze shifted guiltily to the side.

But fans love to make a scene. Someone pasted his comment into the chat.

On screen, the man read aloud, “‘Ride for three days and nights?’”

Suddenly, the camera turned. The man calmly adjusted his glasses. “I don’t mind. Can you handle it?”

Instantly, Ning Nanzhou’s face exploded red!

[Son, why so quiet?]
[Are you secretly happy?]
[Are you shy?!]

Ning Nanzhou buried his head in his arm. After a long moment, he looked up at the chat, deadpan: “Why would I be shy? If you can, try going three days and nights.”

To prevent his viewers from clipping and spreading this, he turned off the stream recording function.

[Son, you’re all talk—try not turning off the recording.]
[Now you know why you haven’t gotten his contact info after three years.]
[Hard-headed kids are the ones who get ridden for three days and nights.]

Normally, he was unfazed by the chat. In the past, he’d have clapped back already, but today his ears burned all the way to his neck.

He banned the phrase “three days and nights,” then stiffly changed the subject. “I’ve got to hit the seven-hour attendance today—let’s start the game.”

He logged in and launched the game, “Descent.”

The black loading screen appeared, and the words “Descent” slowly materialized. The familiar system voice rang in his ears: “Welcome to Descent!”

The client popped up this month’s events—sign in for coins, half-price platinum skins, and so on. He skillfully closed all the flashy pop-ups and hit the match button.

Because the national team had won the championship, many old players were returning. Normally, it took ten minutes to find a match, but today it only took three.

After matching, it was time to pick positions.

Descent was a team game with three lanes—top, mid, bot—and a jungle between, with each lane pushing minions to towers.

Players picked Top, Mid, Jungle, Support, or AD (Attack Damage). Mid meant soloing the middle lane; Jungle controlled resources and depended heavily on mid’s lane pressure. AD and Support went bot.

He couldn’t be bothered to coordinate with others, so he usually picked the solo top lane.

[Matching is so fast today!]
[I got in after two minutes.]
[You can still get in? I can’t even connect!]

After picking positions, it was time to choose heroes. There were over a hundred; he picked Nasus.

Nasus had high health, fast attack speed—a melee bruiser.

The five players spawned in base, heading for their lanes.

He reached the top outer turret and began farming minions for gear.

The early game went smoothly until the AD started acting out, diving the enemy turret even though their jungler was bot. He calmly typed:

[South] Don’t overextend.

It was a polite warning, but the AD took it as a grave insult and spammed NMSL several times.

Ning Nanzhou was generally easygoing, but he replied politely:

[South] If all you can say is that, calling me “Dad” until I’m dead—do you think that’ll help? You think I want a son like you? Even a dog in base is more useful.

[South] The only difference between you and a minion is that you respawn. Actually, you’re worse—minions can at least hit twice before dying, you just deliver food.

[South] Oh, now you’re quiet. Spent all that time wandering—looking for a good place for your grave?

[66666]
[Why did you pick a fight with the jungler!]
[So satisfying, flame him more!]

When Mr. Wang from Chaoyang District saw the trending topic, he opened the stream out of curiosity and saw this scene: the streamer was clearing waves and flaming his teammates at lightning speed, making one of them rage quit. The chat only cheered him on.

Mr. Wang was a teacher by profession, and all he could think of was the harm low-quality streamers did to youth. He was about to report the channel, but paused.

Because even with a ragequitter, this guy still won!

He’d been so distracted by the insults that he hadn’t noticed the stats—the player was stable to a terrifying degree. Winning 4v5 in high ranks was something even many pros couldn’t do.

Even Qin Yong, the top-lane star of this year’s world championship, was best at tank heroes and couldn’t handle late-game carries.

Looking at this relatively unknown stream, Mr. Wang felt a sense of responsibility, like a talent scout. He typed with a guiding tone:

[Streamer, why not go pro?]

He didn’t know much about Starry Sky TV’s pay rates, but with only a few thousand fans, this streamer couldn’t be making much. Young streamers like this usually lacked career planning—probably hadn’t studied much—wasting their talent. Someone needed to set them straight.

He was ready for the streamer’s thanks, his “no need to thank me” already typed out. But the reply came, lazy and unconcerned:

“Going pro isn’t as fun as being a fan.”

???! Is this about having fun or not?! This is fame and fortune!

He could understand idol-chasing—his niece was obsessed with some guy named Jiang Li—but with this much talent, competing could earn at least a million!

[Winning tournaments is the best way to meet your idol!]
[You mean, on stage you’ll shout ‘Caesar, get on me!’ or keep buying fruit in his comment section?]
[Hahahaha, this is so awkward, but I kind of want to see it!]

Mr. Wang almost spat blood, but Ning Nanzhou was quite content with his own life.

Even though he had to stream seven hours a day, sometimes until two or three in the morning if he had classes, being able to buy merchandise made him happy.

He glanced at the row of collectibles on his bookshelf and squinted contentedly.

There was another reason he hadn’t mentioned—top lane wasn’t a great position for going pro. In the current meta, top laners were mostly assigned to soak up pressure, tank in team fights, and act as meat shields—a far cry from the glory days.

He refused to play “utility” even in ranked, let alone in pro play.

So he had no interest in going pro. If only he could reach V2 streamer status, the attendance bonus would net him an extra three thousand a month—enough for a better mic.

His current secondhand microphone was terrible—no one could even tell it was his voice, and it kept disconnecting.

After restarting the headset to fix the connection, he resumed streaming. When he was ready to log off, he saw his channel had gained over two thousand new followers—just four thousand away from V2!

So this was the power of trending topics?

He was both flattered and slightly embarrassed, thinking of Caesar reading his comment on stream.

Just then, his roommate Xu Ye messaged him.

[Xu Ye] There’s a championship celebration at a bar tonight, want to go? It’s only 700 meters from the FKW base—starts at six, all drinks on the house.

He hadn’t wanted to go at first, but the words "all drinks on the house" were tempting.

Ning Nanzhou straightened his headphones. “I’ve got something tonight, ending the stream here.”

[??? Logging off already? Son, are you not up to it?]
[Hehehe, what are you up to tonight?]
[Don’t treat Mom like a stranger!]

As he logged off, the chat filled with jokes.

He had to clarify, “It’s something proper, don’t overthink it.”

[I believe you… not!]
[I don’t believe it unless you take us along.]
[Yeah, bring us with you!]
[Is it man on man action?]

He insisted, “I’m straight.”

The chat fell silent for a moment.

[…Have you listened to yourself?]
[Someone who calls Caesar ‘husband’ every day is straight???]
[Son, put your hand on your heart—if you won’t, I will.]

Ning Nanzhou glanced at his phone, worried about the time, and quickly shut down his computer.

—

At FKW’s victory banquet, Song Mingjie raised his glass. “Thank you all for your hard work at Worlds, and to President Cheng for his support.”

“Come on, Song, don’t be so formal,” Cheng Boliang, the club owner, grumbled. “Calling me President Cheng is too distant.”

“Fine, Lao Cheng,” Song Mingjie filled his glass. “It’s rare for us all to be together—no one leaves sober tonight!”

“I can’t,” Cheng Boliang glanced at his watch. “He from Shuangming Capital invited me out—I have to make an appearance. You guys have fun. If there’s any problem, call me.”

Qin Yong at the table looked unconcerned.

Cheng Boliang’s words were just because everyone’s contracts were up.

Qin Yong had no intention of renewing; he couldn’t wait to leave the team. He just didn’t want to be the first to break up the group and take the public backlash.

He glanced at Xiao Qiao, their support, happily eating sashimi.

He’d tried to nudge Xiao Qiao into leaving first, hinting that SWL offered a high salary, but the fool just scoffed, saying everyone knew SWL had the worst cafeteria food.

Bro, this isn’t choosing a university.

Just then, his phone rang. SWL’s manager was calling—surely about the contract.

Guiltily, Qin Yong glanced around, then hurried out with his phone.

Caesar passed by him, voice calm: “SWL?”

Qin Yong’s first reaction: “Were you looking at my phone?”

He’d kept his talks with SWL secret—no one could know unless Caesar had peeked.

Caesar’s expression was faintly mocking. “Five teams have top contracts expiring, but only GXT and SWL can offer eight figures. GXT just signed Orlan, so only SWL is left.”

“You think I need to check your phone for that?”

Qin Yong felt awkward—should he explain he had nothing to do with SWL?

Caesar brushed past, leaving a final remark: “SWL isn’t right for you.”

Qin Yong hated Caesar’s lecturing tone. The awkwardness vanished, replaced by anger at being looked down on.

Why did Caesar get to be so high and mighty? Why was his judgment always final? Was Caesar always right?

Caesar was great, yes—but he was already twenty-five. Decline was only a matter of time.

He wasn’t joining SWL just for the money, but to prove he wasn’t a champion only because of Caesar. It wasn’t that he couldn’t leave Caesar—it was that Caesar was getting old. The future belonged to him.

—

The bar was packed, lights flashing like there was no tomorrow. The central screen played FKW’s championship highlights; the air was thick with the scent of alcohol.

Ning Nanzhou immediately spotted his roommate Xu Ye, sprawled in a booth in designer clothes.

The reason he could stream in his dorm every day was because one roommate was always out flirting, another was always in the library, and the last had dropped out after winning the lottery.

Every exam season, their “lucky” roommate’s bed was worshipped, so he had to stream from the internet café.

The one in the booth was the first roommate.

Xu Ye waved him over, then eyed his black jacket. “Why didn’t you change clothes?”

“Change into what?” Ning Nanzhou sat down casually.

Xu Ye glanced at his face and was momentarily at a loss.

Ning Nanzhou was your typical gaming shut-in, dressed carelessly, but he had a strikingly handsome face. Even a loose black jacket couldn’t hide those features—his eyes as clear as water.

He made some money streaming, but spent it all on Caesar merchandise. Who knew what was so great about Caesar anyway?

He warned, “This bar’s got a lot of gay guys—don’t get drunk.”

His roommate was just too attractive, and in a place like this he was a lamb among wolves.

Ning Nanzhou calmly reminded him, “Last time, you were the one I had to carry home.”

Xu Ye realized he’d worried too much. Ning Nanzhou looked gentle and harmless, but though he rarely drank, when he did, he could outdrink anyone and talk more smack than anyone else. No one could get close.

The bar’s Wi-Fi was down, so the celebration started half an hour late.

They sat in the booth drinking. One moment, Xu Ye was lamenting his ex; the next, he locked eyes with a handsome man and declared he’d found true love.

He dashed off after his new crush, leaving Ning Nanzhou alone.

Ning Nanzhou was a bit of a recluse—more accurately, he was people-averse. He was fine with friends, but uncomfortable with strangers, especially physical contact.

Soon, he witnessed the cunning ways of the local gay crowd: fake falls, requests for chest massages, and the classic “Oops, I dropped the soap, please help me, boohoo.”

He started questioning whether coming to a gay bar to celebrate was really a good idea.

That thought had barely crossed his mind when the lights suddenly dimmed and the stage screen lit up, playing an FKW documentary.

Judged as a documentary, it was unremarkable, but its focus was Caesar.

Seven years since FKW was founded, Caesar had been there—from an underdog team to a dynasty, Caesar held it together.

But Caesar was already twenty-five.

In most industries, he’d be in his prime, but in esports, he was nearing retirement. No one knew how many years he had left.

Ning Nanzhou had always known this day would come—he’d prepared for it from the day he first liked Caesar—but watching the documentary, it hit him for the first time.

He’d liked Caesar for so long.

This was probably the last year Caesar would lift the world trophy, and he hadn’t even managed to attend in person.

He drank more than he realized, and feeling overheated, stepped out for air.

As soon as he left the bar, he bumped into someone.

The man wore a mask, his features obscured, but he was extremely tall—nearly six foot three—and had a crisp, cool mountain scent.

He looked familiar.

The man politely steadied him. Unable to help himself, Ning Nanzhou looked up and saw a chiseled face, long ink-black hair, and eyes so clear they seemed to hold the moon—features uncannily like Caesar’s.

If he hadn’t known Caesar was at the victory banquet, he’d have thought it was him.

Whatever they’d put in the drinks, his head grew foggier and his body feverish.

He clung to the man like an octopus, convinced he’d found a block of ice. The “ice” seemed to want to push him off, but he held on tightly, refusing to let go.

Later, he wanted to walk away, but found he couldn’t.

A cold kiss pressed down on him, overwhelming and irresistible. He was flipped over, long black hair whipping across his back. The last thing he heard was a low, amused comment:

“So much water.”