TCWSITD – Chapter 11

It was Lin Jiang’s private number—only a handful of people knew it.

Silence echoed on the other end of the line.

Then, after a long pause, came the flick of a lighter.

The night outside the balcony grew heavy, the fog blurring the road ahead.

Lin Jiang’s expression hardened. He didn’t care how the person got his number—he only wanted to make one thing clear: “Don’t contact me again. I have nothing to do with KUG.”

A low chuckle came through the phone. Even after taking a steadying breath, the voice still asked with strained calm: “Are you settling in okay over there?”

That simple question brought back a flood of memories for Lin Jiang.

Back when he first joined KUG, it was this same person who had asked him those exact words.

But back then, they were young, successful, full of ambition—and able to talk about anything. Now, all that remained was a vast distance between them—mountains, rivers, and an unfamiliar silence.

Lin Jiang tightened his grip on the phone. “I’ve already left KUG.”

The person on the other end sounded weary, as if sleep-deprived. “I just got back to the country… I wanted to talk about the contract…”

Lin Jiang shut his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, there was only the cold emptiness of night. “Young Master He, I’m no longer with KUG. Whatever happens with the contract has nothing to do with me. And this is my private number. I don’t care who gave it to you, but I hope you don’t call me again.”

The silent night loomed, a hopeless abyss ready to swallow everything whole.

The click of the lighter echoed again, sparks flaring as He Hu flicked the cigarette from his fingers and crushed it underfoot.

It took a long moment before he finally gave a heavy, “Alright.”

He Gu was a man of his word—once he agreed to something, he never went back on it.

Besides, a man as proud as him would never keep bowing his head for just a mere player.

Lin Jiang ended the call, eyes lowered, a chill flickering in his gaze.

He pulled up his call history and found the culprit.

[Lin Jiang: Did you give my number to He Gu?]

Brother Jizhi sounded nervous.

[Brother Jizhi: A’Jiang, don’t be mad, okay? Young Master He is working with us on a project. When he asked, I couldn’t exactly refuse. Besides, didn’t you two used to…]

Lin Jiang exhaled sharply and typed back, hard.

[Lin Jiang: Let me make this clear—whatever I had with him ended the moment I left KUG. If he ever asks for my number again, just tell him I said no.]

[Brother Jizhi: Alright, alright. I’m sorry, A’Jiang. Sigh… you two used to be so close. I thought…]

Lin Jiang turned off his phone screen and stepped onto the wide balcony.

The nighttime skyline of S City loomed like a monster, ready to devour him.

He once believed He Gu was an idealist too—just like him.

Until that day—until the contract was placed before him. Until he was trapped in KUG, enduring three years that felt worse than death.

Until he learned that He Gu had quietly signed off on the contract—and had personally brought Alike to KUG—

Only then did he realize.

He and He Gu were never the same kind of people.

Trying to be friends with bloodthirsty capitalists was like placing yourself on a scale—you measure the depth of the friendship, while they calculate your worth.

Lin Jiang instinctively reached for a cigarette—only to realize, as he patted his pockets, that this was four years ago. He hadn’t yet formed the habit of carrying cigarettes with him.

He’d worked so hard to keep himself in control.

And yet tonight, a single phone call had dragged him back into the abyss.

The thought made it hard to breathe. He leaned against the balcony railing, his arms slowly going numb.

Suddenly, the door behind him creaked open, letting in a sliver of light.

Song Zhixu, like an eager puppy waiting for its owner’s attention, clung to the doorframe, eyes bright as he looked at him, “Captain, I just finished queuing with A’Deng. Can I queue with you now? I saw you playing support for Shen Ju—I want that kind of treatment too…”

Lin Jiang couldn’t help but laugh.

He really didn’t understand how someone as big as Song Zhixu could act so adorable—like a spoiled child.

He raised a hand and gave his head a light pat. “Nope.”

With that, he stepped away from the balcony. Song Zhixu hurried after him.

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but for a fleeting moment, when the balcony door had opened, Song Zhixu caught a glimpse of Lin Jiang’s face half in shadow and half in light—light and darkness intertwined. As if something inside him was about to break free—something unfamiliar. Something not quite Lin Jiang.

At that moment, he didn’t know why, but Song Zhixu suddenly felt a bit anxious, so he hurriedly opened the door.

Bathed in the shifting light and shadow, Lin Jiang gave a wry, helpless smile.

But Song Zhixu knew the Lin Jiang he knew had returned.

He broke into a silly smile and stuck close again. “Captain, just duo queue with me once. I promise I won’t let you down…”

A day of training ended amid noisy chatter.

Lin Jiang stretched his arms, feeling much more at ease at OT than he ever had at KUG.

The atmosphere at OT was the liveliest he’d ever experienced. There was no pressure from management, no rigid control from the coaching staff, and no strange competitions among teammates.

Everyone was like friends living under the same roof—getting along easily and comfortably.

After a brief wrap-up from the coach, they were dismissed.

It was only 10 PM, and Lin Jiang saw it was still early, so he went downstairs to the 24-hour convenience store to buy some water and two packs of cigarettes.

The cashier girl hesitated, casting him a quick glance. Lin Jiang smiled and said, “I’m 21.”

His delicate features, small face, and slender bone structure made him look younger than his age. His teammate Song Zhixu was just a year older but looked far more mature.

The cashier’s cheeks flushed as she quickly rang him up. After he paid, she quietly muttered, “21…”

“Still pretty young, smoking isn’t good for your health…”

Lin Jiang nodded and tucked the cigarettes into his pocket, then turned—just in time to run into Shen Ju, who was coming downstairs to buy water.

Shen Ju wasn’t wearing his usual cap, his hair was damp and messy from being tousled.

Pale skin peeked out from under his collar, revealing a bit of his collarbone. A faint, fresh scent lingered around him, like he’d just stepped out of the shower to catch some air.

Normally, Shen Ju avoided social interactions, preferring to walk with his head down and always low over his forehead, so Lin Jiang had never really gotten a good look at his face.

But now, looking closely, Lin Jiang saw that his features had matured and increasingly resembled one of those billionaire young masters from TV dramas.

Lin Jiang nodded, gave him a brief greeting, pocketed his cigarettes, and stood under the streetlight by the road, habitually grabbing a cigarette to light.

His body still wasn’t quite used to smoking—if he smoked too fast, he’d start coughing.

Halfway through his cigarette, Lin Jiang glanced back and noticed Shen Ju hadn’t gone upstairs yet. He stood at the boundary between shadow and light, watching him.

The night was too dark for Lin Jiang to read his expression, but Shen Ju could see Lin Jiang’s clearly.

Lin Jiang’s slender figure stood bathed in the bright light, backlit from above, fingers holding a faintly glowing cigarette. He coughed softly, as if each drag stole a bit of his vitality.

Shen Ju’s gaze remained fixed on the cigarette in his hand.

He could tell Lin Jiang smoked with practiced ease—clearly not his first time—yet his body seemed unable to handle it. The thin corners of his eyes were reddened from coughing.

Light and shadow intertwined, blurring the line between reality and illusion.

Shen Ju had never seen Lin Jiang like this before—lost in the smoke, revealing a hidden side unknown to others.

Lin Jiang noticed his stare and asked, “Not heading back to sleep?”

Shen Ju shook his head and slowly moved toward him in the dim light, stepping into the swirling, suffocating smoke.

Lin Jiang skillfully put out the cigarette.

Noticing that Shen Ju still wasn’t leaving, he took the initiative and said, “How about a walk?”

OT’s location was fairly remote. Amid the bustle of S city, it offered a rare sense of quiet comfort—especially the locust tree-lined sidewalk behind the building.

In summer, the locust flowers would bloom in full.

The entire street would be carpeted in purple, filled with a refreshing fragrance.

“You played really well today. But there’s one habit you should work on—you don’t trust your teammates much.”

Facing the evening breeze, the gloom in Lin Jiang’s heart gradually lifted, and he naturally struck up a conversation.

“Your positioning in team fights is always solid, and your damage output is strong. But I think you could do even better if you tried relying on your teammates more. They can help you find your position ahead of time.”

Shen Ju rarely trusted his teammates when playing.

In team fights, he often held back to observe first—usually spending one or two seconds without contributing any damage.

Sometimes, by the time he was ready to engage, his teammates had already been wiped out. That alone had earned him quite a bit of online hate.

“Decision-making matters just as much for an AD. Sometimes even a split second can turn the whole game. If you really want to get stronger, you’ll have to work through those weaknesses.”

Shen Ju listened quietly.

If someone else had said this, he might’ve taken it as a dig or passive-aggressive jab. But coming from Lin Jiang, it felt sincere. Like he was genuinely looking out for him.

He gave a soft “Mm,” quietly took it to heart, and stepped forward, following in Lin Jiang’s footsteps.

Walking ahead, Lin Jiang suddenly turned around: “Shen Ju, why did you choose to go pro?”

Shen Ju abruptly halted, nearly colliding with Lin Jiang.

They were standing closer than they’d ever been—close enough for Shen Ju to catch the faint scent of smoke lingering on Lin Jiang’s breath.

He took half a step back, his ears flushing red. “I just really like playing games.”

“You just like playing games?” Lin Jiang asked, confused.

“Then you can play at home—there’s no need to go pro if that’s all it is. Isn’t there something you really want from this path?”

What Shen Ju wanted was freedom—freedom from the constraints of the Shen family. Esports was the only lifeline he could hold onto. Despite the sideways glances and judgment, he clung to that lifeline and kept climbing.

Someone had once asked Shen Ju the same question.

He had answered honestly.

Those people ended up laughing out loud, “You play esports just to get away from your family? Are you trying to Versailles or something? Truly a spoiled young master who’s never known hardship, still pulling the runaway act. How childish… Hey, I’m just kidding, don’t get mad, alright?”

From then on, Shen Ju never mentioned it to anyone again.

He turned away, embarrassed. “I only know how to play games.”

Hearing this, Lin Jiang suddenly gave his shoulder a serious pat.

“Esports isn’t just about games. There has to be something more worth pursuing, or you won’t last on this path.”

Shen Ju realized Lin Jiang was talking about ideals and his eyes flickered slightly.

He looked at Lin Jiang uncertainly and asked, “Don’t you think talking about ideals is kind of childish?”

Lin Jiang let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Only those without ideals would find the topic ridiculous. For those who have them, whether it’s the process or the result, it’s all meaningful—something worth cherishing for a life…”

“Of course, if you can meet another person who shares the same ideals, that would be a lifelong blessing.”

If you can meet another person who shares the same ideals, that would be a lifelong blessing…

Shen Ju looked into his eyes, his heartbeat slowly quickening.

Something inside him seemed to stir, on the verge of breaking free.

But soon, Lin Jiang wiped the smile off his face and asked curiously:

“Song Zhixu told me you’ve been fined a lot for swearing. I’m a little curious—what kind of words get you fined? And how much?”

“For example, mother-related insults? Family-related ones? What about personal attacks? Like ‘idiot,’ ‘dumbass’, do those get fined too? What if you change it to ‘dumb-der'[mfn]傻der is a playful, often humorous way to express that something is silly or stupid, sometimes with a hint of mild annoyance[/mfn]? Would that be better?”

Shen Ju: “…”

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Ah, well, remember to tell me the results after you test it out.”

***

Author’s Note:

Shen Ju: My silence speaks louder than words.

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