TCWSITD – Chapter 7

Ripples stirred across the calm lake of his thoughts. Shen Ju splashed cold water on his face, roughly dried it, and headed downstairs for training.

Just as he reached the corner, he heard Song Zhixu dragging a suitcase upstairs, chattering away: “Captain, I really think you’re a great person—super down-to-earth, not arrogant at all, totally different from what I imagined.”

“Oh yeah?” Lin Jiang chuckled. “So, what exactly did you think I’d be like?”

“I thought a top-tier player like you would be more aloof—probably not the type to chat with us. Honestly, I couldn’t sleep last night just thinking about how to get along with you. Turns out I was overthinking it.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Eh? No, no, not at all! Captain, I like how approachable you are. Please don’t misunderstand…”

Shen Ju scoffed inwardly at Song Zhixu’s bootlicking. He was about to push the door open when he heard Song Zhixu add: “Captain, this is your room. Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll go buy it for you.”

His hand on the doorknob paused slightly. Shen Ju leaned against the door, ears perked.

Lin Jiang seemed to be inspecting the room carefully. “It’s nice, nothing’s missing. Who used to stay here before? Shen Ju?”

“Captain, you’re so sharp—yep, this was Shen Ju’s room. Yesterday, the manager made him move in with me to make space especially for you.”

“He didn’t mind?”

“Not at all, he was thrilled! Captain, I’m telling you—don’t let his grumpy face fool you. Deep down, he was really looking forward to you coming…”

Shen Ju: …

Who the hell taught him to talk like that?

He pushed the door open, ready to explode.

But Lin Jiang happened to be standing by the window. Their eyes met—those clear, bright eyes stared at him without blinking.

Shen Ju: …

Suddenly, he didn’t know what to say anymore.

Forget it.

He lowered his head and walked away.

At that moment, a gentle breeze stirred Lin Jiang’s white shirt and tousled his hair. In those clean, bright eyes, it seemed to reflect Shen Ju’s own drenched appearance.

Shen Ju felt his heart grow heavy and moist. He didn’t dare meet Lin Jiang’s gaze and quickly moved away from the windowsill.

Only after Shen Ju had walked away did Lin Jiang realize.

“Was that Shen Ju just now?”

Song Zhixu let out a little “huh” saw no one, and didn’t think much of it. “Captain, come, come, come. Put your stuff down. I’ll show you around the rest of the place.”

Lin Jiang glanced at the spacious room and bright windowsill, suddenly feeling that living here wasn’t so bad.

He set his backpack down.

From today onward, he was officially OT’s captain.

***

With Song Zhixu’s help, Lin Jiang adapted very quickly and, within a few days, gained a basic understanding of his teammates.

Besides himself, the team had five other members: top laner Song Zhixu, jungler Jiang Mingwei (also called A’Deng), AD Shen Ju, support Zhou Wen, and substitute Zheng Yu.

Top laner Song Zhixu was an adept[mfn]八面玲珑 (bā miàn líng lóng) – lit.eight-sided and delicate (idiom); someone who is socially skilled and tactful[/mfn] player with high emotional intelligence—the glue that held the team together. Lin Jiang had sensed this from his very first day at OT.

His role in the game closely mirrored his role in real life. He liked to pick tanks and bruisers, becoming the team’s glue—surviving and farming in lane, initiating team fights in the mid-game, then relying on Shen Ju to carry in the late-game.

While Song Zhixu’s role wasn’t wrong, the problem lay in his unconventional background. He had never received formal training, which resulted in a highly unrefined playstyle that made it easy for opponents to find weaknesses. When he faltered, the whole game often fell apart, putting extra pressure on Shen Ju’s damage output and ultimately costing them the match.

Jungler Jiang Mingwei, whom they called A’Deng, was a rookie who had just been promoted from the LDL last year. He turned 17 years old this year.

His playstyle lacked confidence—often hesitant and cautious. Burdened by excessive psychological pressure on himself, he frequently made crucial mistake during dragon contests, earning him the infamous nickname “Unlucky God” in the esports scene.

There might have been some truth to the superstition—he genuinely seemed to lose every skirmish, and his usual catchphrase was, “Why am I so unlucky?”

He had no rhythm in the jungle, tended to wander aimlessly, and struggled to assist his teammates in the mid-game. By the late-game, he had become little more than a decoration, relying entirely on Shen Ju to carry. He was the weakest link on the team.

AD Shen Ju needs no introduction—he’s the team’s core, with lightning-fast reflexes, innate talent, and nerves of steel that put him above all others. He was like a razor-sharp blade; given any opening, he strikes swiftly and leaves the enemy utterly defeated.

Lin Jiang genuinely admired Shen Ju—in just about every way…

Well, except, of course, for his temper.

As for the support Zhou Wen, to be honest, Lin Jiang couldn’t quite figure him out. He had watched many of Zhou Wen’s videos and still couldn’t define what kind of player he was.

Sometimes, Zhou Wen played aggressively, suddenly initiating a fight at Level 2. Other times, he was gentle—his operations soft and sluggish. Occasionally, he would stick to the AD like they were joined at the hip; yet at other times, he’d roam to the top lane as early as Level 3.

It was precisely this unpredictable playstyle that added a touch of mystery and uncertainty to OT, occasionally bringing them unexpected victories.

Perhaps Zhou Wen really does have some kind of talent—one that Lin Jiang hadn’t figured out yet.

Lastly, there’s the substitute Zheng Yu—a jungler whose rhythm and mechanics even fell short of A’Deng’s. That was the main reason he remained a substitute, and hadn’t gotten any playtime.

Each of the five members of the team had distinct personalities and unconventional playstyles, but they shared one thing in common: they all relied on Shen Ju to carry.

Lin Jiang looked at the data analysis sheet Du Lun had sent him. It showed that during the regular season of the last Spring Split, OT had won only two BO3[mfn]best-of-three; team needs to win 2 rounds/game to win the match[/mfn] matches—and Shen Ju alone had claimed four MVP titles.

…This was Shen Ju and his four accessories.

Lin Jiang rubbed his forehead helplessly.

If it were last year’s meta, OT might have stood a chance. But with the sweeping changes this season, Riot’s designers had rebalanced the roles—AD could still carry, but the team couldn’t rely solely on them to win. Teams that relied solely on their AD were, without fail, stuck at the bottom of the standings.

Lin Jiang stared at the data analysis sheet in his hand, his mind racing through countless strategies, but in the end, he set the sheet aside.

Compared to training, there was something more important he had to do right now.

***

Early in the morning, Song Zhixu received a message from a friend: [Bro, what’s it like being on the same team as the god?]

Song Zhixu: [It’s freaking amazing, feels like I’m dreaming even now.]

Friend: [Man, I’m so jealous, you actually get to be on the same team as river. Hey, quick, tell me. What’s the big shot[mfn]Zhixu’s friend is calling Lin Jiang dà lǎo (dà lǎo) lit. big old; can be translated as big shot (leading some field or group); godfather[/mfn] like in daily life? What does he usually do? Is he strict with you guys?

Song Zhixu: [Just like us—staying up late and waking up late. He usually just reviews data analysis when he’s free and doesn’t really have any demands on us.]

Friend: [Wow, so the big shot is actually this down-to-earth? I thought it would be like a god descending to earth—impossible to get close to… So what’s he doing now? Do big shots all have special training methods? I heard YIG’s Emperor F gets up early to practice breathing exercises…]

Honestly, Song Zhixu was a little curious too. The window next door was open, but the room was empty. Lin Jiang was already up, yet no one knew what he was doing.

Clad in slippers, Song Zhixu padded downstairs with a soft slap-slap sound. His gaze swept across the training room before finally landing on Lin Jiang. For a moment, he thought he was still half-asleep and seeing things, but once his vision cleared, he froze in place.

His phone buzzed: [Have you seen him?]

Song Zhixu took a deep breath and typed back: [You won’t believe this, but he’s repairing our computers…]

Friend: [???]

Friend: [He’s repairing your computers?]

Yes, Lin Jiang was repairing their computers.

This big shot is sitting on the dusty floor, hands-on, replacing hardware in every single one of their computers.

And get this—his hands were insured back at KUG! Yet here he was, using those precious hands to repair their computers!

Song Zhixu was terrified. He ran over in his slippers, the slap-slap sound echoing as he grabbed the screwdriver from Lin Jiang’s hand. “Captain, how can you be doing this?! If there’s anything you’re not satisfied with, just tell me—I’ll handle it. What if you accidentally hurt your hand?”

Lin Jiang had been working hard since morning, a light sweat forming on his forehead.

He carelessly wiped it away. “It’s nothing, just disassembling the PC.”

“Didn’t you mention the other day that your computer was lagging a bit? I checked all the PCs in the training room—the FPS values are too low. They should’ve been replaced a long time ago. The new hardware I bought just arrived today, so I thought I’d replace them for you guys to avoid affecting training.”

He didn’t even disturbed their sleep, working quietly and alone early in the morning—so thoughtful it almost brought tears to people’s eyes.

Song Zhixu looked at him with mixed emotions. He had thought players of Lin Jiang’s caliber would be as arrogant as Alike, but reality was completely different from his imagination.

Rolling up his sleeves, he took the screwdriver from Lin Jiang’s hand, making sure the sharp end faced himself to avoid hurting his captain.

“Captain, leave this to me. I’ll handle it.”

Except for Shen Ju’s computer, all the PCs in the training room were uniformly configured by the club; many were two or three years old and simply couldn’t keep up with their current needs.

But everyone knew their skills were lacking and didn’t dare to ask for upgrades, fearing the boss would blame their performance rather than the equipment. Besides, sometimes they didn’t even notice the FPS drops because their skills weren’t sharp enough.

That day, Song Zhixu had merely muttered, “Why is it lagging a bit?”

Unexpectedly, Lin Jiang took his words seriously…

He noticed Lin Jiang’s hands were covered in dirt and couldn’t help but ask, “Captain, did you also fix computers for them back at KUG?”

The hands tidying up suddenly stopped.

Lin Jiang lifted his eyelids slowly, and as they fell, they trembled ever so slightly. A vague, subtle coldness flickered in his eyes. “No.”

Then he stood, lifting the freshly set-up PC. Song Zhixu quickly scrambled to his feet, smiling brightly. “Captain, let me do it!”

Lin Jiang entrusted the rest of the tasks to Song Zhixu.

With his long limbs and nimble hands, Song Zhixu worked swiftly, giving Lin Jiang the perfect chance to focus on his training plan.

OT didn’t have a proper coach—they couldn’t afford a decent one. During the Spring Split, their data analyst had stepped in as a makeshift coach but lacked real authority; most drafting decisions were left to the players themselves.

As a result, disagreements frequently arose, leading to strange and unpredictable team compositions. They even fielded several “trash-tier” lineups multiple times last spring.

Lin Jiang glanced over the data and couldn’t help but laugh at how absurd it all was.

No wonder Old Mao had strongly opposed his joining OT—any team capable of drafting such lineups had no one to blame for their bottom-tier ranking.

“Song Zhixu, help me notify everyone. We’ll be having a 5V5 training match this afternoon.”

Song Zhixu’s eyes lit up. It’s happening!

Are we finally going to witness the gap between god and mere mortals?!

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