A cheerful female voice burst out in the game voice chat, and thanks to the setup, the song was also broadcast to tens of thousands in the livestream.
Maybe the song left everyone stunned, because the barrage slowed to a trickle, then, after a few seconds, exploded with question marks.
– omg, I can’t, this is too much, I need to know everything about Mr. Hang in five minutes.
– hahahahaha how can someone be this funny???
– Old Spring lost! I’ve watched his streams for years, and this is the first time he’s lost so badly on the abstract track. Someone get in touch with Mr. Hang and get him to stream, I want to send him Cat God Descends gifts.
– Make him a regular! I want to see him every day! If you can’t do it, Spring, you’re useless!
The stream stayed on the death screen, and in the bottom right cam, a man lounged in a gaming chair.
He looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, wore over-ear headphones, messy hair, but still had that laid-back handsomeness.
Hearing his teammate play that song, he was stunned for a moment, then slowly unscrewed his thermos, took a sip of water, and couldn’t help but laugh.
For a moment, top streamer Spring’s Cat Paw TV channel became a weird music appreciation party. The streamer even changed the channel name to “Meet at the Crematorium,” taking the hilarity to new heights. The barrage was a wall of “hahaha,” with only a few scattered lines of confusion.
– Off topic, but doesn’t anyone think Mr. Hang’s voice sounds familiar?
– +1!!! I was just about to say, I’m totally hallucinating my fave!!! It’s really nice to listen to ahhh!!!
– Same. Blind guess: Xiao Shan?
– Yes!!!
– The voice really does sound like him! I was dazed for a second, but Xiao Shan couldn’t pull off moves like this, rest assured… Our Xiao Shan is the cool, calm, and collected type! (fist)
– Can the stans get lost? Is this your turf, shouting here? Does everyone with two eyes, a nose, and a mouth remind you of your fave? Is your fave just a generic face?
– That’s too harsh, isn’t it? The voice really does sound similar, can’t we even say that in this chat?
The man in the cam seemed to glance at the barrage, then casually moved his mouse to kick out those who were being rude or stirring up trouble, and offhandedly asked:
“Xiao Shan? Who’s Xiao Shan?”
“What did you say?”
Jiang Nan’an suddenly heard that name in his headphones, his brow twitching.
“Xiao Shan” was a nickname his fans gave him. Online, when it wasn’t convenient to use his full name, they’d originally split the character “岸” (an) from Jiang Nan’an into “山厂干” as a code, but later, maybe because it didn’t sound good, they gradually switched to the cuter, more affectionate “Xiao Shan.”
Suddenly hearing your own name in a random match-anyone would be startled.
“Oh, it’s nothing. The little girl at home says her favorite celebrity is someone called Xiao Shan. What a peculiar name. Is he good-looking? Oh? Top-tier looks, really?”
S chuckled lightly:
“What, Mr. Hang, you know who that is?”
Of course Jiang Nan’an knew-he couldn’t possibly know better.
He tugged at the corner of his lips:
“Forget about Xiao Shan, worry about the Tarzan on the enemy team. Your top lane is getting suppressed so hard he can’t even leave his tower.”
Jiang Nan’an really didn’t know what was so funny about the way he spoke, but every time he opened his mouth, it seemed to flip some strange switch in S, making him laugh non-stop: “Alright, got it!”
As it turned out, that first failed mid-lane gank where both he and S fed was really just a case of “even a wise man can make a mistake.” S seemed very good at observing his teammates’ habits, not missing even the smallest details, and after figuring them out, he’d adjust his play accordingly. From then on, his gameplay was flawless-timing, positioning, damage numbers, all just right. For once, Jiang Nan’an even felt a rare sense of teamwork.
Jiang Nan’an duo-queued with S all afternoon, racking up a whole page of “Victory” on his match history.
His rank was already pretty high, but since he hadn’t played ranked in ages, his skill level didn’t really match his current tier, so it was normal for the games to feel easy. At first, he thought S was in the same boat-but later he started to think-
S was playing a little too easily, wasn’t he?
Probably smurfing for fun.
Whatever, it didn’t really matter to him.
“Not playing anymore, I’m logging off.”
After another game ended, Jiang Nan’an glanced out the window at the warm sky, feeling like it was about time to go find something to eat.
S chuckled in the mic: “So heartless, just logging off like that, Mr. Hang?”
Jiang Nan’an raised his brow slightly: “What, should I kneel down and thank Your Majesty for your gracious favor? Thank the great S God for toiling through an afternoon of games with me; your dazzling mechanics and top-tier game sense have left a deep impression on my heart. Tonight, when I close my eyes, all I’ll see will be your unrestrained, dashing figure. From now on, I’ll shine a little brighter. If there really is a god who shines upon the world, his name must be-S Attribute Outburst!”
S was laughing so hard on the other side of the mic he couldn’t even sit up straight:
“You really are too funny. Honestly, Mr. Hang, I think you’d be perfect for a competition.”
“What?” Jiang Nan’an followed up:
“A nonsense freestyle contest?”
“No, no, no-a weekly Great, Handsome, Brilliant Spring Praise Competition. And as for who this great, handsome, brilliant Spring is…”
“Spring?”
Jiang Nan’an cut him off, repeating the name to himself. For a moment, he suddenly realized why S’s voice sounded so familiar:
“You’re not…?”
Jiang Nan’an took a deep breath, but didn’t finish the question:
“I’m logging off.”
“Mhm, mhm, remember to enter the contest! With your talent, Mr. Hang, you’ll definitely win first prize! Bye! Let’s play again next time!”
Jiang Nan’an’s brow twitched. After closing the game client, he picked up his phone and tapped open the long-unused cat-head app in the corner-Cat Paw TV.
“Spring.”
Jiang Nan’an was all too familiar with that name.
When he was nineteen, he acted in an esports drama, and the game in the show was the same “Blazing Holy Grail” he’d just spent all afternoon playing.
Jiang Nan’an wasn’t a trained actor-he’d never formally studied acting, and usually relied on one thing: immersion. So, whenever he got a new role, he’d obsessively try to become as close to the character as possible. For example, he didn’t play games at all before, but after reading the script, he started from scratch with “Blazing Holy Grail,” holing up at home for months as a full-on gaming addict.
But his character wasn’t just a gamer, but a pro esports player. Of course, Jiang Nan’an couldn’t actually go play in a pro league for a role, so he watched every “Blazing Holy Grail” tournament from recent years, and learned all about every domestic and international team and player.
The one he watched and studied the most was this ID-“Spring.”
Even after all these years, he still remembered the first sentence he saw when he clicked on a post about Spring.
It said: Spring is a miracle in esports history.
Spring, real name Yan Jie, had a face that stood out even in the entertainment industry, and came from a family fit for a romance novel male lead-a so-called “prince of Beijing’s elite.” He should have followed the path his parents paved for him, eventually inheriting the family business, but at nineteen, he suddenly became the starting jungler for SG that year.
Which pro starter didn’t claw their way up from youth training? When SG’s official announcement went out, the comments were full of hate, and the topic trended for days. People dug up everything about this rookie jungler called Spring, assuming he was just a rich kid slumming it for fun. The nastier comments said the whole esports scene would become a plaything for the young master.
But all that noise disappeared as soon as the games began-for one reason: as a pro, there was nothing to criticize about Spring.
In esports, the only thing that shuts people up is skill.
At the time, SG wasn’t even a strong team domestically. Later, even though the roster changed a lot, with Spring joining, the internet was still full of doubters. But this underdog team ended up sweeping the Grand Slam at that year’s Blazing Holy Grail pro circuit.
Spring Split, Mid-Season, Summer Split, Worlds… These championships weren’t Spring’s alone, but all those MVP awards, all those miraculous comebacks, and the moment he lifted the trophy for China on the world stage again after so many years, proved just how valuable he was as a pro player.
After that year, almost no one questioned Spring’s background or ability anymore. But just when everyone thought a new “Spring Era” was about to begin, he threw a bombshell into the calm waters he’d worked so hard to create-
He retired.
Retiring at the golden age of twenty was almost unheard of, but Spring really did it, just like how a year earlier he’d suddenly, without warning, become a pro player.
The genius jungler flashed across the scene-arriving amid doubts, leaving with recognition and trophies, and choosing to retreat at his peak. He left decisively and cleanly, every step so unexpected.
After that, he vanished from the internet. Some said he went abroad to study at a top university; others said he went home to inherit the family business. In any case, it was years before he resurfaced, signing with a streaming platform and becoming a gaming streamer.
By that point, nobody was surprised by his wild moves anymore. After all, Spring seemed born with “do as I please” and “free spirit” written all over him. One moment he was dominating the pro scene, the next he might be rocketing to the moon to feed the Jade Rabbit. Later, as a streamer, he might be gaming in the morning, off to Australia to see kangaroos the next day, and a few days later vlogging as the young boss at his family’s company-whatever came to mind, he’d do.
Back then, Jiang Nan’an watched many of his streams and matches to learn, so the person behind this ID left an especially deep impression. Even though four years had passed, he could instantly recall memories about him.
But whether Spring was legendary or dazzling wasn’t what mattered to him now. What mattered was whether S really was Spring, and whether this guy had been livestreaming their duo queue the whole time.
Jiang Nan’an raised his brows and tapped into Spring’s channel, featured in the biggest banner on Cat Paw TV’s homepage.
He still held a faint hope, but the next second, he heard that all-too-familiar voice dramatically sigh:
“Sigh-the first minute without Mr. Hang, I miss him!”
“Forget it, I’m done playing. Without his Siren, the whole Summoner’s Rift has lost its color. Come on, take your pick-what do you want to see me play?”
Maybe waiting for viewers’ suggestions, Spring lounged in his gaming chair, eyes on the chat, but his mouth never stopped:
“Miss him, miss him, miss his voice, his long hair, his slightly flushed cheeks. Miss him so much, want to have a home with him…”
Maybe shocked by his own unrivaled freestyle talent, he got more and more into it, even sitting up, one hand holding an imaginary mic, the other making hip-hop gestures, putting on a show for the camera:
“That’s right, I’m Spring, the master of single rhyme. Left hand a chicken, right hand a duck, I’m going to join The Rap of China, I’m the shiniest Rapstar! Mm, ah, if Mr. Hang comes, I’ll sweep him off his feet. Kids! Shout my name loud! Who am I! Yo, yo, I’m the king of the gaming zone!”
Jiang Nan’an’s vision went black-he gave up all hope.
Wasting talent in the gaming section.
You should be the king of the comedy section.
—
(advanced chapters available on kofi)
