During a friendly match among the competitive teams of twelve high schools in the city, Luo Zishang shone brightly. It was then that Gu Xinyan joined the training team. Qin Chuan had initially been reluctant to lower the team’s average skill level by admitting someone who only knew the basics, especially a girl. However, amidst the wails of his team members, he eventually relented. Little did he expect that the afternoon he casually dismissed the young girl would be the last time they spoke. Had he known, he would not have let her join the team. He would forever remember, outside the emergency room, the boy who had promised not to skip classes or fight, pulling out a fruit knife and stabbing it into his body. He would never forget the hysterical cries of Luo Zishang, the young man breaking down in public for the first time.
The neon lights cast shadows over the human world. Qin Chuan felt a chill on his face as he looked up, the first snowflakes of the winter gently landing on his brows and lashes. He thought, a decade had passed so quickly, a decade of guilt, pain, and cold darkness.
Who loved, who hated, who was right, who was wrong, who regretted, who forgot, who returned, who couldn’t return—he had never understood until he met the girl with the ID ‘suyao’ in his world, her signature telling him that ‘want’ means love. But when he understood love, she was gone; when he reclaimed love, he couldn’t go back. If life was destined to be like this…
With a sigh, Qin Chuan brushed the snow off his shoulder, his voice hoarse as he spoke, “In my eyes, both you and Xinyan are the most precious teammates. I didn’t want to lose either of you. If I had known you would hate me for so long, I would rather…”
“Huh?” Luo Zishang glanced at him, cutting him off, “Would regret be useful? You’re still so hypocritical.”
Wrapped in thick fur and a hat, Luo Zishang shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away, leaving Qin Chuan behind. His youthful, defiant expression remained unchanged. He laughed, looking up at the snowflakes falling from the sky, nostalgic for that summer, for the Qin Chuan he once respected. But time had taken everything, leaving only hatred.
“Seeing that you’ll suffer for the rest of your life, I am truly delighted. I can now leave in peace, hahaha, Qin Chuan, we won’t meet again in this world…”
Without looking where he was going, Luo Zishang laughed as he walked away.
Xinyan was dead, the captain was dead, love was dead, hate was dead, the world was dead, humanity was dead, the past was dead, the future was dead. He was born to cause trouble, to fight, causing Qin Chuan endless trouble in the past. But now, what did it matter? The captain’s life was already full of trouble.
Snowflakes landed on Luo Zishang’s raised eyebrows. He closed his eyes, the chill of the snow on his lashes, thinking, if the world was destined to be like this, let him be lost in drunken dreams. What did it matter? It no longer concerned him, just as he would never tell anyone that he approached Nan Bo Wan, willingly using his world-class skills to be a lackey for a rich kid, just to use his connections to find what he was looking for. He would never tell anyone that his flirtatious behavior, his love for big-breasted girls, his causing countless girls’ hearts to flutter, was just his way of coping with loneliness and boredom, hoping to forget Xinyan, to lessen his hatred. But he could never forget.
It was like a long dream, filled with girls’ laughter, youthful persistence, endless battles, the happiness of coffee, the hard yet joyful days, the youthful aspirations, the fragile first love, the glow of the CRT monitor, the shouting in the computer room, the competition on the field, the tactics written on the blackboard by the captain, the old friends he could no longer see, the time frozen in old photographs. It seemed like if he looked up, he could still hear the crisp sound of coins clinking, the youth at his fingertips, the tears on the keyboard.
When the dream ended, it was time to leave. Luo Zishang didn’t know where he should go; he only heard a sharp screech of brakes that jolted him awake, followed by a strong push from behind, sending him flying several meters. Struggling to get up, he turned to see the person in a pool of blood. Ten years ago, he could laugh in a pool of blood from fights, cry in a pool of blood from sorrow. But why now, could he neither laugh nor cry?
The faint voice that last spoke to him finished the sentence he had previously interrupted:
“If I had known… you would hate me for so long… I would rather… it had been me who died… I didn’t want to lose either of you…”
The subsequent plot is tight and interconnected; every change affects the whole. It feels like just yesterday when I started this story, and now it’s nearing its end. I’m reluctant to let go.
Nan Bowan looked at the new transfer with five zeros in astonishment. He had just sent the quarterly salary to Luo Zishang yesterday, and today it was returned in full. This was unprecedented.
Nan Bowan, unlike the overconfident Ji Canghai, knew his own limits. As the King of Yan, he was aware that the prosperity of Yan was all thanks to Luo Zishang’s management. When Luo Zishang first offered to be his strategist, he merely agreed, but as he watched the country grow stronger by the day, he was astounded by Luo Zishang’s abilities. Time flew by, and before he knew it, Luo Zishang had been in the role of strategist for over two years, always in his white robe, appearing carefree but with a mind full of strategies.
Over the past two years, Nan Bowan had heard various slanders and objections, but Luo Zishang’s competence was undeniable. Whether it was causing trouble or leveraging his network, Nan Bowan let him be, until the recent artifact competition where Luo Zishang, as the strategist, neither advised him nor cooperated, instead going solo. That’s when Nan Bowan got angry. In his anger, he hired the current WCG champion at a high price, thinking a professional champion must be better than an amateur like Luo Zishang. This move was to humble Luo Zishang, not to replace him, as their two years of monarch-minister relationship was not something to be easily discarded. Mostly, Luo Zishang was very useful to him.
Luo Zishang always accepted his remuneration with pleasure, after all, not many would answer his calls 24/7 to handle state affairs, big or small, and he had never lost a battle, except for the time with the Red Medicine Hall. Yet, this time, the money was returned, making Nan Bowan worry if he had hurt Luo Zishang. After reading the explosive revelations about Qinchuan online, Nan Bowan realized the true prowess of Changsheng Temple and Luo Zishang in the gaming world. How laughable it was that he had hired a fool to challenge Luo Zishang’s prestige.
He sent twice the amount back, thinking it might comfort Luo Zishang, but seeing the money returned untouched, he didn’t know what to do. Without Luo Zishang’s management, the prosperous Yan was in chaos within days, and Luo Zishang’s phone, which used to be readily available, now went unanswered. “Forget it,” he called his secretary, “Book me a ticket to S City for tomorrow.” He planned to personally invite Luo Zishang back.
With the exposure of Changsheng Temple’s identity, the human world welcomed a wave of new players, most of whom were fans of Qinchuan from other domains and hardcore gamers who only played high-end single-player games. They swarmed into the human world solely to admire Changsheng Temple’s prowess – though after that, Changsheng Temple never appeared in the human world again.