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By the time Sun Xiang joined Samsara, he’d had it with false promises. He didn’t want them to tell him how great he’d be, or what perks they would give him, or what position or authority he might hold. He wanted a place he could fit, that would give him a chance to fight for his own victory, that needed and could work with him as he was now instead of as he might be in the future.
He was tired of slick words and smooth smiles, so maybe that was why. Maybe that was what made him so wary of Jiang Botao and his friendly expressions. Everyone liked Jiang Botao, though, and Sun Xiang couldn’t even really say why the vice-captain made him uncomfortable, so it was probably something else.
But Sun Xiang really wanted to fit in here, this time, so he’d like it if he knew exactly what. Jiang Botao smiled at him and he didn’t know how to feel.
It seemed warm.
Zhou Zekai knew his vice-captain could be scary.
He couldn’t ask for anyone better.
Jiang Botao knew what people were thinking before they could figure it out themselves, guided conversations with and without words with a smile that never failed. Jiang Botao understood many more layers of motivation and pressure than most anyone else ever would, could avoid and spring traps that Zhou Zekai would never even be able to see on his own.
Zhou Zekai knew well the helplessness and frustration of being caught in one’s own mind, so he understood how scary Jiang Botao had to be, to force it on someone else. He also understood that knowledge was just knowledge, in the end; Jiang Botao used his understanding to help far more than he did to hinder.
If Jiang Botao knew how to save people, what did it matter that it also came with the knowledge of how to destroy them?
When Zhou Zekai met Jiang Botao, he’d wanted to be able to welcome him onto the team. He’d wanted to be able to give the rookie some indication that he didn’t mind at all that the team had called for a newly debuted player to take over shotcalling. He’d wanted a lot of things, but how could he possibly have done it? What words were supposed to be said?
He’d said, in the end, “good.”
He’d been uncomfortable as he said it: He knew it fell far short of a greeting or welcome, but it was all he could convey about the situation. It was good that he and Jiang Botao had met, and that Jiang Botao would be joining his team. Jiang Botao was a good player, and Zhou Zekai was happy to have him. It was good. What else was there to say? Zhou Zekai always thought like this, but he’d known by then how rare it was for anyone else to follow along.
But Jiang Botao did. Jiang Botao smiled and said “I understand” and Zhou Zekai had never felt so relieved.
Zhou Zekai, the “one-man team,” even though he was more aware than anyone else that it wasn’t the case. Zhou Zekai who could pull them to the playoffs but no further, because at that level coordination couldn’t be made up for with only skill. Zhou Zekai had so many ideas about Glory, so many things he wanted to share, but he never knew how to say any of it.
(And, a little, every time he opened his mouth he thought of blank stares and the old captain’s sneer, and he froze a little more. Zhou Zekai didn’t want to open his mouth at all.)
But Jiang Botao proved from the first moment on, he didn’t need explanations. Jiang Botao just got Zhou Zekai on an unprecedented level. Zhou Zekai was so unbelievably grateful, because words were just…not his thing.
With Jiang Botao there to help, people would finally stop asking him for them.
(Jiang Botao found it very easy to “interpret” Zhou Zekai, as other people called it. All he had to do was read his mood and say the appropriate social words to smooth things along, follow the standard social script. “He’s happy to have you here,” “He says it’s not a problem,” “He wants to ask you about that last play,” it was easy. Over time, too, the anxiety that colored Zhou Zekai’s desire to speak faded; he started to trust that Jiang Botao would always know what he wanted to get across, how to say what he wanted to express when Zhou Zekai himself could never find the words.
This too made it easier: Reading Zhou Zekai’s mood was made more difficult when peering through a lens of anxiety.
What did “good” mean when greeting one’s new teammate if he also looked uncomfortable as he said it? Did it mean he wasn’t actually that happy to have the rookie there? Was worried about his taking over authority? Was he telling him to be good? Being dismissive? Obviously these things would complicate the matter.
For Jiang Botao it was obvious that Zhou Zekai was uncomfortable because “good” was all he could think to say, and on its own “good” was meant to refer only to his being there. He understood; to ease that anxiety, he said so.
In the future, though, more subtlety would be gained the less fear and distance stood between them.)
Zhou Zekai couldn’t help but think his vice-captain might be some kind of magic, because he made what no one could ever do for Zhou Zekai before look easy. Like anyone could do it; like it was natural. People called him Zhou Zekai’s translator and Zhou Zekai almost agreed.
(Jiang Botao would never agree. Jiang Botao knew how different what he did was from taking words Zhou Zekai knew and turning them into language others could understand—frankly speaking, he was making it all up. It was the right way to make things up for someone else, though, of this Jiang Botao was certain. Zhou Zekai really was happy to be playing at All-Stars, because he simply enjoyed playing. Jiang Botao would “translate” this as “I’m so happy to be here, thank you all for coming, I had a great time playing with everyone,” social nothings like that. But they were true to Zhou Zekai’s feelings, and they communicated what Zhou Zekai could otherwise never convey. Jiang Botao could see from the ease with which Zhou Zekai now faced the world, Samsara’s captain and ace, that he wasn’t wrong.
It wasn’t why he’d been brought to Samsara, honestly. Fang Minghua had seen his pragmatism and adaptability above all else; acting as their tactical base and the “bridge” was somewhat the point, based on his ability to read others, but bringing Zhou Zekai out of his helpless isolation was a bonus the rest didn’t expect.
Jiang Botao had known he could do it, though. Jiang Botao never just adapted—he influenced. It was an easy thing, to change someone’s mind, whether about how to reach out to others or about how to play. All one had to do was set the stage, and almost everybody would walk the laid out roads themselves. People were just like this, no matter what else they believed; most had no idea how much the things around them could change their thoughts, their decisions, their realities. It seemed so obvious, to him, that what one interacted with would change what one then did, but people were ignorant, and perhaps prideful, unwilling to believe their own malleability.
It didn’t matter, though. It was to his advantage when he needed it, and a fact of life when he did not. It was a guide to watching his words and gaining a positive reputation, to reading others and determining whom he should care about.
In tactics and playstyle, it was a winning move.)
Zhou Zekai knew someone as smooth and changeable, as unknowable, as Jiang Botao, was scary. Anyone who could tie minds in knots and destroy confidence had to be.
But he built it, too, and a positive and stable team to go with it.
Zhou Zekai truly could not ask for anyone better.
There was something off about Sun Xiang.
He belonged in Samsara, of course, Jiang Botao had no doubts about their decision to take him in. He was hardworking, he wanted to integrate into the team and seemed to properly understand teamwork, a definite improvement from his younger days, but there was something off about Sun Xiang.
Jiang Botao, being who he was, went scouring through Sun Xiang’s history for what, exactly, it could be. Jiang Botao was in charge of coordination for their team, and nothing could be more important than getting their newest member to coordinate quickly, since Samsara was aiming for their dynasty championship this year. He went looking, but it was hard to see. Sun Xiang as a Berserker had been brutal and overwhelming; as a Battle Mage, he hadn’t changed much, at least at first.
The mysterious tank in Excellent Era’s ability during Season 8 was well-documented, Sun Xiang’s ability to handle press conferences getting even worse for a time, his attitude somewhat snappish.
His vice-captain, Liu Hao, had let it happen.
At first Jiang Botao didn’t think much of it beyond his instinctive disapproval—what a terrible vice-captain, really, but he’d always felt that way about Liu Hao—but then he considered the difference in circumstances to when he’d thought that before.
Ye Xiu had not shown himself, before this last Challenger’s League, so of course Liu Hao had spoken for him. In season 8, Sun Xiang seemed to have trouble articulating himself, so Liu Hao had stepped in to explain—right?
But now that he thought about it, the words were the same. The same, and also just a little…wrong. Success was attributed to Liu Hao, failure to Sun Xiang. Sun Xiang bristled, but it came across as the arrogance of youth.
Was it?
Liu Hao was the face of Excellent Era, the team that had abandoned Ye Xiu so thoroughly no pro could stand to leave it without comment. Ye Xiu had clearly lost no ability, so how could the team he made himself have sunk so far under his command? How, even more so, had anyone believed it was a fault in Ye Xiu that caused it? One press conference about “taking responsibility” would not manage it alone—and, indeed it hadn’t. Liu Hao, for years now, gave conferences with the air of covering something up, of making excuses for a captain’s failings, of helplessness in the face of a lack of communication.
An attitude of understated blame, and a twisting of reality. Who was at fault? Only Liu Hao spoke, and tacitly the rest of Excellent Era backed him, up until Ye Xiu’s end.
But not Liu Hao’s end, then. Excellent Era had intended to rise again with Sun Xiang, but he went so quickly from a young god to a tempestuous teen in the eyes of the public, and even more so the players. Excellent Era’s faults were pushed onto him just as they’d been pushed onto the captain before, but Ye Xiu, anyone who knew him could see, was able to handle it. Ye Xiu understood what Liu Hao was doing, and didn’t lose sight of his own ability underneath that.
Would Sun Xiang?
Ye Xiu had people who believed in him no matter what, but Sun Xiang really did have faults, even if Excellent Era’s fall obviously could not be attributed to a single person. With his personality, he hadn’t been well-liked by the pros.
In these press conferences, now, he could see how Liu Hao flattered and sidestepped, showing himself in the best light, highlighting how Sun Xiang charged off alone as if he weren’t taking every chance to steal the spotlight himself. How was it that the end of the season came with Liu Hao looking steady and Sun Xiang unreliable, when both of them should be considered responsible for the mentality of their team? Sun Xiang didn’t know how to lead, sure, but in the first place asking a newly-transferred rookie to change the atmosphere of the team by himself would really be too much. Liu Hao “heroically persevered” through his team’s collapsing mentality as if he’d had no hand in the complete breakdown of cooperative play.
And yet every match seemed to better showcase his own brilliance, Sun Xiang’s inexperience, under a veneer of doing their best that could not be true as Excellent Era sank into relegations despite all their brilliant hardware and support. Professionally speaking, as a vice-captain of a major team and a tactician who relied on mentality, Jiang Botao was disgusted. Liu Hao would slip all the blame in compliments, making Sun Xiang unable to refute; he couched a “captain’s failures” in the language of PR and left Sun Xiang confused and trying to hide it, likely told him he’d misunderstood as it happened again and again, that Sun Xiang just didn’t “get” what a team needed to communicate to the public for the best results, Sun Xiang didn’t know enough about authority and left it all to Liu Hao like the mouthpiece wasn’t the most important part—
Jiang Botao took a deep breath, trying hard not to think of someone doing this to Little Zhou, telling him that the words he didn’t know how to summon were supposed to be ones that broke him down, abandoned him in his faults and stole credit for his strengths, made him a puppet with no voice and let others call it deserved.
Maybe he was overreacting, maybe he was just too close to this. It’d been over a year already since Sun Xiang had dealt with Liu Hao, and his confidence in his ability had held strong through almost all of it. Xiao Shiqin had been his next vice-captain, and Jiang Botao genuinely respected the man. Sun Xiang wasn’t Zhou Zekai, who really couldn’t grasp verbal communication on that level, and didn’t care to—Sun Xiang was bad at trash talk, maybe, but that was hardly the same thing.
So Liu Hao was awful; this wasn’t news. Maybe Jiang Botao was reading too much into it.
Once Jiang Botao had seen the possibility, though, he couldn’t stop seeing it, most importantly in all the effects it had on Sun Xiang’s play even now. His determination to fix his problems with coordination was impressive; the speed with which he took responsibility for any breakdown in communication, less so. Jiang Botao—the one in charge of this team’s shotcalling, the bridge, the vice-captain when Sun Xiang had only the responsibilities of a core player—said he was the one who failed to match up with Sun Xiang’s advance that time and the boy had flinched, almost imperceptibly and obviously unconsciously but it was there, he was expecting insincerity. He was expecting subtle chastisement, “taking responsibility” to imply that it was Sun Xiang all along, and this supporting Spellblade vice-captain so generous to politely talk around it anyway, oh yes, Jiang Botao was angry.
Anger wouldn’t help here, though, so he turned down the intentional affability and got serious about Glory: the one thing he knew always worked, with these types of aces. And indeed, as Jiang Botao went step by step over exactly where the tactic had fallen apart and what they might need to do next time, Sun Xiang’s tension gradually eased, turning back into the intent focus characteristic of all the gods of Glory. He made suggestions for how the play could work in the future, listened to Jiang Botao explain Zhou Zekai’s usual decision-making process (in words, if only to be thorough—aces like these genuinely just understood when it came to the game, no words required), believed him. Let them try again, and make it work this time.
So Jiang Botao finished the practice with an air of camaraderie, warm and genial, but he didn’t forget. He went back to his room and over his plans for the press conferences next season—always updating along with their team’s progress, of course, but it was good to be prepared for many eventualities on a team this high-profile—and started a new list of things he wanted to emphasize, or not.
No, he definitely didn’t forget.
In one of the earliest press conferences of the season, Jiang Botao told a reporter that Sun Xiang had settled into their team quite well, “especially given he hasn’t played with the classes on our roster before.”
Reporters were like sharks, one of them would definitely bite.
Sure enough, Excellent Era’s second-string Sharpshooters could be discounted and a Cleric was hardly news, but “hasn’t Sun Xiang played with a Spellblade, though?” Liu Hao was, after all, quite visible in his position as Excellent Era’s vice-captain in those years.
“Hm? Oh…yes, Absent Sun used to be part of Excellent Era,” Jiang Botao replied amiably, “but it was only for half a season: I don’t think it was long enough to call it experience.”
No one would ever say that half a year spent with Ye Xiu didn’t count as having experience with a Battle Mage, disregarding entirely that Jiang Botao hadn’t worked with Sun Xiang any longer, but an assertion like this about Liu Hao everyone just accepted as true—that Liu Hao and his limited time with Sun Xiang meant nothing at all.
Jiang Botao, of course, knew it wasn’t true: Liu Hao had had quite a bit of influence, but none of it as a Spellblade.
If Liu Hao was doing his job as vice-captain of Wind Howl, he’d probably see this press conference. Maybe he’d even know to be angry, on a conscious level.
Probably not, though. In the end, he’d really never had Jiang Botao’s ability with this kind of thing, and a reaction now wasn’t the main point—obviously, this was just the start.
No one noticed the way Jiang Botao kept “forgetting” about Liu Hao, dropping him from his considerations, failing to say his name in favor of his class or character’s, reacting a little slower when people brought him up. They didn’t notice, but they also got out of the habit of mentioning him, especially in relation to Sun Xiang. Why bother, when Jiang Botao never had anything interesting to say about him? Reporters had good instincts, they’d chase what would get them news.
Jiang Botao, subtle though it was, made it clear how little he thought Liu Hao newsworthy.
(“Wind Howl’s vice-captain” made All-Star, didn’t he? Congratulations are surely in order.
Yes, congratulations to that guy, whoever he is in his washed-out spotlight.)
Sun Xiang didn’t know why Liu Hao made him so uncomfortable, nor why the man had specifically come over to Samsara in the first place—to catch up with him, maybe?
(Jiang Botao knew that Liu Hao was flaunting his much-coveted All-Star status, failing to grasp yet again that people like Sun Xiang and Zhou Zekai barely cared at all, other than as an acknowledgment of their personal skill. If he were the type to roll his eyes—which he very much was not—now was when he would.)
Sun Xiang knew he felt a lot of frustration and embarrassment when thinking back to his time at Excellent Era, which easily fueled his drive to improve, but wasn’t really pleasant to dwell on. Samsara was much better for him, the kind of team that made past awkwardness and old posturing really drift into the background. They were too comfortable and sincere to care about that kind of thing, but Liu Hao seemed to be doing his level best to drag it in with him.
Jiang Botao easily took over the interaction instead, his propensity to smooth over social interactions one of the aspects of being in Samsara that was very quickly growing on Sun Xiang, but there was definitely something different about the way he did it this time. There was…a pause? A bit of distraction, in the way he spoke? Sun Xiang didn’t know a lot about courtesy and he couldn’t actually say what Jiang Botao was doing differently, but he could see that Liu Hao’s mood was dropping. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing he were with Zhou Zekai and Lu Boyuan instead. But Jiang Botao had tapped his shoulder before he stepped in, just once, an easy sign for “pay attention” he was too used to from training to disregard, so he stayed to watch Jiang Botao manage to kill a conversation slowly and painfully. He somehow inadvertently mentioned how many All-Stars from Samsara there were, how many times they’d been All-Stars before, even brought up comparative debut years once or twice and “how great it was to have a second Spellblade up here,” all as completely natural responses until Liu Hao apparently had no more topics to venture. Wind Howl’s vice-captain gave them both the most insincere smile Sun Xiang had ever witnessed and excused himself abruptly, kind of obviously fuming.
Alright, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to get from that, but there was something like a laugh rising in Sun Xiang’s chest as he watched Liu Hao stomp away. For some reason, he was viscerally reminded of the times in the past he’d been called “petulant.”
“And that, Little Sun,” Jiang Botao told him in a close undertone, “is what casual disregard looks like. You don’t have to be obvious to be cruel.”
Sun Xiang dutifully thought back to how that conversation had started—he didn’t really get it, but he had been paying attention, Jiang Botao wouldn’t tap him in for something unimportant—the way Jiang Botao had seemed almost a little confused about Liu Hao’s presence at first when Jiang Botao was never confused, how he’d paused a split second too long before saying Liu Hao’s name, before he’d called him a Spellblade, how he’d misunderstood so many references to Liu Hao’s new status that even Sun Xiang had pretty much figured out what Liu Hao was getting at, how he’d always managed to mention Samsara’s accomplishments somehow.
Sun Xiang couldn’t see how he’d done it, but put in those terms he really could see the lack of respect even in Jiang Botao’s courtesies. He might not have caught the hesitations, either, if he weren’t so used to Jiang Botao’s rhythms by now. Would Liu Hao really have noticed any of that? But he’d gone away angry, so…maybe?
Either way, did it matter?
“I don’t know how to be like that,” he finally replied. Sun Xiang had always been ruthless in his self-improvement: If he didn’t know something now, then he either didn’t think it was important or needed to be working at it. For a while he’d made the wrong calls on which was which, but in Samsara he knew to own up to rather than dismiss where he hadn’t developed.
“I’m not asking you to,” Jiang Botao replied easily, confirming Sun Xiang’s previous assessment that words were really not his strong suit (and, obviously, that Samsara didn’t mind). “I just want you to know what it looks like—next time someone does this to you, ignore it. They’re an asshole.”
Sun Xiang’s mouth fell open a little. “You…” Hadn’t Jiang Botao just done it, though? On a real person, too, if he’d just wanted Sun Xiang to see he could have played out some kind of skit or whatever back at the club.
Now that Sun Xiang was looking, Jiang Botao’s ever-present grin seemed almost sharp. “Well, I’ve never been anyone good.”
(Sun Xiang remembered the way Jiang Botao said next time, like Sun Xiang had had this done to him before—on purpose, like Jiang Botao did, not the genuine lack of interest or tact some showed—the way Liu Hao had been so familiarly stifled, how those fake smiles made him uncomfortable even now, and had to disagree.
Occasionally unsettling demeanor or not, he really couldn’t see where Jiang Botao wasn’t good.)
Sun Xiang wasn’t the type to leave things alone, so he went back through the things Liu Hao had said about him before, in press conferences and interviews, but it didn’t make him any more certain.
Sun Xiang had lived through unwarranted certainty before; he was careful not to repeat it.
“My previous lack of coordination…” he felt obliged to explain to his vice-captain, though the taste of falling short was still sour in his mouth. “I understand that this was my fault. I’m trying to learn now, but he wasn’t wrong.”
Jiang Botao actually laughed. “Your lack of coordination had nothing on his. And in any case, as your senior and vice-captain it was his job to help you learn coordination. Unfortunately, Liu Hao does nothing but tear it apart.” He said this with complete confidence, like it was a well-known fact, but Sun Xiang didn’t remember hearing such a thing from anyone before.
“Everyone would say I was too arrogant,” he reminded, increasingly uncomfortable that he had to actually argue this, as if he and Jiang Botao had lived in entirely different worlds these past few years. Sun Xiang had, in fact, met the other pros before he transferred to Excellent Era, okay? And it turned out they weren’t just bitter, they thought he was annoying because he was, well, genuinely being pretty annoying, looking back. Sun Xiang similarly looked down on people who didn’t put effort in the right places, it was uncomfortable now but he did understand.
“This and that are different things,” Jiang Botao waved off, “but in any case—in an argument between you and Liu Hao, nearly every pro would know to back you rather than him.”
Sun Xiang could admit he was incredulous. “But they don’t like me.” He wasn’t being self-pitying, he’d known that long before he’d known why.
Jiang Botao put a surprisingly comforting hand on his shoulder, anchoring Sun Xiang in the moment, but he didn’t push any further on that particular point. “Regardless, you weren’t in the wrong.”
Sun Xiang pursed his lips. He just didn’t know what to say here, what the right way forward was. He’d understood his problems in that last match of the Challenger’s League, he’d signed on to Samsara with greater dedication to the game than ever and far less ego, he’d learned how to coordinate and he actually enjoyed doing it, so wasn’t this completely out of place? He’d admitted he was wrong and lived much better now for it, how could Jiang Botao—a man whose opinion and shotcalling he genuinely believed in—say the opposite? Was there a distinction here he wasn’t getting? He had thrown away coordination, Ye Xiu had only told him so every single time they met, why would the pros think any different? Even if they did, was he supposed to trust their point of view over a man who beat Excellent Era with a bunch of players past their prime and green rookies? Sun Xiang knew how silver equipment worked, on paper they’d outstripped Happy by a mile. No one really contested Ye Xiu’s title as the God of Glory, though Samsara was on their way to matching him for honors.
The Unspecialized alone was such a ridiculously singular existence it’d be a hard point to argue.
“Genuinely any pro,” Jiang Botao repeated. “Here, Senior Huang usually has his phone on him, I’ll show you.”
Sun Xiang startled when Jiang Botao actually pulled out his phone. “Wait, you don’t have to—”
“Liu Hao says Sun Xiang doesn’t know how to coordinate,” he read aloud, pro-quick fingers shooting off the message.
The reply really was almost instantaneous: A whole screen filled with “HAHAHAHAHAHA,” followed immediately by “Why are you talking to Liu Hao? How did it even come up? He actually wants to talk about coordination with Wind Howl like that?? Have his eyes been glued shut this whole season???”
Before Jiang Botao could even start composing a reply, a third message came in: “Captain said to tell you to stop using me to send messages, was this some kind of joke? A code?? Makes more sense than talking to that idiot, anyway, didn’t see anything in the vice-captain chat, I already checked. I even checked the one he’s not in, so I really don’t know where this could come from, but if you actually had some weird Spellblade meeting I’ll send my condolences now, RIP” and a line of candles.
“I can’t tell you about tactician codes,” Jiang Botao finally sent back, ignoring the string of pinging responses—near-continuous and then abruptly cut off—as he put his phone away again.
“…There are tactician codes?” Huang Shaotian was always a bit of a mess to actively process and Sun Xiang still wasn’t sure what to think about the rest, so it seemed a safe enough topic to latch on to.
“No.” Jiang Botao’s face was alight with amusement. “But Huang Shaotian doesn’t know that for sure, so he’ll keep pestering Senior Yu until he gives him a good explanation.”
Sun Xiang couldn’t help but laugh a little, even as the rest of the interaction worked itself out in his head and his gaze settled on the old video of Liu Hao in late season 8 again. Huang Shaotian was friends with Ye Xiu, he was pretty sure, and had no reason to care for either of them, but there really hadn’t been even a moment of hesitation. He seemed to genuinely find the idea of Liu Hao criticizing Sun Xiang…hilarious.
“You don’t need to keep looking.” Jiang Botao patted him on the shoulder again before pulling back, getting ready to leave. “He’s an awful teammate and a worse vice-captain, there’s nothing he could say that’s worth hearing, let alone listening to.”
Sun Xiang hummed noncommittally; Jiang Botao seemed ready to give him space to think about it. Just before the door, though, he stopped and looked back one last time: “Excellent Era was in 19th place well before you arrived.”
Long after Jiang Botao had left, Sun Xiang was still sitting in front of the computer, video paused on Liu Hao’s ingratiating face.
(He believed in his coordination with Samsara, with Zhou Zekai, he really did. Having a teammate who implicitly understood him as well as their captain did, a support as stalwart as the vice-captain, he’d never felt so invigorated, nor had so much fun. He looked at the caption that said “our Captain Sun’s plan,” as if Sun Xiang had ever done anything like a plan with Excellent Era, now that he’d seen the way Jiang Botao prepared for matches. Liu Hao had been vice-captain to a recognized Master Tactician, he must have known. Not to mention that he’d guided the team into most of those plans himself, functionally all the team’s affairs were under his control.
Every match he’d reinforced Sun Xiang’s position as captain had been one they’d miserably lost.
Sun Xiang opened a new window and watched every slight pause Jiang Botao had made before saying Liu Hao’s name in interviews this season, when he mentioned Liu Hao by name at all.
He hoped when Liu Hao had returned from All-Stars he’d done the exact same.)
(“What do you think has contributed most to Sun Xiang’s success with Samsara this season, given his previous struggles?” a reporter asked early on.
Jiang Botao’s affable smile didn’t waver. “When it comes to playing a character like the Battle God on the professional stage, I think much of it comes down to having teammates who can keep up with him—”)
Liu Hao passed out during post-match courtesies, they heard.
“Strange,” said Jiang Botao, neutral, bland.
Completely unsurprised.
If forced to comment, he’d say they hoped “the player” recovered well.
(Su Mucheng had, apparently, brutally eviscerated Liu Hao onstage and met him after with a bright smile and no handshake.
Sun Xiang felt the strangest urge to break into hysterical laughter.)
Sun Xiang and Zhou Zekai won Best Partners season 10, but it was obvious that Ye Xiu and Su Mucheng hadn’t intended to throw themselves in the running. Samsara lost out on the championship, one short of making a dynasty in favor of a fourth for Ye Xiu.
“We start again next year,” Jiang Botao said to a team firm with determination.
But Ye Xiu didn’t have a next year, for Sun Xiang to keep trying against. Their last professional contest had ended in that dazzling, baffling 6.5 seconds.
China Glory was an honor, of course, but also a bit awkward—though everyone was getting along fine in-game, Zhou Zekai wasn’t much of a talker and Sun Xiang had always been inept with his words. Certainly he was no match for when Chu Yunxiu got in the mood to tease, anyway.
Ye Xiu was there, but not as an official player—he didn’t even bring an account card. Asking if they should hope someone got injured was clearly a joke, but Sun Xiang knew if one person had to get injured, anyone would say his freeing up One Autumn Leaf was the best case.
An article ranting about how Sun Xiang wasn’t worthy had already come out, and while he knew he shouldn’t care about it, that he’d been acknowledged as a core member of the second-place team and as Zhou Zekai’s Best Partner, amidst late-night thoughts it still…
His phone flashed with an alert, silent in deference to the late hour and Zhou Zekai’s beauty sleep. Jiang Botao had sent him an image, a screenshot of his chat with Ye Xiu, opening with the link to the article.
“They’re implying you agreed? Is the team giving interviews, should I prepare something?”
“Don’t look at trash articles, didn’t you see the ridiculous job they did analyzing our finals match?” Ye Xiu had replied. “Anyone could see Sun Xiang’s performance was excellent. If he weren’t my opponent I’d have given him some praise, even, but in a high-level battle like that there’s no time to play around.”
Sun Xiang didn’t know how long he stared at the response—didn’t Ye Xiu almost never look at messages? How had Jiang Botao gotten that conversation going? Was this edited?
He definitely wouldn’t be getting any sleep like this.
Ye Xiu really was awake in front of a computer, looking through VODs, so that was a point against the screenshot’s being photoshopped. If it had been taken recently, anyway.
The disbelief could be forgiven, okay, even if Ye Xiu’s words about Sun Xiang’s inexperience in that fight were just spouting trash talk he’d hardly lied, or it wouldn’t have worked in the first place. Victory was more important than proving himself to anyone, he knew, but Sun Xiang hadn’t managed that, either.
“Am I a good Battle Mage?” he blurted out, awkwardly, as was his wont. Seriously, it had to be some kind of curse.
“Kid, are you drunk?” Ye Xiu looked up at him with a weird expression. “You’re not allowed to drink, I don’t care what Yunxiu told you.”
Sun Xiang bristled. “Of course not! We’re pros, we wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay, good.” Then he turned back to his screen, as if that was the conversation ended.
“…So, am I?” Sun Xiang finally prompted in the dragging silence, that uncomfortable need to settle this winning out over his embarrassment.
“A good Battle Mage, you mean?” Ye Xiu sighed as he turned back to face him again. “Why else would you be on this team? Why else would I plan to field you at all? We’re here to win glory for China, not mess around. Sun Xiang, you aren’t ‘a good Battle Mage,’ you are the best Battle Mage. Which of your opponents was so good you had to come ask me about it? I didn’t think there were any so exceptional you’d start questioning your own ability.”
Opponents. Ye Xiu had retired, so there were no opponents anymore. Before, Sun Xiang might have gotten caught on that, but at this point he realized something else.
The best Battle Mage. Ye Xiu had called him the best Battle Mage. Not restricted to a league, or a team, or a time period, Ye Xiu had just called him the best.
Sun Xiang returned to his room with his eyes hot, and looked down again at the screenshot Jiang Botao had sent him. “If he weren’t my opponent I’d have given him some praise.” Ye Xiu, no longer his opponent, hadn’t hesitated to praise him.
(“Do you like this game?”
Sun Xiang thought he could understand, now, the weight Ye Xiu had been putting into those words. “Treat it all as glory, and not boasting.”
The rest of Excellent Era had been full of big talk and empty words, by then, but Sun Xiang had pulled himself out, and found glory rather than boasting in his achievements.)
In the ambient light of his phone he realized suddenly that Zhou Zekai’s eyes were open; when Sun Xiang met his gaze, he just smiled reassuringly, like he knew exactly what kind of thing Jiang Botao had kicked off in the middle of the night. He might even, at that—Zhou Zekai was actually quite good at understanding and predicting people at a certain level, and they were all pretty close by now.
Zhou Zekai closed his eyes again, like this was nothing he wasn’t expecting, and Sun Xiang was set inexplicably at ease.
Sun Xiang won glory for China that year, with his captain, with the other gods, with Ye Xiu’s lead. The pride he felt was quieter these days, but also unabashedly present. Steady, like a partner beside him, or the best support.
“How was it?” Jiang Botao asked on their return. Zhou Zekai smiled and hummed an affirmation; Jiang Botao wouldn’t need more than that to understand.
“Good,” Sun Xiang said. One Autumn Leaf no longer weighed down his pocket, now a presence he was proud to carry. The best Battle Mage.
“Good to hear,” said Jiang Botao, with his characteristic genial smile. “Let’s go back, then.”
And it was definitely, genuinely warm.