Chapter Text
There were only three things guaranteed in life: death, taxes, and Sylus Qin’s smug face plastered across national television after yet another eSports victory.
The commentator’s voice boomed through the cybercafé speakers, way too enthusiastic for the thousandth replay of Sylus’s “unbelievable precision.”
The camera cut to Sylus himself—lean, cocky, jawline sharp enough to slice drywall—lifting the championship trophy like he’d just solved world hunger instead of… well, clicking on heads faster than anyone else.
Zayne Li slouched lower in his chair, arms crossed. He wasn’t bitter, okay? He was just… critically analyzing.
“He tilted his wrist, what, half a centimeter?” Zayne muttered. “Big whoop. I could do that if my mouse didn’t require CPR every time I tried to drag-flick.”
Across from him, Caleb Xia snorted into his soda, nearly choking on the carbonation. “Yeah, sure. The only thing you’ve tilted lately is your chair until it almost collapsed. Face it, Zayne—the man’s a god. Just accept and move on.”
Zayne jabbed a finger at the café’s mounted flat screen, where Sylus winked at the camera.
WINKED.
Like he knew exactly how smug he was. “See? That’s not a wink, that’s a personal attack. He’s taunting us peasants from his ivory gaming tower.”
Caleb arched a brow. “You mean from his luxury condo, complete with three monitors, an ergonomic chair, and an internet connection that doesn’t cry every time someone opens Netflix?”
“Exactly! Meanwhile, I’m stuck in this sauna with ten screaming middle-schoolers who think yelling ‘HEADSHOT!’ at full volume makes them better players.” Zayne gestured at the cybercafé around them.
The place smelled like cheap instant noodles, gamer sweat, and industrial-strength energy drinks. Somewhere overhead, a ceiling fan clattered, valiantly trying—and failing—to circulate air.
Onscreen, Sylus blew a kiss to the live crowd.
A tidal wave of shrieks erupted from the audience, as if he’d just proposed marriage to every single one of them. Zayne gagged theatrically.
“Ugh. Look at him. King of Smug. Emperor of Ego. Lord of the Lag.”
Caleb pointed his straw at Zayne. “And yet you’ve still got his poster taped above your desk.”
“That’s—irrelevant,” Zayne sputtered. “That was from years ago, before I knew he was evil.”
“Evil?”
“Evil,” Zayne confirmed.
“He thrives on the suffering of the masses. Look at his face. That’s not joy, that’s pure villain energy. If he wasn’t gaming, he’d be building a death ray or starting a pyramid scheme.”
Caleb wheezed so hard his chair squeaked. “You’re unbelievable. You’re literally his biggest fan. You’ve watched every single match since high school.”
“Correction: I’m his biggest critic. There’s a difference.”
“Mmhm. Sure.”
The kids two rows behind them shouted “NOOB!” at each other while one of them smacked his keyboard like it owed him rent money.
Meanwhile, on the café’s giant screen, Sylus’s post-match interview rolled.
The host leaned in, practically glowing, and asked how it felt to be the reigning champion yet again, his strategy, his “inevitable dominance of the scene.”
Sylus’s answer? A smirk. A lazy, effortless smirk that belonged in the dictionary next to “punchable.”
“I guess winning just comes naturally,” Sylus drawled, voice low and smooth, like he’d practiced it in the mirror. “But hey—good luck to the others next year. They’ll need it.”
The audience laughed. The host laughed. Caleb laughed.
Zayne did not laugh.
“HE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT.”
Caleb grinned. “Oh, he did.”
“That— that— arrogant— pixel prince!” Zayne’s voice cracked with indignation. “He’s not even pretending to be humble anymore. He’s out here mocking us.”
“Us? Bro, you weren’t even in the tournament.”
“It’s the principle of the matter!” Zayne snapped. “Someone needs to humble him before his head gets too big to fit through the stadium doors.”
“And that someone is… you?” Caleb’s tone carried the weight of ten thousand skeptical eyebrows.
Zayne froze mid-gesture. “…Yes.”
Caleb blinked. Then he laughed so loudly the kids behind them turned around to shush him.
“You?!” Caleb wheezed. “Unemployed, broke, stuck on a laggy hand-me-down laptop—you want to take down Sylus Qin, aka Qin_master, aka Mr. National Champion?”
Zayne bristled. “I have talent.”
“You have a kill/death ratio of 0.5.”
“That’s because my teammates suck!”
“You play solo queue.”
“…Details.”
Caleb slapped the table, tears in his eyes from laughing. “Bro, the only way you’re humbling Sylus is if you trip him with your shoelaces on stage.”
Zayne ignored him, narrowing his eyes at the screen where Sylus basked in the crowd’s adoration.
No, this wasn’t just about gaming anymore.
This was personal.
This was justice. This was—
“Operation Knock Sylus Off His High Horse™,” Zayne declared, stabbing a finger upward like a budget anime protagonist.
Caleb groaned. “You’re gonna die trying.”
“Or I’ll die respawning.” Zayne grinned, manic. “But either way, he’s going down.”
---
Later that night, Zayne sat hunched over his battered laptop in his dim bedroom.
His wallpaper? Ironically still Sylus, smirking from an old promotional shoot. Zayne glared at it, muttering under his breath.
“Enjoy your throne while it lasts, Your Majesty. Because soon…” He paused dramatically, even though no one was there to hear him. “Soon, a nobody’s gonna be your worst nightmare.”
The laptop fan whirred weakly, like it was judging him.
Zayne cracked his knuckles, logged into his favorite FPS, and queued up. His username—Dawn_Zy—flashed proudly across the screen.
Somewhere out there, Sylus Qin—Qin_master himself—was probably basking in champagne and compliments, maybe retweeting fan edits from @SylusQinOfficial.
But Zayne? Zayne was ready to grind.
To sweat. To humble.
And maybe, just maybe, to teach the King of Smug that even idols can fall.