【I finally understand why this substitute jungler hasn’t played a single game all season. Is TTC out of their mind, putting him on in the semifinals just to disgust people? Road played so well in the previous games, why switch him out?】

【Come on, Road is trash too. The whole TTC team is trash. What the hell has Road even been playing these past few years? Just retire already.】

Ryan Cooper moved his finger and banned the person who was cursing, but that person quickly came back with a new account.

【You ban me just for cursing a couple of times? Don’t you talk trash about players every day too? Why don’t you ban yourself?】

“If I don’t like you, I’ll ban you. If you don’t like it, suck it up.” Ryan Cooper couldn’t be bothered to explain. There’s no need for logic in a battle between trolls—making the other person mad is all that matters.

He leaned back in his chair, found a comfortable position, and continued, “The substitute jungler was terrible, but it was his first time playing and it was the deciding game of the semifinals. It’s understandable he played badly. You can tell he rarely practices with the starting lineup in private. Besides, the rest of the team didn’t play well either. Just treat it like a diamond-ranked solo queue game.”

“The substitute mid laner was okay, barely more useful than Kan in the first four games… Of course, still not as good as me, don’t even ask such a dumb question.”

At the thirty-second minute of the match, the long-awaited fifth and final game was finally nearing its end.

In this game, TTC was completely crushed.

At the end of the match, HT’s players pushed all the way to TTC’s fountain and spawn-camped them for nearly thirty seconds.

At this moment, the TTC lounge was dead silent.

The event staff, affected by the atmosphere, didn’t even dare to breathe loudly, dutifully holding the camera and filming, giving several close-ups of Road sitting on the sofa.

Road calmly watched the screen, his right hand resting casually on the armrest of the sofa. His team jacket was worn loosely, the sleeve covering his entire hand.

Kan sat in the farthest corner, biting his lower lip repeatedly. Finally, as his teammates were being spawn-camped, he couldn’t hold back anymore. He looked at Brian Carter and said, “Captain, I told you I could play this game.”

Brian Carter acted as if he didn’t hear him, not even glancing his way.

Kan: “I know I didn’t play well earlier, but…”

“That’s enough.” The coach interrupted him with a stern face. “Don’t say any more.”

A few minutes later, the TTC players returned to the lounge. Heads down, eyes on the floor, each of them looked as if an invisible rope was strangling their necks, so suffocated they couldn’t speak or feel anything else.

It wasn’t like they’d never lost before, but this loss was so complete, so humiliating, that even the veteran players with Worlds experience couldn’t help but get teary-eyed.

The coach took a few deep breaths, gave them a few words of comfort, then hurried to the balcony to call and arrange the team bus. With the fans so worked up, he had to ask the organizers to send extra security to keep order.

In this stagnant silence, Brian Carter finally moved.

He picked up the baseball cap next to him and put it on casually, pulling the brim low. “Let’s go.”

The players got up at his words and walked woodenly toward the door.

TTC’s substitute jungler was a seventeen-year-old boy, just old enough to compete by official rules, promoted from the youth training squad by management. He walked at the end of the group, looking lost, his right hand gripping the strap of his gear bag tightly, lips pressed together hard.

He was still some distance from the back exit, but could already hear the noisy voices of fans outside the venue. In that instant, he suddenly felt like all those indistinct words were mixed with his own ID, along with mocking and sarcastic comments. He even imagined himself already out the door, getting hit in the head by a TTC light sign until he was bleeding.

Just as he was about to stop walking, someone patted him on the shoulder—not too hard, not too soft.

“Good work,” Brian Carter said. “Practice more when we get back.”

It was as if those two pats broke something inside the boy. Tears gushed out instantly. He nodded hard, then covered his face with his sleeve, unable to stop himself from sobbing.

The TTC team bus drove straight back to base.

After getting off, the coach reminded the other players several times to uninstall the forums, Tieba, and Weibo, then followed Road into the meeting room.

“I’ve already contacted the league. They’re on their way to the base now.” The coach handed a cup of hot water to Brian Carter, paused for a few seconds, then asked, “If things really are as you suspect, what will you do?”

Brian Carter said, “Follow the rules.”

The coach frowned deeply. Usually so decisive, he now looked hesitant. “Kan… he’s been with TTC for seven years, longer than you or me.”

Brian Carter just said, “Mm.” “So?”

“I understand.” The coach saw the untouched paper cup on the table and frowned even more. He asked, “How are you feeling? I’ve already urged the doctor, he’ll be here soon. Tsk… I should’ve had him come to the venue with us.”

Brian Carter stretched out his arm, pulling his right hand out of his sleeve. “Much better.”

The coach glanced at it. “It’s been so long and it’s still shaking??”

Brian Carter said, “Those two games in the middle were too long.”