A flurry of hurried footsteps shattered the brief silence. Little Brian clutched his phone and dashed from the living room all the way to the training room, gasping as he shrieked, “Bro—your streaming account got hacked!!”

His brother was sitting in front of the setup, posture a bit casual.

Brian Carter heard the commotion, took off one side of his headset, and slowly turned around: “?”

“Someone hacked your streaming account and is sending gifts, and they’re sending them to that blue-haired idi—” The sentence cut off abruptly.

It was already late outside the window, and the training room lights were off. Only the computer monitor in front of Brian Carter was glowing. Little Brian squinted, bracing himself against the doorframe, and only after a long moment could he make out the image on the screen. The “b” at the end of his sentence was swallowed back down.

On the screen was the familiar streaming room interface, with flashy effects triggered only by the “Star Sea” gift.

In the lower left corner of the screen was a small video box. Little Brian couldn’t see the person’s face inside, only that head of blue hair, even more flamboyant than the special effects.

Little Brian: “……”

Brian Carter glanced at the chat. The messages saying he was there to settle scores with Soft had already disappeared.

After listening to Soft’s thanks, he moved his finger and closed the stream.

The base’s main door was pushed open. Mr. Harris came in carrying several large bags of late-night snacks, locking eyes with Little Brian, who was standing dazed at the training room door.

“Come eat supper.” He glanced toward the training room, looking pained. “Call Road over too.”

After every match, the club would give the players a break. But right now, except for Kan, all of TTC’s starting players were still at the base.

A few of them sat around the coffee table, with several big boxes of spicy crayfish in the middle. For the sake of avoiding any mishaps during the competition, they’d been eating who-knows-how-many days of bland nutrition meals.

Little Brian stared at the crayfish in the boy’s hand next to him, hinting, “P-bao, your crayfish is so plump.”

Sitting next to him was the team’s ADC, Pine, 20 years old this year, a single-lidded boy whose looks seemed a bit cold—just like his personality.

Pine grunted, peeled the crayfish, and popped the meat into his own mouth.

Little Brian: “…Stingy.”

Mr. Harris came back after taking a call, tossed his phone onto the sofa, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and sat down: “The platform called to ask if your account was hacked. You really are something.”

Brian Carter lowered his head, peeling crayfish: “Next time I’ll switch accounts.”

Mr. Harris grunted in dissatisfaction, then realized something was off: “Next time? Why would there be a next time??”

Brian Carter said, “He reacts very quickly.”

Mr. Harris was stunned: “Huh?”

“In the whole game, he only got hit by a non-targeted skill once,” Brian Carter said.

Actually, what impressed him most in that game was Soft’s timing in using QSS to break free from enemy control—decisive and crisp, almost instant.

Even on the pro stage, that would be a move to make people gasp.

But it only happened once, so Brian Carter couldn’t tell if it was just fast reflexes or good luck.

“Bro, you don’t know,” Little Brian wiped his mouth, “that little blue-hair always hangs out in Gold and Platinum ranks. The people he queues with are all noobs. If he went to higher ranks, he’d probably get smashed…”

“No, he wouldn’t.” A man came out of the kitchen holding orange juice—it was the team’s top laner, David Parker, the big brother of the team, a good-natured guy with a perpetually overweight figure. He poured orange juice for everyone. “I’ve played with him.”

Everyone looked at him.

Little Brian was surprised: “Mr. Parker, you’ve played games with that little blue-hair?!”

David Parker said, “Yeah, why?”

“He’s trashed you on stream!” Little Brian immediately tattled. “He’s trashed P-bao and Kan too. Kan is basically a regular guest in his stream.”

“I know.” David Parker wasn’t angry at all. He smiled sheepishly. “Those games he mentioned, I really did play badly.”

Little Brian: “……”

Mr. Harris focused on something else, curious: “He has an account that can duo queue with you?”

LOL’s Rank system is divided into several tiers: Iron, Bronze, Silver, Gold, Platinum, Diamond, Master, Grandmaster, and Challenger. Two players can only duo queue if their ranks are close; above Challenger, only solo queue is allowed.

Pro players have to train all the time, so they can’t spend too much energy on ranked games. Currently, the highest rank in TTC is David Parker, 500 LP in Korean Challenger.

The lowest is Brian Carter, Diamond IV. He dropped down because he hadn’t played ranked in a long time and the system deducted his points.

“He does, and we played together on the Korean server. I was at a bit over 100 LP then, and I’d often get matched with him. He seems to always play on the Korean server when he’s not streaming.” David Parker recalled, “Two years ago, his rank was really high. Later, I heard that high-elo games didn’t make for good streams, so he started playing in lower ranks.”

Little Brian pinched a crayfish, and after a while finally muttered, “…So tacky.”

Brian Carter asked, “Did he always like playing assassins?”

“Yeah, he was pretty famous on the Korean server back then.” At this point, David Parker finally realized, “Why are we suddenly talking about him?”