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The Wu family Patriarch peered down at his five-year old great-grandson in vexation, a ferocious expression splitting his face. Though he was eighty years old this year, he was still fierce enough, according to family legend, that his mere presence could frighten small children.
Wu Yuce, carrying the last of his toddler plumpness, accepted his great-grandsire’s scrutiny without the slightest sign of intimidation.
The old man harrumphed, and struck the ground with his cane. “I’d ask if you had anything to say for yourself, but you’ve inherited that damned Wu tenacity. All of your father and none of your mother in you.” He harrumphed again.
The two of them were alone in the courtyard of their ancestral home; Wu Yuce’s father had withdrawn after delivering his son to the house’s highest authority for punishment.
Great-grandfather Wu eyed his youngest descendant, and took in We Yuce’s conspicuous lack of both defiance and repentance. “You still don’t know what you’ve done wrong, do you boy?”
“I haven’t broken any rules,” Wu Yuce answered. If his cousins decided to cry because Wu Yuce didn’t want to play their boring game, it didn’t have anything to do with him.
Great-grandfather’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “Not breaking the rules isn’t the same as not doing something wrong.”
Now Wu Yuce’s eyebrows furrowed, in a tiny copy of his grandfather’s expression.
From a young age, Wu Yuce had a clear awareness of his own self-identity. The aunties laughed when he was stubborn about his snacks and his toys, but Wu Yuce simply had a keen sense of his own preferences and thoughts, and could accept no other option.
Wu Yuce hadn’t wanted to play his cousins’ game because he didn’t like it, so he’d told them so. What was wrong with that?
Great-grandfather Wu folded his hands atop his cane. “Wu Yuce. You’re sharp, and stubborn as steel, and you’ll cut your way forward because your heart knows which way you want to be pointed. But other people want to live their own way too. If you live your life only doing as you like, you’ll always hurt other people.”
Wu Yuce thought about this. Never being able to follow his own impulses sounded stifling and unpleasant. “Do I have to do what other people want all the time?” he asked.
His great-grandfather considered the question very seriously. “You have to decide if the things you want are more important than the things that will make other people happy.”
He reached out, and placed one heavy, gnarled hand on Wu Yuce’s head. “So watch carefully and learn many things, to become wise enough to judge.”
Beneath his great-grandfather’s hand, Wu Yuce bowed his head, accepting the weight.
If Wu Yuce was forced to choose a favorite part of his school day, he’d pick the moment he was allowed to leave.
Throwing his books and papers in his bag, he hoisted it over his shoulder, and was about to walk out of the classroom when one of his classmates hailed him.
“Hey, Wu Yuce, wanna come to an internet cafe with us?”
Tugging the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder, Wu Yuce made a lightning-fast assessment. His scores this month were good enough to keep his rank in the middle of the class, which would satisfy his parents - who’d waged a titanic war to make their son show any interest at all in his grades - and also keep Wu Yuce’s teachers from paying attention to him out of concern.
Concluding that he could afford to do what he wanted, Wu Yuce changed course, skipping self-study without a trace of guilt.
The classmate who’d made the offer seemed pleasantly surprised to receive a positive response. Wu Yuce sometimes accepted social invitations, and at other times rejected them, according to criteria known only to himself.
It wasn’t that Wu Yuce acted antisocial or standoffish. Wu Yuce participated in most class activities and was friendly with his peers, but he never quite seemed to integrate into their group.
Truthfully, Wu Yuce sometimes left his classmates feeling ill at ease for no reason they could clearly explain. Perhaps this sense of distance came from a subconscious understanding that Wu Yuce cared for his peers’ approval, but did not need it, which was a powerful and terrifying ability to a teenage mind.
As they left school, Wu Yuce abstained from the vigorous debate over which internet café they’d patronize. Everything from snack bar offerings to the attractiveness of the café managers was weighed and debated, and none of it mattered to him. Wu Yuce could accept any café his classmates chose as long as it had enough quality computers.
Nobody argued over what game they’d play once they’d gotten to the internet café. Only one game was so popular that half the computers in the café displayed its familiar logo.
Glory!
Wu Yuce felt anticipation rise in him just from looking at that symbol unfolding across his screen. The wings and sword of victory. What would he find in Glory today?
“We’re going to run a dungeon. Want to come?” asked his deskmate from the computer beside him. As the best player in their group, Wu Yuce was always invited along when his classmates ran group instances.
Wu Yuce shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Are you in the middle of an arena match?” It was a reasonable assumption. Unless Wu Yuce was dungeoning, he would invariably be found PvPing in the arena.
“No, my character’s level is too low.”
His deskmate leaned over to peer at Wu Yuce’s screen. Finding a mere level 19 character, he exclaimed in surprise. “ Another new account? How many are you up to?”
“Four.”
“What’s wrong with the other three accounts?”
“I wanted to try a different class.”
“What aren’t you satisfied with? Just pick a class you’re decent at and play it. You could’ve made it to the Heavenly Domain and farmed good equipment by now, but you still don’t even have one maxed account.”
“The others didn’t feel right,” Wu Yuce replied, persistently killing another group of mobs.
“Alright,” said his deskmate, still not understanding but losing interest in the argument. “I’m going to run that dungeon with the others.”
Wu Yuce made a sound of acknowledgement and continued to level up.
How could he settle for choosing a class that was only good enough? Glory already meant more to Wu Yuce than any of the other games he’d played. Nothing else had ever kept him so interested, or felt so intuitive as he played it.
Wu Yuce’s first account had been a Berserker. Wu Yuce played swordsmen whenever he could; neither tanking or healing interested him, true ranged classes had to stay unsatisfyingly far away from fights, and other melee fighters didn’t have a large enough attack range. Glory had multiple sword-wielding classes, and the descriptions he’d read online suggested that a Berserker would best suit his direct, tough fighting style.
Berserker wasn’t bad. Their health trading was an interesting mechanic, and they could withstand and deal high amounts of damage. However, their health trading made them difficult for beginner and low-skill healers to handle. Berserkers received a strength bonus as their health lowered; Wu Yuce chafed at how his play was hampered by well-intentioned healers keeping his health high and sabotaging his health trading. Berserker didn’t have enough advantages to outweigh that point, so Wu Yuce had decided to make his first class change.
Wu Yuce’s second account was a dual sword-wielding Assassin. Out of all his accounts, Wu Yuce had played this one the longest. With high mobility and high damage, Assassins were one of Glory’s nightmare trio of close combat classes, and Wu Yuce certainly had the hand speed needed to play it well. With the right equipment, Wu Yuce could play his Assassin as he preferred: an aggressive attacker instead of a stealthy one-hit killer.
Ultimately, he’d still felt that something was missing. Assassin skewed too heavily toward PK. In dungeons and group content its signature Life-Risking Strike required its companions’ protection after the skill’s use. Wu Yuce wasn’t interested in being protected or acting as a burden to his teammates, so he’d built his Assassin around damage alone and rarely used Life-Risking Strike. Without Life-Risking Strike, all an Assassin could offer was high damage, and that wasn’t enough for Wu Yuce.
His third - and shortest-lived - account was a Blademaster. Blademaster deserved its place as Glory’s most popular class. It was easy to pick up and straightforward to play; it had decent defense, mobility, and damage, and flexibility through its weapon choice. It simply wasn’t an improvement over anything Wu Yuce had tried before. He’d put the Blademaster aside fairly quickly in favor of building up his current account.
Wu Yuce’s deskmate, finished with his dungeon, leaned over again to look at Wu Yuce’s experience bar. “You’re almost to level twenty. What class are you going to pick this time?”
“Ghostblade,” Wu Yuce answered, finishing off another enemy. “A Sword Demon build.”
“A Ghostblade?” It wasn’t hard to hear the disdain in his deskmate’s voice. “Why not just play Blademaster? A Sword Demon is practically the same thing.”
They weren't the same thing at all. Wu Yuce didn’t bother correcting him. “Blademaster didn’t fit me.”
“Maybe you just needed to play it longer.”
“I played it long enough to know I’m not suited to a Blademaster.”
“You aren’t suitable as a Ghostblade either. With the aggressive way you play, you won’t last long before you run out of health.”
Wu Yuce was unmoved by this opinion, and his patience had been exhausted. “I’m not changing my mind. Do you want to keep doing something useless, or will you let me level my Ghostblade?”
‘Do what you fucking want then,” his deskmate snapped, and shoved his chair as far away from Wu Yuce as he could.
Wu Yuce didn’t pay him any mind. He had already slipped back under the shadow of Glory; the pale electric light from his screen reflected in his eyes like the glint of a drawn blade.
When encountering a Ghostblade in the Arena, rare as that was, Glory veterans knew how to respond: expect sneaking around, and look out for dirty play.
“What the fuck kind of Ghostblade are you, you crazy bastard—”
With a Sword Boundary glowing beneath their feet that boosted Wu Yuce’s damage, his Sword Demon lifted its blade and charged forward to send out an arc of black light, adding yet another debuff to his burned, blinded, and slowed opponent.
Spouting a foul-mouthed litany of curses, Wu Yuce’s arena opponent lost the last of his health. A window popped up with a sparkling gold congratulatory message informing Wu Yuce he’d broken his personal record for consecutive arena wins.
Wu Yuce smiled, appetite whetted by the taste of victory on his tongue, and clicked to find the next target of his implacable pursuit.
His opponent’s words weren’t entirely wrong. It was true that Ghostblades weren’t suited to hard and direct fighting, yet Wu Yuce preferred this method, as it suited his personality. Whether his playstyle was strange or not didn’t matter to him; it was his own way of playing.
This was Wu Yuce’s Ghostblade, a class that came to him like a hilt wrought for his hands.
Ghostblade answered every dissatisfaction he’d felt with his prior accounts. A class capable of strongly supporting its allies yet also able to fight alone, complex in its fluidity and multiple configurations, specializing in control skills that could shape the entire field - how could Wu Yuce not take this class up like a part of himself?
So what if everyone said Ghostblade didn’t suit his fierce and direct style? If his Sword Demon couldn’t take many strikes, Wu Yuce simply needed to make sure his attacks hit more often than his opponent could hit him.
Wu Yuce’s high arena win percentage meant that matching new opponents took a few minutes. Before the system could assign his next fight, a message popped up on his screen.
One of Wu Yuce’s classmates was looking for people to run a dungeon. Though the dungeon was below his level and he couldn’t receive any suitable equipment from participating, Wu Yuce unhesitatingly canceled his queue for his next arena match.
‘Be there soon,’ he messaged. ‘Sword Demon or Phantom Demon?’
‘Enough damage, Phantom pls.’
Wu Yuce replied with an acknowledgement, then logged out to switch his account cards.
Having a second Ghostblade account proved its worth at times like these. Wu Yuce had created a Phantom Demon shortly after he’d maxed his first Ghostblade, the Sword Demon. Building separate accounts for each skill path allowed him to play whatever suited the situation best without having to reset his skills. Of course, Wu Yuce still preferred his first Sword Demon.
When he first started learning Ghostblade, Wu Yuce spent so much time playing Glory that his test scores barely scraped into a safe range for two months straight. His Sword Demon had practically lived in the arena. After acquiring his Phantom Demon, he’d pursued it with the same single-minded focus as he camped out in front of dungeon entrances. Mastering the skills of a Ghostblade had been all Wu Yuce cared about for the last year, and that goal was enough to immerse himself in each day.
Lately, Wu Yuce couldn't find a challenge whether he was dungeoning or fighting in the arena, and his improvement had begun to stagnate. It was beginning to feel like Wu Yuce was running out of new things to see in Glory.
Wu Yuce found himself at a loss. He sensed that he wasn’t finished with Glory, but he didn’t know what higher place he could aim for.
Even now, as he was reflecting on his own problems, he’d salvaged their party’s dungeon run several times after their inexperienced Battle Mage made mistakes.
Battle Mages were popular recently, Wu Yuce recalled, because an outstanding pro Battle Mage had won three championships.
Professional player. Wu Yuce wondered what sort of challenges he’d find if he charged toward that height.
The skin of his palms tingled; he flexed his hands as if gripping the hilt of a blade.
Wu Yuce was fortunate: a pro player training camp already existed in Xi’an. Though his parents disapproved, they yielded after his continued insistence, too familiar with their son’s character to fight his determination.
Team Void’s training camp delivered exactly what Wu Yuce wanted. He saw countless new ways to play Glory, challenged talented opponents, and learned far more than the arena had ever taught him. His bottleneck evaporated like it never existed; Wu Yuce could feel his abilities stretch with every new victory.
Even among a gathering of skilled players, Wu Yuce stood out. His peculiar Ghostblade style drew attention, and his abilities placed him above his peers. Perhaps that was why he remained only casually friendly with the other trainees, never mixing in with them despite everyone sharing the same goal.
Truthfully, beyond fulfilling an appropriate amount of participation in their affairs, Wu Yuce wasn’t very interested in the other trainees - certainly not compared to his all-consuming interest in Glory - and the other trainees weren’t willing to invest too much effort in befriending a clear rival.
It never crossed Wu Yuce’s mind to hide his talent or change his style in order to fit in. If the idea had been suggested to him, it would have evoked a simple refusal, followed by irritation if the subject was not dropped.
Wu Yuce's teachers in the training camp experienced this firsthand whenever they tried convincing him to switch to an orthodox Ghostblade style, concerned about the viability of his unique playstyle in the pro league. Wu Yuce mastered everything they taught him, but he stubbornly stuck to his own playstyle. Wu Yuce continued to grow his own way.
Though he wasn’t close to anyone, living and working among people who shared his passion for Glory satisfied Wu Yuce. Instead of questioning why he was so obsessed with a video game, the adults around him praised his drive to improve. With no need to justify or downplay his interest, Wu Yuce could invest his full energy into his training instead.
Wu Yuce believed Void was a place where he could climb unhindered, which was why it was such a disappointment when the team’s management asked him to abandon his Ghostblade.
He rejected their proposal immediately: the idea felt instinctively wrong. Nothing was as perfect and as comfortable to play as his Ghostblade; nothing allowed him to express his natural playstyle so completely. To give up his Ghostblade would be to compromise himself.
Wu Yuce felt somewhat apologetic; he understood the team’s reasons for their request, but it was impossible for him to comply.
From management’s point of view, asking Wu Yuce to switch classes was simply acknowledging the team’s current situation and making the best arrangement for their growth. Void already fielded a top-tier Phantom Demon Ghostblade: Li Xuan, a player who had debuted this season as the team’s new core. Adding a second Ghostblade would be tactically redundant and take equipment resources away from their existing core.
Having two Ghostblades was impossible, but didn’t want to give up on Wu Yuce's talent. They were only a middle-tier team who’d never even reached the playoffs before. Wu Yuce was the best player their training camp could offer and Void had no hope of attracting anyone better. They couldn’t pass up the chance to have him on their team.
Void’s management turned to more indirect methods, and used his instructors as a mouthpiece to suggest his class change; when Wu Yuce still insisted that he wanted to play Ghostblade, they tried more overt pressures and rewards.
When that failed as well, Void’s management began to treat Wu Yuce coldly. They viewed Wu Yuce's refusal to cooperate as extremely unwise and provocative. Rather than going along with the team's needs, he stubbornly stuck to his personal choice.
His peers also treated him more coldly. Where Wu Yuce's skills had previously earned him a degree of respect, now the other trainees avoided him outright. They called him willful and reckless for squandering his chance to join the team. Wu Yuce's decision was simply incomprehensible to them.
Regardless of the favor or disfavor of those around him, nothing in Wu Yuce’s behavior changed.
Wu Yuce could not, and would not, be other than himself.
The sound of the ink stick against the grinding stone stopped when Wu Yuce knocked on the study door. Receiving permission, he entered the study, shutting the door behind him.
The windows were cracked open, letting inside the blossom-scented air, wet from the late spring rain. Great-grandfather Wu’s desk sat below the window, where the light was best. Inside that pool of sunlight, the Wu patriarch worked single-mindedly. The glasses perched on his nose burned gold in the sun.
“Great-grandfather,” Wu Yuce said, crossing the room to stand beside his elder’s wheelchair.
The old man grunted, not paying his descendent any mind as he bent over the white silk scroll unfurled across his desk. Though he was ninety-three this year, the brush in his hand still passed across the white silk in strong, confident strokes as he painted.
Since his elder didn’t show any intention of conversing, Wu Yuce studied the canvas.
The simple landscape was nearly finished. Unlike the fine spring weather outside, snow covered the ground. In the center was a small pond, where the reflection of a full moon floated. Beside the pond, a lone pine tree clung to the bank, fearlessly thrusting its branches toward the moon above; its deep green needles were the only color in this barren winter scene.
“Your mother tells me you’ve left school and want to make money playing games,” Great-grandfather Wu said, not looking up from his painting.
“That’s right,” Wu Yuce agreed. “I’ve been offered a contract by my team.”
His great-grandfather made a noise of acknowledgement. “Your parents want me to forbid you from throwing away your future. How can their son make enough money to live, playing this game? I tell them scolding you is useless. He is eighteen. He will do as he pleases anyway.”
Wu Yuce listened quietly, and watched while each flick of his great-grandfather’s slender brush tip added knots and scars to the pine tree’s bark.
The old man clicked his tongue. “Who understands the games you youngsters play these days? All I know is the stubborn child in my family is not unfilial. He would not worry his parents if he were not certain. Better not to drive him away from the family. With his temper, he might never come back, just like his father’s uncle.”
Recalling the distant memory, the elder’s forehead furrowed, then smoothed out again while he paused and replenished the ink.
Placing the ink stick aside, he heaved a sigh, then glanced at Wu Yuce. “Xiao Yu, you’ve resolved to carve yourself this path?”
Wu Yuce smiled, and lightly inclined his head.
“Very well.” Great-grandfather Wu took up his brush again and the conversation lapsed.
The atmosphere between them stayed peaceful; the old man painted steadily, and only the quiet noises of paper and birdsong filled the air.
Finally, Great-grandfather Wu put his brush aside and held up the canvas, pleased with the result.
“The pine tree does not wither as the cold days deepen into winter,” he said, pointing at the tree beside the pond. “It stays green through all seasons. It’s a symbol of steadfastness, perseverance and resilience.”
He looked at Wu Yuce over the rims on his glasses. “When this painting is finished, I’m giving it to you. Take it with you to go play your game.”
“I will,” Wu Yuce promised. “Thank you, Great-grandfather.”
The old man nodded in satisfaction, and waved his hand in dismissal. “Get along with your coworkers and don’t forget to visit your parents during your holidays.”
Wu Yuce let himself out of his great-grandfather’s bright study, the feeling of the door's sun-warmed wood lingering against his palms.
Despite Wu Yuce's potential, Void's management chose not to give his debut any special treatment. He received the same contract as the other new substitute, and the same brief official announcement.
Wu Yuce neither expected nor anticipated anything else. This attitude was only natural toward someone who didn’t consider the team’s needs. Though Wu Yuce didn’t enjoy being treated coldly, he held no resentment toward Void for his present circumstances, nor did he regret refusing to change classes.
It was club tradition that Void’s pro team would welcome new teammates during a small party where the captain presented the new player with a uniform jacket and their account card. This tradition originated from before the Glory Pro Alliance was formed, and it was particularly significant this year: Void’s captain had announced he was stepping down at the end of this season, and Li Xuan, Void’s new core, would take up his responsibilities.
Wu Yuce wasn’t familiar with Li Xuan, though he’d watched the Phantom Demon Ghostblade play in matches and seen him inside the club.
Though Li Xuan seemed good-natured, Wu Yuce didn’t expect this new captain’s favor; Li Xuan couldn’t be unaware of Wu Yuce’s existence as a potential competitor.
In the training camp, pro player hopefuls often bitterly resented their rivals and tried to sabotage competitors’ mentality. Li Xuan, as captain, had far more power and opportunity available if he wanted to suppress Wu Yuce.
Which was why Wu Yuce was surprised when their first meeting was perfectly ordinary.
Wu Yuce had been running drills at his computer in the training camp after finishing his lunch. The other trainees were still eating in the cafeteria, or playing on their phones.
When he looked up at the sound of footsteps, he found Li Xuan standing in front of him, dressed in casual clothes.
Smiling politely, Li Xuan gave a one-handed wave; his other hand held a sheaf of papers. “Hi, you’re Wu Yuce right?”
When Wu Yuce hummed a confirmation, Void’s new captain continued, “I’m Li Xuan. Can I borrow a few minutes of your time? I need to talk with you about the arrangements for the welcome party.”
Wu Yuce moved to get up, but Li Xuan stopped him. “Here is fine. Can I sit down?”
Bemused, Wu Yuce nodded, and watched as Li Xuan pulled up a chair and sat down, maintaining a distance that was neither alienatingly far, nor uncomfortably close.
Li Xuan had chosen a meeting place inside Wu Yuce’s familiar territory, then placed himself on the same level, as if they were equals.
Against his expectation, Wu Yuce found himself intrigued.
Li Xuan confined their discussion to practical matters. After confirming Wu Yuce’s uniform size and explaining what was expected of him during his introduction, Li Xuan discussed general information like the team’s daily training schedule and when Wu Yuce would join practices. His tone held just enough friendliness to put Wu Yuce at ease, while avoiding the impression of being overly close.
Throughout their meeting, Li Xuan showed no sign of feeling threatened by Wu Yuce. He behaved exactly as a good, impartial captain should; contrarily, this made Wu Yuce certain Li Xuan was concealing his true feelings.
Unless he was a saint or had an enormous ego, Li Xuan must hold some conflicted thoughts toward Wu Yuce. However, he'd managed to completely bury those feelings and give a performance so perfect that Wu Yuce was convinced Li Xuan meant it: Li Xuan sincerely wanted to feel indifferent toward Wu Yuce.
Wu Yuce watched him with a fascination that bordered on discomfort. Li Xuan’s kind of self-sublimation was impossible for Wu Yuce to contemplate; he’d learned to perform the behavior people expected from him, but his performance would always be a mask. Li Xuan became the mask.
Unwittingly, a seed of appreciation sprouted.
“There’s one more thing I wanted to talk with you about,” Li Xuan said, and his eyelids fluttered - the first sign of uncertainty he’d shown during this expertly steered conversation.
Wu Yuce straightened, paying attention.
Li Xuan laced his fingers loosely in front of him. “Do you know what pro account the club is giving you?”
“No, just that it will be a Ghostblade,” Wu Yuce answered without much concern.
Unlacing his fingers, Li Xuan tapped the table. “The club intends to give you a female Ghostblade account.” He smiled tightly. “Apparently it’s good marketing. Management wasn’t…inclined to take your opinions into account, but I wanted you to know ahead of the announcement.”
Wu Yuce appreciated Li Xuan’s efforts to be diplomatic. Unfortunately, they weren’t necessary. “As long as it’s a Ghostblade I don’t care about anything else,” Wu Yuce replied.
Li Xuan studied him discreetly. “It really won’t bother you? There will be talk, in the club and outside it. It might affect people’s opinions of you if your character stands out like that.”
“It’s fine. It really won’t bother me.” Wu Yuce was used to standing out. Having a female account wasn’t enough to affect his mentality.
Eyes widening slightly, Li Xuan watched Wu Yuce with an emotion that resembled appreciation. “Alright,” he said slowly. “If it won’t bother you, it’s fine then.”
Rising, Li Xuan gathered his papers and made his way out as unobtrusively as he came in.
Wu Yuce had reached his full height last spring, but his body was still filling out; he leaned back in his chair and stretched to ease the ache of growth, hands uplifted toward the sky.
Within Void’s pro team, Wu Yuce’s refusal to give up his Ghostblade had already given his presence a certain notoriety. The players looked to Li Xuan, their new captain, to signal how they should treat this upstart newcomer.
Li Xuan behaved as if he was deaf to the rumors, and Wu Yuce was indistinguishable from any other rookie. If there remained a certain reserve in his actions - if Li Xuan watched Wu Yuce with a particular veiled gaze when Wu Yuce performed outstandingly well - perhaps only Wu Yuce himself noticed.
Wu Yuce appreciated the young captain’s neutrality, and he watched Li Xuan in return.
Li Xuan performed his new duties well, and he worked hard to meet the team’s expectations. To his juniors, he was a supportive, accessible mentor. To his teammates he was a hardworking, trustworthy comrade. To his yearmates in the Golden Generation, he was an affable and playful companion. To his opponents, he was the clever, cunning Phantom Demon guiding Team Void.
Li Xuan made himself into whatever the people around him needed. It was a skill that Wu Yuce admired, but could only emulate after a lifetime learning to be mindful of others. Li Xuan seemed to do it naturally. It made Wu Yuce wonder: who was the Li Xuan who existed when nobody was watching?
The atmosphere between the two Ghostblades remained delicate. Though Wu Yuce gave Li Xuan the respect due a captain, it was difficult for Wu Yuce to consider Li Xuan a senior. The two of them were simply too similar.
Outside of the team, their half-year age gap would make them peers. Within the Glory Pro Alliance, that thin line was a difference of ten-thousand li: Li Xuan’s birthday fell just before the cutoff for Season Four’s eligibility, while Wu Yuce’s birthday came after.
Li Xuan had a head start in the pro league, but Wu Yuce’s skill drew closer to him every day. It made Wu Yuce wonder - if Void had discovered him first, might it have been Wu Yuce who became their core?
Li Xuan likely had similar thoughts when he watched Wu Yuce during team practice - those moments when his eyes went distant and uneasy. As an experienced pro player overseeing a rookie of the same class, no one knew better than Li Xuan how much progress Wu Yuce had made after rising to this new stage.
Despite his improvement, Wu Yuce hadn’t yet played in an official match. Substitutes like him only played occasionally, when the team needed them, so there weren’t many chances to play. Wu Yuce was also a rookie, so his chances were ever fewer. Void preferred to give their rookies easy, safe debuts against low-ranked teams. It wasn’t unwise to be cautious: many outstanding rookies were too nervous to perform at their full potential when they first stepped on stage.
Wu Yuce’s opportunity came by chance: a particularly virulent winter flu swept through Void’s club building, leaving half the team confined to their beds on match day. For Void to reach the seven players they needed, all the team’s substitutes would have to play.
In the practice room before their match, Li Xuan stood beside the team manager while the manager read off the final lineup - Void, evidently, did not feel comfortable having their young captain alone choosing the roster.
Li Xuan held himself with deliberate ease, projecting a confidence that soothed the fractured atmosphere, but he wasn’t quite practiced enough to smooth the tight lines around his eyes.
“Wu Yuce, third position in the group arena,” read off the team manager, before continuing down the roster. Under the circumstances, Void had chosen to sacrifice the group arena this round and place their healthy veterans in the individual battles.
“We’ll need to add one of the substitutes to fill out the team battle roster,” concluded the manager. “Xiao Li, which one is the strongest?”
Wu Yuce’s eyes touched and held Li Xuan’s gaze. Li Xuan wore that look again - the careful, distant one, like a man watching something he’d known was inevitable with no way to predict how it might end.
Deliberately, Li Xuan glanced away. “Wu Yuce is our strongest substitute,” Li Xuan replied, voice calm.
The team manager cast a doubtful look at Wu Yuce, but he wrote down Wu Yuce’s name anyway.
It was final, then. With the eagerness of a drawn blade, Wu Yuce felt vitality flood his veins like water after a drought, and knew that tonight would not be his last match.
As a public place that could be considered neutral ground between Void’s two Ghostblades, Void’s empty team practice room was a good choice for this meeting.
It was a gesture, Wu Yuce had come to realize, that was characteristic of Li Xuan.
Li Xuan delivered the official announcement with a composure suitable for his status as captain. “Management has reevaluated their position toward your place on Void’s roster, and they’ve decided having two Ghostblades isn’t as impossible as they thought.”
If Li Xuan had personal feelings about being made the bearer of this news, he’d buried them beneath his dedication to his role. “Since we’ll both be appearing in the team battle, we need to work on our coordination and decide how to divide responsibility during a match.”
“I’m willing to do whatever is necessary. Extra practice isn’t a problem,” Wu Yuce assured him, matching the same formal tone.
Li Xuan nodded, his posture relaxing a little. “We could start with an extra hour after dinner every day, then see where we are in a week or two?”
Wu Yuce agreed immediately, and the two of them parted ways at the practice room door.
“Hey, Wu Yuce!” called a curious voice after he reached the dorms.
Exhaling, Wu Yuce politely detoured to the common room. “Li Xun, what gossip are you after now?”
Wu Yuce’s debut had increased his fame within Void, and many new faces had approached him in the last few days. This person, however, was already somewhat familiar to him.
Li Xun was the other rookie who’d debuted this season, an Assassin player scouted from another training camp whose playstyle revolved around the use of Life-Risking Strike. Pro teams preferred the more stable battle Assassin playstyle, which was why Void had easily recruited him.
Li Xun didn’t show the faintest shame at being called out; sprawled across the couch, he simply rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. “What did Captain call you over for?”
Li Xun’s pursuit of his own unique, suitable style made Wu Yuce feel favorably toward his fellow rookie, even though their personalities didn’t mesh. He didn’t mind indulging Li Xun’s curiosity now, and straightforwardly told him the truth.
Li Xun gave Wu Yuce a thumbs up. “Do well, brother Wu, and tell me anything interesting you hear!”
Wu Yuce thanked him, and dodged the request.
At the start of their first Ghostblade-only practice, Li Xuan brought the two of them into a training program and gave only one instruction to Wu Yuce, “Play however feels most natural to you.”
Wu Yuce had started, staring at Void’s captain. His teachers in the training camp always tried to change Wu Yuce’s style, before ultimately giving in to his stubbornness. Not one of them had told him to play as he pleased.
Li Xuan meant what he said. In the weeks that followed, Wu Yuce fought his way through Glory’s twenty-four classes in every possible combination, all the way up to two versus five scenarios. Not once did Li Xuan try to change his playstyle.
No matter what odds Wu Yuce was set against, Li Xuan would be fighting at his back, placing down his ghost boundaries to support him.
Despite their careful maneuvering around each other, coordination practice with Li Xuan became a genuine pleasure. These days, Wu Yuce rarely played beside someone who could keep up with him, let alone an equally talented Ghostblade who knew the class as well as himself.
Li Xuan’s playstyle reflected his origin. He’d been scouted directly from the Challenger League and debuted shortly afterward, so his playstyle had none of the standardization lent by formal training; it was full of the wild habits unique to players who’d honed themselves inside Glory. Though it wasn’t as obvious as Wu Yuce’s, it was a Ghostblade style unique to Li Xuan alone.
There were some pro players who could rise to success playing any class, and there were some pro players who could only reach their potential through one: Li Xuan fell in the second category.
In their practices, Wu Yuce learned to coordinate with Li Xuan’s Crying Devil, but the bulk of the labor fell to Li Xuan. To support Wu Yuce’s Carved Ghost, Li Xuan needed to understand what sort of support Wu Yuce needed, learning to predict his responses and becoming familiar with Wu Yuce’s habits little by little.
He deserved to be called the First Phantom Demon. As the tactical focus of the team, core players were supposed to receive the support of their teammates, but Void’s players relied on Li Xuan to read the field and send out his Phantom Demon’s skills instead. He stood out as a unique existence in the pro league: a true support core.
Li Xuan was the first person Wu Yuce had met who could keep up with his pace, and with each week that passed and each Ghost Boundary Li Xuan laid down, Wu Yuce felt himself fighting the way he wanted more easily and smoothly.
Their playstyles fit together unexpectedly well. Li Xuan was a cautious person by nature who avoided taking risks, while Wu Yuce didn’t flinch from a straightforward battle, tough and unyielding. Matched together, Li Xuan’s caution and broad view kept Wu Yuce from descending into single-mindedness and overextending himself, while Wu Yuce’s fearlessness pushed Li Xuan into behaving more boldly and grasping sudden opportunities.
Undoubtedly, the influence they exerted on each other improved the team’s performance: Li Xuan and Wu Yuce were both better players for their coordination.
Though neither of them discussed it, Wu Yuce knew Li Xuan also felt the incipient synergy between them - the pull of potential, the silent promise that the heights the two of them could scale would be greater if they ascended together.
Wu Yuce and Li Xuan passed through the spring with that silent understanding hanging unvoiced between them - circling each other, testing and retreating, maintaining their manufactured equilibrium.
Wu Yuce hadn’t come to a decision yet about what he wanted to do. Wu Yuce did not, as a general rule, become close with other people. Close relationships deserved reciprocity. Being mindful and considerate of others was the right thing to do, and Wu Yuce liked the freedom of being able to do as he pleased too much. He’d never met anyone he felt was worth infringing on his willfulness for.
Their brittle stasis finally cracked when Void made it into the quarterfinals, only to be brutally crushed by Tiny Herb.
In the lineup after the match, Wu Yuce shook Wang Jiexi’s hand first - Wang Jiexi, the man who’d sealed his Magician style as a sacrifice for his team.
Wang Jiexi nodded to Wu Yuce as their hands clasped. “A good effort. I look forward to seeing what next season’s Void will look like.”
Wu Yuce answered with polite acceptance, and Wang Jiexi moved down the line.
Tiny Herb’s vice-captain, Fang Shiqian, stepped forward next and firmly grasped Wu Yuce’s hand. “You have good chemistry with your captain. Keep working hard together.”
Wu Yuce studied his senior. With this God of Healing’s support, Wang Jiexi’s success rose higher than he could achieve alone. According to rumors, their partnership hadn’t started well, but look at the two of them now: Tiny Herb had finished a strong season, and obtained a chance at a championship.
After finishing a match, Wu Yuce always felt restless. The adrenaline lanced through his body like a lightning-strike against a dry tree. After returning to the club, he burned long into the early hours of the morning; sometimes he couldn’t sleep at all.
Long after his teammates had left, he sat in Void’s common room with his team jacket laid across the arm of his chair, playing mobile games on his phone.
A light footfall made him pause his game; Wu Yuce looked up and found Li Xuan hesitating in the hallway.
“You can come in,” Wu Yuce said. “You won’t bother me.”
“As long as I’m not bothering you,” Li Xuan repeated, then padded across the floor to slump into a padded armchair. Void’s captain looked exhausted; he wore a sleep shirt and shorts, but his bloodshot eyes showed that he hadn’t rested at all.
Somehow, this Li Xuan felt more raw than Wu Yuce had even seen him.
Wu Yuce was concerned, but he didn’t want to draw attention to something Li Xuan didn’t want to discuss. Wu Yuce unpaused his game and played another few rounds. The two of them passed the time amid an unusually relaxed atmosphere. Perhaps defeat showed them both the pointlessness of their dance around one another.
Wu Yuce’s phone played the defeat tone, indicating Wu Yuce had lost his current round; Li Xuan called out Wu Yuce’s name.
Wu Yuce looked over at him.
Li Xuan had drawn his knees up and tucked them underneath himself; he looked pensive. “Wu Yuce, what do you want from me?”
Wu Yuce’s brow furrowed. “Want from you? I don’t want anything,” Wu Yuce replied.
“You must want something,” Li Xuan said, leveling an expectant gaze at his fellow Ghostblade.
After a moment’s thought, Wu Yuce said, “I want you to do what you want.”
Li Xuan stared at him. Slowly, with a touch of wonder, he said, “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“I don’t have any reason to be polite when you’re the one who asked,” Wu Yuce answered.
“What if the thing I want to do is something you don’t like?” Li Xuan questioned, tipping his head to the side.
“If I don’t like it, I’ll tell you,” Wu Yuce replied promptly.
Covering his face with one hand, Li Xuan’s shoulders shook in silent laughter.
When Li Xuan lifted his head again, a measure of reserve had slipped from his shoulders. “I want to grow my hair out again,” he said. “I used to have a ponytail, but I cut it before my debut. It wasn’t appropriate or professional enough, and I needed Void’s fans to be confident in their new core. But I liked my hair long.”
“Then grow your hair out again,” Wu Yuce said. “You’ve been their core for two years, and their captain for a full year now. If they can’t accept you because of your hair, their trust isn’t worth much.”
Li Xuan leaned back, resting his head against the back of his chair. “You’re not wrong. Maybe I will.”
Wu Yuce decided he didn’t feel like going back to playing his game alone. He tucked his phone in his pocket, and faced Li Xuan. “I’m not satisfied with today’s loss.”
“Neither am I,” Li Xuan replied. The two of them studied each other with the knowledge that each of them were reflecting on the past half-year.
Finally, Li Xuan opened his mouth, and carefully asked, “How much do you know about techniques involving two Phantom Demons?”
Li Xuan’s question wasn’t condescending. Ghostblade was a rare class among the player base. Because of that rarity, there were few opportunities to learn techniques involving more than one Ghostblade, and their utilization occupied a narrow niche.
Wu Yuce preferred a Sword Demon, but his study of Phantom Demons had been thorough. “You’re referring to Dual-Linking Ghost Boundaries? I’ve seen it in tutorial videos.”
Nodding slowly, Li Xuan watched Wu Yuce, trying to gauge his teammate’s feelings. “Usually, two Phantom Demons interweave their Ghost Boundaries in between cooldowns to maintain a steady control over the field. It can also be done between a Phantom Demon and a Hybrid Ghostblade, but the difficulty is higher with fewer Ghost Boundaries in rotation.”
Wu Yuce understood Li Xuan’s meaning. Not asking directly was a gesture of consideration; Li Xuan knew how much Wu Yuce valued his Ghostblade, and Li Xuan wasn’t willing to place Wu Yuce in the position of having to refuse if he felt it was impossible.
“I’m not unwilling to accommodate my teammates,” Wu Yuce told him. “I prefer a Sword Demon, but I’ve played other builds. We can try it.”
A year ago, perhaps Wu Yuce would not have offered so readily, or at all. That was before he’d come closer than ever to the highest stage, and tasted defeat.
That was before he’d found an equal he respected, and who respected him in turn.
Rising, Wu Yuce held his hand out to Li Xuan. Li Xuan took Wu Yuce’s hand, and Wu Yuce planted his feet, helping Li Xuan up.
United by this seed of promise, Void’s Ghost Duo rose together.
Theirs was a partnership grown slowly over the years.
Before Wu Yuce and Li Xuan, no one had dared use Dual Linking Ghost Boundaries in the pro league - the technical and skill requirements were simply too high. Void fielding two top-tier Ghostblades at the same time was the singular coincidence that made their attempt possible.
Within management, not everyone supported the idea, and Void’s fans were skeptical. Wu Yuce and Li Xuan went forward anyway, pioneering the use of Dual Linking Ghost Boundaries and forming Void’s first dual core.
Indeed, victory tasted sweeter when it was shared.
The title of First Ghostblade loomed between them at first. Reporters especially loved asking Void’s Ghostblades this question at every opportunity, though the answer they received never changed. By tacit agreement, the two would always praise the other as superior. This wasn’t anything new; the fans and media had been comparing Wu Yuce to Li Xuan ever since he debuted.
Wu Yuce knew the comparison bothered Li Xuan, but as their cooperation grew, season after season, Wu Yuce watched Li Xuan slowly let go of the shadow in his heart. Someday soon, Li Xuan would answer with clear eyes and a steady heart.
As for who was the true First Ghostblade? Wu Yuce didn’t care at all. Li Xuan was the best Phantom Demon, while Wu Yuce was the best Sword Demon. Were the two things comparable?
The two of them matched each other so closely in skill that Wu Yuce couldn’t say who was better, anyway.
Wu Yuce invested himself in Void as much as he poured himself into his Ghostblade. Teammates became friends, and friends became treasured companions.
Wu Yuce made himself Void’s sharpest blade, and its most steadfast foundation, and Team Void rewarded him with the highest trust they could offer.
“Congratulations, Vice-captain Wu!” his teammates shouted, filling the air with paper confetti. Void’s common room had been draped in streamers, and a banner made by the staff hung against the wall, while a table full of food had been set up underneath.
Wu Yuce accepted their well-wishes, savoring the feeling of rightness in his bones.
Li Xuan looped his arm over his partner’s shoulder and pulled Wu Yuce into a hug; his ponytail tickled against Wu Yuce’s jaw. “You’ve done more than enough to deserve this. I wouldn’t have chosen anyone else as my vice-captain.”
Wu Yuce returned his best friend’s embrace. “Good,” he answered, “I wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s vice-captain.” Face resting against Wu Yuce’s shoulder, Li Xuan laughed, the movement shaking them both.
The team manager brought out a chocolate cake, and began to cut slices, distracting their teammates.
Amid the chaos, Wu Yuce’s phone chimed with a message notification. Wu Yuce pulled it out, intending to silence it, but paused when he caught sight of the sender.
Li Xuan leaned over. “Is that Auntie? She must be calling to congratulate you.”
Wu Yuce tapped into his phone and called his mother. She had gathered most of his relatives at his parents’ house so they could congratulate her son on his promotion. Wu Yuce spoke with each one in turn, touched by the care shown to him.
After Wu Yuce accepted his family’s well-wishes, his mother’s tone turned expectant and she said, “Xiao Yu, let me talk to Xiao Li.”
His mother had learned long ago that Li Xuan was a much better source of news about her son than asking Wu Yuce directly. Amused by her customary request, Wu Yuce passed Li Xuan the phone. The Phantom Demon player promptly tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder and began chatting with his elder while distributing cake to the office ladies.
Wu Yuce, who didn’t have a strong taste for sweets, found a small piece and joined his teammates.
They welcomed him with great fanfare, clearing a place of honor on the sofa and toasting him with cups of soda.
These were his juniors, who he was now responsible for. Against Wu Yuce’s expectation, the idea didn’t feel constricting, but grounding. Void was a place where he’d willingly put down roots.
Wu Yuce chatted with his friends, and worked his way through the cake, receiving more well-wishes from staff who’d been lured over by the smell of food.
Just as he finished the last bite, Li Xuan headed toward where the team was seated, cheek still tucked against Wu Yuce’s phone.
There weren’t any chairs left; Wu Yuce shoved against Li Xun to clear space on their sofa, turning a deaf ear to his yearmate’s complaints.
Li Xuan laughed, and squashed himself into the small square of sofa available. Along the way he passed Wu Yuce a plate of freshly made skewers, which Wu Yuce took gratefully, lifting one of the lamb skewers he knew was meant for himself. Without disturbing the phone in the crook of his neck, his best friend matter-of-factly snagged a pork skewer from their shared plate and began eating.
The whole team loudly heckled the two Ghostblades for being too in-sync.
Li Xuan took an exaggerated bite of meat and taunted them with his smile while he continued his report to Wu Yuce’s mother. Wu Yuce simply raised his eyebrows, daring his teammates to do something about it.
Void’s players groaned, and consoled themselves by getting up to find their own food. In the resulting lull, Wu Yuce and Li Xuan continued to eat, passing the plate between each other.
In between bites, Li Xuan obediently repeated the Wu family’s news to Wu Yuce. His considerate, well-spoken manner had earned the good opinion of the Wu family the first time Wu Yuce had taken him to visit. Their fondness for Li Xuan practically made him an honorary son at this point.
“Yuce?” Li Xuan said suddenly, with a seriousness that was out-of-place.
Wu Yuce turned to him immediately.
“Great-grandpa wants to talk to you,” his partner said, holding out the phone.
Wu Yuce accepted the phone and held it up to his ear.
“Xiao Wu,” said Great-grandfather Wu, voice unhurried. “Congratulations on your promotion. Your mother showed me one of your matches the other day; I hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on, but I could see how much your teammates rely on you, and how well you get along with them. Are you satisfied with your new position?”
“I’m very satisfied,” answered Wu Yuce.
“That’s good. I’m fortunate to see you happy.”
Wu Yuce hummed a positive reply.
Great-grandfather Wu clicked his tongue. “Wu Yuce. You’re still as sharp and stubborn as you were as a child…but you’ve tempered yourself to become mindful and steadfast, persevering for the sake of others.”
The old man sighed. “Your heart has become wise. You’ve done well.”
After exchanging a few more words, Wu Yuce hung up, slowly lowering his phone.
“Everything okay at home?” Li Xuan asked, hiding his concern beneath the casual delivery of his question.
“Just fine,” Wu Yuce answered, leaning back against the couch. The party was still going full swing; he watched his teammates and Void’s staff mingle together, celebrating a new landmark in the club’s history.
“Now we’re both responsible for all this,” Li Xuan said, waving his hand at the scene. “How does it feel, Vice-captain Wu?”
“Not bad,” Wu Yuce answered. With strong and enduring roots, he straightened his spine, willing to bear the weight of wind and snow.