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Yu Wenzhou, Zhang Xinjie, and Xiao Shiqin had become fairly close, during their time watching and analyzing the closing matches of Season 3 together. They’d even made a QQ chat called “Pursuit of Tactics” so they could keep in touch over the break; having finally found some others who actually understood and could contribute to their learning process, they weren’t willing to give their conversations up. They talked over what they would do in various situations, how class composition affected their decisions, and, most importantly: How on Earth Ye Qiu was doing that. They spent a lot of time watching old recordings of his matches, trying to understand how he could so confidently claim “they’re probably going to advance down the side” mere moments from when the opposing team made exactly that decision. They each had their own opinions on the subject, but in the end, they just didn’t understand Ye Qiu enough.
Unfortunately, even having finally debuted and made a bit of a name for themselves, they still had not seen him.
Obviously, as tacticians, they could not let his continued evasion stand. If they couldn’t find him alone, well, they’d just have to work together.
They planned an ambush, plotting out which parts of All Star Weekend’s venue would be the best escape routes, how fast Ye Qiu would likely be walking, and where there’d be no one else around so confirming his identity wouldn’t cause any inconvenience nor confusion on their part. They split into the three most likely locations, and patiently waited for the man to arrive.
This time, he would not get away.
(“How do we know we have the right person?” Xiao Shiqin asked nervously.
“Captain says you’ll know when you see him,” Zhang Xinjie said, sounding less than pleased. It was far too vague for his taste. “Apparently it’s obvious.”
None of the other young, tactically-minded players looked happy with that, either. Still, Zhang Xinjie’s compilation of descriptions he’d gleaned from Han Wenqing was probably the best they were going to get.)
“Ye Qiu,” Xiao Shiqin said to the man walking down the hall, who was already tapping out a cigarette. He tried not to give any sign of a lack of confidence; if Ye Qiu thought he could bluff his way out of an encounter, he probably would. “Would you be interested in explaining your tactics?”
Xiao Shiqin almost facepalmed. He was pretty sure he’d had a better introduction than that planned, but it was too late to regret now.
“Oh?” the man said, an eyebrow raised lazily. For a second Xiao Shiqin thought he might have gotten it wrong—but at the same time, something about this guy really did scream “shameless” and “lazy power.” Like a large cat, an apex predator that was really just interested in sunbathing and draping itself over keyboards, regardless of the inconvenience to anyone else. The man’s eyes flashed with interest. “Sure. Lead the way.”
It was funny how he cut to the chase like that, didn’t wait for Xiao Shiqin to tell him they had an out-of-the-way room all lined up for them to talk in as convention would really suggest he should, even if he’d already guessed they wouldn’t be speaking out in the hall. Maybe it was a test? Anyone worth talking to about tactics would have thought the location through, and he wanted to see if they were worth it?
Probably-Ye-Qiu strolled along with him, and Xiao Shiqin figured he might be overthinking it. It sort of seemed like Ye Qiu didn’t give any thought to skipping the whole “invitation to a venue” and “agreement to follow” parts of the social script; he knew where the conversation was going, and couldn’t be bothered to wait for Xiao Shiqin to explain what he already knew.
How…efficient.
“Do you name your tactics?” Yu Wenzhou blurted out. Damn it, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say first when Ye Qiu entered the room. Finally talking to the Ye Qiu he’d been studying for ages now in person was apparently wreaking more havoc on his nerves than he’d thought it would.
Ye Qiu didn’t seem to mind starting the conversation off there. “I don’t think about it much,” he said. “But I guess I do have a few nicknames.”
Once they got over the initial awkwardness, Ye Qiu was actually really easy to talk to. For all his ability in Glory and depth of thought when it came to the game, in person he actually seemed pretty…normal.
“I call this tactic ‘Poking the Tiger,’ for obvious reasons,” Ye Qiu said.
Xiao Shiqin frowned in confusion, but Zhang Xinjie nodded along easily. It really was obvious.
“Though he rarely falls for it anymore,” Ye Qiu sighed. “Really I should call it ‘Baiting the Rookie’ at this point, but it feels so disrespectful to its roots.”
Yu Wenzhou, despite the apparent shallowness of the conversation, was taking notes in his ever-present notebook. There was actually a lot of information in how someone named things, what it meant for the team employing the strategy and what is said about their understanding of their opponent.
“Of course, these are just the general outlines, more strategies than proper tactics. A lot of mine have to be reworked this season, what with the change in team composition and player behind Qi Breaker. It’s not just skill you have to take into account, you know—Wu Xuefeng was my main support before, but he was making a lot of decisions for himself. No matter how skilled his successor is, the change in how they view and respond to my own actions alone is enough to make certain past strategies unusable,” Ye Qiu explained. “For example, Wu Xuefeng was very adept at noticing when I’d gotten myself in too deep and helping me out, so I could rely on him to handle it if I pushed myself a little further. His successor would never dare to presume.”
The three of them nodded. They’d noticed how Qi Breaker had taken a backseat since Wu Xuefeng’s departure. In fact, the main support for Ye Qiu was now very clearly Dancing Rain’s player, Su Mucheng, who was one of their fellow rookies.
Ye Qiu watched their perfectly-timed, unknowingly simultaneous movements with great amusement.
Eventually they made a new group chat, this one called “Master Tacticians” after what the media had taken to calling their group of four, mostly as a joke. Discussing the pros and cons of various decisions during a match—of their own teams or others, since purely analyzing how to defeat their own teams was somewhere between awkward and treasonous—became a regular event. Though Ye Qiu didn’t have the same studious air the three others did, he was clearly no less thorough or hardworking in his pursuit of knowledge and advancement.
Occasionally they’d just lambast the commentators’ judgments of the various matches. They were really, just terribly misinformed.
“Why is this chat called ‘Close Enough’?” Jiang Botao asked, after his delight had settled a little. Getting noticed by his seniors this early in his career was completely unexpected to him.
“Ye Qiu thinks he’s funny,” Wang Jiexi responded dryly.
The casually absent respect gave Jiang Botao the incredibly strange feeling that his world was going to be very different now.
“What’s it like being named captain in your debut season?” Jiang Botao asked. Having been transferred to a new team halfway through his first year for almost the sole purpose of preparing him to be their primary shotcaller was difficult enough, let alone having the full pressure of captain, shotcaller, and core player from the moment one debuted.
“Captain Fang put a lot of effort into preparing me for a whole year before, so it wasn’t actually too stressful,” Yu Wenzhou replied. “I had a lot of time to prepare, and make sure I was ready to go onstage. And Huang Shaotian to back me up, of course.”
“For me it was very sudden, but I did what I had to do,” Wang Jiexi replied simply. Though he’d given Lin Jie’s offer serious thought, in the end he’d chosen to do what he felt was right for both Lin Jie and Tiny Herb, regardless of personal consequences. Having made that decision, of course he was going to stick to it. Pressure or stress didn’t have much to do with it.
“Eh, it was pretty okay,” Ye Qiu said. “It’s not like being captain means you’re the only one on the team.”
Silence.
Alright, technically speaking, Ye Qiu had also been named captain in his debut year. And yet, somehow, it felt like that question had absolutely nothing to do with him…
“Does a Season 1 debut count?” Zhang Xinjie asked. “It was every pro player’s debut that year.”
“I was younger than everyone else on my team!” Ye Qiu defended. “Same thing, right?”
The responses were very noncommittal.
Ye Qiu was, of all of them, clearly the most senior and most experienced. So it was only natural that, even amongst themselves, there was some debate over which of the following players was his true “successor.”
“It can’t be Yu Wenzhou, though. One of Ye Qiu’s main features as a tactician is his own involvement, and Yu Wenzhou’s hand speed means he can’t use his own ability as the deciding factor,” Jiang Botao pointed out.
“If we go by that, though, wouldn’t it have to be Wang Jiexi? He’s the one that relies most heavily on his own abilities,” Xiao Shiqin said. “But he’s not even recognized as one of the Master Tacticians.”
“It’s Wenzhou.” Ye Qiu slid his way into the group, the scent of cigarettes trailing in his wake. Evidently, he’d just finished his smoke. “He’s got the best overall understanding of the game,” Ye Qiu continued, ignoring the protests that rose up around him. “As for the rest of you: too rigid,” to Zhang Xinjie, “too timid”—Xiao Shiqin—“Jiang Botao is milking the Star Tactic like someone told him to deliver fifteen Marketable Moments™ a season”—Jiang Botao winced—“and Wang Jiexi’s so entrenched in his hard carry he might not even remember what versatility looks like.”
Wang Jiexi gave him an odd look, or maybe that was just his normal face. Who knew.
“Shame about the hands, though,” Ye Qiu continued, blasé. “Guess I’ll just have to remain the undisputed peak of tacticians.”
“I would object to ‘undisputed,’” Zhang Xinjie, the tactician that overcame Ye Qiu in his debut year, began.
“And yet, my three championships,” Ye Qiu cut in, as if in lament.
Groans and rebuttals drowned out whatever he might have said next.
“And that, little disciples, is how it’s done,” Ye Xiu said into the group chat, for the first time since his sudden departure back in early Season 8. Xiao Shiqin, his opponent for that last round of the Challenger League, couldn’t even argue. Ye Xiu’s game was masterful.
They weren’t going to show it—they were still his opponents, his rivals, after all—but they were all, honestly, really excited to pick the whole thing apart. Ye Xiu put a whole year of preparation into it! That was the most planning from him they’d ever see, if only because practicality would intervene on every competition after. The intricacy of his planning left them stunned, debating with each other and analyzing every moment, trying to reverse-engineer all the possibilities Ye Xiu must have been prepared for, for everything to go so smoothly regardless of Xiao Shiqin’s choices, the differences in player ability, experience, characters, everything.
Long into their debate on all the different aspects of the match, Xiao Shiqin accepted that he’d really never had a chance. A year’s worth of planning by the tactician who’d practically taught them all how to fight in the first place was not something he could have overcome on short notice.
Still, he’d learned a lot. He’d grown a lot. And like all the other tacticians that followed in Ye Xiu’s wake, he’d keep working and working, until one day, one day—
He’d catch up.