Work Text:
The first time Ye Xiu was challenged seven times in a row, he honestly, straightforwardly, fought all seven of those rookies, defeating each one in turn.
This time, he didn’t.
The crowd booed, the rookies were disappointed, but what could he do? He wasn’t turning this down for his own amusement. Playing an unspecialized was so, so complicated, required so much more of him than any other class possibly could. He was ousted from the Alliance and forced his way back with everything he had, but it was everything he had, and Ye Xiu was not stupid. This would be his last season, he knew, he knew. He was burning out. Of course a legend that burned this brightly would burn him as well.
Rookie challenges? Sure, fine. But there wasn’t really a way to play this character casually. Lord Grim stood victorious for the third time and he tried to run away because he was angry. He only had so much left in him, and they were using it for this. One challenger after another, burning up his hands, his mind, burning him out—
He’d hidden it well. It was unlikely Tyranny had done this in an attempt to actually sabotage his condition. It wasn’t their style, even Zhang Xinjie more defensive than preemptively destructive in his scheming. Nonetheless they turned his downfall into spectacle and he was furious and of course no one understood because he wouldn’t let them.
Let no one know a single thing about his end before it came. Please, let him have this one last season, and then he wouldn’t, he really wouldn’t (couldn’t) ask for any more.
He threw the matches. Ostentatiously, then with a bit of flair, he spiced up their All-Star Weekend and let Tyranny’s fans hate him, as was their greatest passion.
Fuck you, he thought, as he threw the match again. He showed them he could handle two rookies with ease, did a skill-based, two-step Z-shake that had everyone’s jaw on the ground, and then played out the most half-hearted ending he could, gave himself the break they wouldn’t.
Fuck. You.
“Pro players should always do as promised,” he said casually. “I said I’d throw the match, so I had to!”
He saw Song Qiying’s gaze flit to Tang Rou, and he knew what he was thinking. It wasn’t like he’d approved of Tang Rou’s actions in the first place, recognizing in her choices the blithe disregard for consequences that came with youth and rich backing and a lack of practice at caring for your place in the world. He saw it in himself sometimes, with the way he disregarded reputation for his own goals, so he didn’t bother with reprimands. She’d see the world outside of herself, or she wouldn’t. It was part of growing up.
Growing old.
Everyone laughed or jeered at the way he’d run from these challenges, reporters going around to every single pro team to ask their opinions. Ye Xiu didn’t care.
Draped carelessly at his sides, his hands were stiff.