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Fang Rui’s soulmate was older than him. He absolutely insisted this was the case, because if it weren’t for his being in the “sending gifts based on whatever I like” stage longer, he would’ve never ended up in the position of so clearly being taken care of. That was a fact and he would stand by it to the end.
Ignoring entirely that “sending gifts based on whatever I like” was a stage in soulmate relationship development, which didn’t actually have that much to do with age. And was, by nature, done by both at precisely the same time.
As it was, though, Fang Rui was very well taken care of, and his soulmate relationship was absurdly good. Fang Rui was the kind of person who never brought a pencil to school, but it didn’t matter—at the start of class, one would always appear in his hand. At the end of class every day, he’d return it. Without fail, every day, not once did Fang Rui need to ask for a pencil from anyone else.
When it started, it wasn’t actually a request for a pencil at all. Fang Rui had sent over a scrap of paper he’d been trying to doodle on, barely a scribble, done with a pen failing so terribly it was actually absurd. It was the only pen he had, but its state had reached the point of truly pathetic, and Fang Rui didn’t hesitate to share his woeful situation with his soulmate this way.
The response was a new writing implement, which Fang Rui found both funny and tragic, because now he had no excuse not to take notes. The timing of his soulmate’s responses had long shown him his soulmate was at least somewhat serious about paying attention in class. He dutifully used the pencil throughout the day and returned it at the end, intending to bring his own the next.
The next day found Fang Rui sending an even more tragic doodle.
He got a pencil.
So often did Fang Rui send his pathetic attempts at writing with increasingly nonfunctional writing implements that his soulmate started preempting him with the pencil, and Fang Rui got so used to it he forgot entirely about trying to carry his own. New classmates sometimes called him irresponsible or unprepared, but Fang Rui didn’t care what they thought. That was why this was his soulmate, not theirs—he knew, the transfer really was that reliable.
His soulmate always had been.
(Lin Jingyan could tell his soulmate didn’t have much. Lin Jingyan wasn’t necessarily well-off, but his family was comfortable, or at least probably more comfortable than his soulmate’s. His soulmate wasn’t stingy with sending things over, but they were simple and somewhat infrequent—transmissions were more likely to be passing and borrowing than truly giving away. Like clockwork, they were given, used, and returned.
He didn’t mind it.)
At 15, Fang Rui got a gaming mouse from his soulmate, one of the fancy ones that all the eSports teams were advertising.
“Let’s join the Challenger’s League!” he told his friends, smugly showing off his new equipment.
“Fuck, do you think we all can get a proper gaming mouse at the drop of a hat? You’re too immoral!” They were all, at this point, used to the kind of single’s abuse this pair would dish out every day. And the other half wasn’t even there.
They were used to it, but still.
“I want a gaming mouse,” their healer grumbled, then gave in to the familiar lament:
“Why is your soulmate so good to you?!”
To be fair, Fang Rui was very good to his soulmate, too. He couldn’t send over gifts all the time, like most people did to figure out what kinds of things their soulmate liked, so he got very good at noticing details about what he got instead. On a hot afternoon, his soulmate had sent over a water bottle, a bit of water still around the rim—recently filled up, but not all the way. From then on, though his soulmate had obviously just been hoping he’d stay hydrated himself that day, he sent water to his soulmate after school when school sports activities would end; Fang Rui didn’t play any himself, so he had plenty of time to make his soulmate’s day a little more convenient. His soulmate would send the bottle back after, and he’d send it again the next day—like a counterpart to the pencils, this was something he could do.
Throughout their time in school, they’d interacted with that kind of unspoken understanding, to the point that it was almost a spectacle to those with far less involved soulmate relationships. During lunch the food on Fang Rui’s plate would flash in and out of existence, shuffling as if the soulmates were truly passing food to each other across the table. Fang Rui took the initiative to send over anything good, and his soulmate would send him back some kind of healthy snack that obviously didn’t come from a menu.
From the other things that returned, though, everyone could see that his soulmate’s school lunch menu was…pretty bad. Fang Rui wasn’t picky, and if his soulmate’s lunch really couldn’t be eaten they could always split his own, so it went on like that: one to another, things appearing and disappearing with casual ease. The other students had never seen anything like it.
There were gifts sometimes, too, but they were mostly things that obviously couldn’t be shared, clean and clearly separate from their more usual interactions. When it came to their normal transfers, gift-giving almost felt completely unrelated.
The mouse was obviously intended as a gift, still in its inner packaging, and of course the first thing Fang Rui wanted to use it for was Glory. The group of them were thoroughly casual players—Fang Rui said he’d chosen a Qi Master because he thought Excellent Era’s Vice Captain had a cool playstyle, but actually he just liked the calm and noble look; despite Glory’s first person point of view that made looks irrelevant and their staunch insistence otherwise, everyone else’s decisions had been similarly frivolous—but they made up for it with their fast hands and complete lack of shame. Harassing their opponents, running at the drop of a hat, flat-out lying in their communications, even abandoning each other to the abyss without provocation, their team might not always win but they sure did make an impression.
“My soulmate is a gamer, maybe even a pro,” Fang Rui said seriously. “Obviously you guys have to support me in getting there too. I am destined for greatness.”
“You got all that from a mouse?” their Blade Master asked incredulously.
“Obviously I got it from my future-predicting golden right hand,” Fang Rui sniffed. “With me here, how could we fail?”
Their healer groaned and pushed him off his chair.
(Lin Jingyan knew his soulmate was younger than him, and likely by a decent amount. It’d taken him much longer to be able to send something than most of his peers, and while plenty of people struggled with the intangible action, not many had to wait as long as Lin Jingyan did to succeed. By that time, he’d learned quite a lot about patience and had thought very seriously about how he’d treat his soulmate, once he could. He was the older one, so he should certainly take the lead in making sure his soulmate was taken care of.
For that reason, although Lin Jingyan himself spent a lot of time gaming after school, he’d never sent anything related to it to his soulmate. Especially as their relationship progressed, Lin Jingyan started to get the feeling that his soulmate was a little too changeable, matching his actions and following along with whatever he indicated regardless of the direction. If someone so seemingly carefree was given an indication that Lin Jingyan leaned toward gaming…
Well, better not, especially for what amounted to a pastime.
It was only at the end of his first year in the Glory Pro Alliance that Lin Jingyan started to believe that, despite his lack of overwhelming innate talent, gaming really was going to be an important, maybe even irreplaceable, part of his life. If so, it was very likely that it would at least interest his soulmate as well, and he already knew his soulmate wasn’t likely to have anything good to use.
And, at this point, his soulmate was probably old enough to make good decisions without his help, anyway.
So he sent the mouse over, and smiled when it didn’t return.)
To everyone’s surprise, though their team obviously didn’t win the Challenger’s League, Fang Rui really did get scouted by a pro team—and not just any pro team, but a powerhouse like Blue Rain. Outwardly Fang Rui claimed this an obvious, foregone conclusion, but inwardly he couldn’t help but think—was his joke less of a joke than he thought? Was he actually destined to be a pro player?
Of course, Fang Rui hadn’t actually debuted yet, and he had no idea if his soulmate already had or ever would become a pro, but there was no harm in taking a proper look around. Technically speaking, most would consider Fang Rui too young to have a soulmate relationship so good he’d know his match at a glance, but Fang Rui had complete faith in their bond. If they met, he would certainly know.
But Blue Rain really didn’t have anyone like that, and their future didn’t seem to need someone like Fang Rui, either. So when Wind Howl came to him with attractive terms for training as their Brawler’s successor, Fang Rui didn’t hesitate to switch over. Though Demon Subduer’s player hadn’t exploded into the pro scene like many of the others, he’d pulled Wind Howl to third place in the regular season and a semifinal finish in his first year, steadily making his way to the name of Number One Brawler. If Wind Howl really wanted to set Fang Rui up to inherit a character like that, he’d certainly have a bright future in gaming.
And if he had a whole new club to look through for his soulmate, well, what could be better?
Lin Jingyan, as Wind Howl’s core, was very busy, so Fang Rui had been at the training camp for a good amount of time before they finally met. Fang Rui found him to be very polite, an oddity for an ace toward a rookie, and somewhat mild-spoken—not much like a fierce Brawler at all, really. But looks didn’t count for much onstage, and Fang Rui had obviously studied his play before, so he settled down to the match with complete focus.
In the fight that followed, Lin Jingyan advanced and Fang Rui retreated, Lin Jingyan slowed down and Fang Rui rushed forward, the two characters almost rocked across the stage as if caught in some unseen tide, pulling back and forth and responding to each other so smoothly it was practically preemptive. Lin Jingyan had never been a particularly dirty player, and Fang Rui’s harassment usually came across as somewhat ugly and incongruous, so why did this exchange look something like a showcase…?
Fang Rui’s character fell amidst baffled silence, both players staring blankly at their screens despite the long-past spread of metallic wings.
“Why is it always wooden pencils?” Fang Rui asked, exponentially increasing the average level of confusion in the room. The tone was actually somewhat complaining. “Don’t you know how much more convenient mechanical pencils are?”
“So I could tell how much lead you used,” Lin Jingyan said a moment later.
“As if I would ever refill a mechanical pencil!” Fang Rui said huffily, with the righteous air of someone defending their honesty and no sign of embarrassment for blatantly claiming his unwillingness to take responsibility for the things he’d borrowed and used up.
“You can tell more about people’s habits from a wooden pencil, too,” Lin Jingyan said, amusement in his voice as he finally stood up from the computer. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the lines left over from shading your doodles during lecture earlier.”
“So I’ll definitely have to play a different class.” Fang Rui immediately changed the subject.
Lin Jingyan laughed, but didn’t fight it. “Don’t like a Brawler?”
“Brawler’s fine, but we don’t need two. I think a Thief fits my personality better, anyway.” Since they were obviously meant to be partners, Fang Rui wouldn’t spend any more time working toward being a successor.
“You really are a lot like a thief,” Lin Jingyan said solemnly.
“Of course I—hey!”
The club manager and head of the training camp still standing on the side were so lost they could cry.
It didn’t take long for people to figure out that Lin Jingyan and Fang Rui were soulmates, if for no other reason than that it was dead obvious. Now that they’d met in person, they transferred things with even more regularity, as easily as if they were just handing things off. Fang Rui arrived at a locked door and raised a hand that suddenly held a key; Lin Jingyan took a break to watch VODs of other matches and his notebook and pen appeared before he’d thought to write down his first idea. At lunch, Fang Rui tossed an apple in the air and it landed in Lin Jingyan’s hand without ever crossing the room.
“Must you?” Ruan Yongbin asked despairingly. His Cleric often partnered with Fang Rui so he wasn’t unused to it, but watching soulmate transfers happen that blatantly was always going to be a little weird. Not that soulmates couldn’t use it that way, but most people never had a connection quite that implicit. Honestly, the two of them might as well be a single person.
“Isn’t it convenient?” Fang Rui said, raising a drink to his mouth that had not been there a second earlier.
Ruan Yongbin sighed.
(Lin Jingyan may have known his soulmate was younger than him, but he hadn’t considered that he’d be young enough for the team to scout him as his successor. Still, Fang Rui made it obvious from the moment they met that it was not his intent—he’d rather join him onstage than use his greater talent to replace him. It was the right move, anyone could see from the moment the two of them fought on the same side. Lin Jingyan’s style got more ruthless, Fang Rui’s style more dependable, and in the end the two of them fought like a single entity, the frontline and its shadow. Fang Rui was casual and calculative and always thinking on at least three levels at once, finding new ways to surprise opponents without blindsiding allies, always pulling through where it counted.
Lin Jingyan could think of no greater blessing than sharing the stage with his soulmate, the best Brawler and the best Thief, the Alliance’s Criminal Partners.)
Management had always been a little too ready to give up on Lin Jingyan, in Fang Rui’s opinion. They recruited him as a successor not long after Lin Jingyan began to rise, and the moment it looked like Lin Jingyan was no longer at the top, they were willing to let him fall.
Lin Jingyan was steady as always, but Fang Rui couldn’t help his discouragement as the season progressed and the club’s stance became more and more obvious. This wouldn’t be the end for them, of course, but he’d really wanted to spend a little longer on the same stage…
When Lin Jingyan entered the room with a brighter air after days of looking lost, Fang Rui knew their time was up. “Which team?”
“Tyranny,” Lin Jingyan replied, baffled but undeniably excited.
“Good eyes!” Fang Rui praised, as if it were entirely Lin Jingyan’s choice. “Go get yourself a championship, then. We’re basically the same person, so if you have one, I have one, right?”
Lin Jingyan laughed, long used to Fang Rui’s style. “You’ll be okay here?”
“Obviously,” Fang Rui grinned. He’d rather they were together, but they’d never really be apart. “Maybe I’ll even get the championship first. Don’t worry though, I’ll share!”
Their partnership ended in laughter, the way it began.
(Neither of them won a championship, though Tyranny was all too close. Tang Hao’s first year at Wind Howl brought them to third place in the regular season and a semifinal finish, the same as Lin Jingyan’s had, but this time it spelled an end for Fang Rui rather than a beginning.
Lin Jingyan was always concerned about Fang Rui, so he’d obviously tracked his development over their season apart. No matter how Fang Rui tried to reach out, Tang Hao would not reach back to him, and Fang Rui wasn’t in a place where he’d have to just silently accept it. Lin Jingyan didn’t push him to come to Tyranny, even after it was clear he’d be leaving Wind Howl; in the end, it was Fang Rui’s own future career he needed to look out for, and Lin Jingyan would not be there forever.
Their connection had existed before they joined Wind Howl, and it would exist long after they left.
Fang Rui went to Happy.)
They met in the semi-finals, the first time the two of them had approached each other in a one-on-one environment onstage. The year before, they’d still kept in contact, Fang Rui transferring over any food Lin Jingyan might have missed after moving away; this year, they’d gone back to their earliest days of trading back and forth, though now just for the fun of sharing rather than avoiding anything particularly unpleasant.
(Zhang Jiale watched in somewhat horrified awe as food flashed in and out of existence on Lin Jingyan’s plate. “Are you like this all the time?”
“Yeah,” said Lin Jingyan as he sent over an apple, the drink he favored from Fang Rui’s side appearing a moment later. “Pretty much.”)
They mirrored each other so perfectly it was practically a comedy, each unable to outthink the other because they simply matched too well. Despite the class disparity their characters made identical moves, distance attack and dodge, physical attack and sidestep, it might as well have been the same person controlling them both. When they first met there’d still been an element of push and pull to their matches, but they’d long since settled into a natural equilibrium.
Not a single person in the audience could have missed that this was a battle between soulmates. Shock rendered even the commentators silent—this was big news, for sure, but with the two now against each other…
Their thoughts were so congruous they even stopped at exactly the same time.
“Well,” said Lin Jingyan.
“Yeah,” Fang Rui replied. And then, repeating his evaluation of this meeting from before, a self-censored “XX” message.
In their booths, both of them laughed.
They once again attacked in the same moment, but their styles completely fell apart, an unskilled barrage of brutal assaults. If they couldn’t manage to think differently, they’d just have to not think at all, relying entirely on their fundamental differences to give them a conclusion. Two different classes, two different bodies playing, one of them would win over the other in the end. Lin Jingyan had greater familiarity with his class, but Fang Rui had the faster fingers, and in the end it was Fang Rui that won.
Lin Jingyan sighed, but he wasn’t too upset. Fang Rui was still at his peak, after all.
And, though they’d set aside their connection in pursuit of victory, regardless of the outcome—
It’d still be there when they were done.
Lin Jingyan announced his retirement, but he wasn’t truly leaving Glory. And, with his soulmate still onstage, the season wasn’t over. Of course he would still be there.
He was there when they fought, he was there when they won. He was there to see Fang Rui receive a championship ring, and to feel it settle in his own palm.
(“One mind, one heart, one person. If you have a championship, I have a championship. How could we be separate?” Fang Rui’s words echoed with his usual laugh.
No such thing as “borrowed and returned,” no separation in triumph or defeat, the same relationship they’d had from the start. With the thrill of success humming between them, they shared thoughts, and feelings, and a lifetime.)