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The hospital hallway smelled of antiseptic and shattered dreams.
Yang "NoFear" Tao stared at his right wrist. To anyone else, it looked normal—perhaps a bit pale under the harsh fluorescent lights—but to him, it felt like a ticking time bomb that had finally reached zero. The dull, throbbing ache had become a sharp, electric protest every time he tried to execute a micro-adjustment on his screen.
"The inflammation is chronic, Yang Tao-shuo," the doctor said, her voice dropping into that soft, melodic tone of professional pity. "The repetitive stress from the Jungler role—the high-frequency tapping, the flicking... your tendons simply can't sustain that level of output anymore."
Cannot sustain. The words felt heavier than the phone currently resting in his lap. In the world of Honor of Kings, the Jungler was the heart of the tempo. You had to be everywhere. You had to be fast. If your fingers lagged by even a millisecond, the Smite was missed, the objective was lost, and the game collapsed.
"I can still play," he muttered, though his own body betrayed him with a sharp twinge as he tightened his grip.
"You can play," she conceded, "but not like that. Not at that intensity. If you continue to push it, you’re looking at permanent nerve damage. I’d suggest talking to your support system. Is there a manager? A parent? Someone who can help you navigate the next steps?"
Yang Tao looked away. He thought of his manager, who would immediately start calculating the buyout clause in his contract. He thought of his coach, who would already be looking at the substitute roster to see who could fill the void in the Jungle. They cared about the team. They cared about the "NoFear" that won trophies.
He needed someone to care about Yang Tao.
His thumb hovered over his contacts. He scrolled past the official team groups and the sponsors. He stopped at a name that felt like a sanctuary.
Wang "JiuKu" Tao.
JiuKu was his Roamer. His Support. The man who spent every match literally shielding Yang Tao from harm, hovering nearby to heal him or peel away enemies when a dive went south. He was two years older, a steady anchor in the chaotic sea of the pro-gaming house.
He pressed the call button before he could talk himself out of it.
The phone rang three times. Every second felt like a year. He realized then that he wasn't just calling for a ride home; he was calling because he was terrified, and JiuKu was the only person who knew how to make the map feel safe again.
"Tao-Tao?" The voice on the other end was warm, slightly muffled as if he had been caught mid-snack. "Practice doesn't start for another hour. Why are you calling from the hospital? Did the results come back?"
Yang Tao choked on the first word. He looked at the doctor, then at his trembling hand.
"Ge," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I can't go back to the Jungle."
There was a silence on the other end—not the silence of shock, but the heavy, focused silence of a Support player assessing a teammate’s health bar.
"Stay there," JiuKu said, his voice dropping an octave, firm and grounding. "Don't move. I’m coming to get you."
-
The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Yang Tao’s sneaker against the linoleum floor was the only thing keeping him from vibrating out of his seat. Every second the doctor spent updating his digital chart felt like a second closer to a total career collapse. He stared at his wrist. It looked so ordinary. It didn't look like a career-ending betrayal.
Then, the heavy door to the consultation room didn't just open—it slammed.
The sound echoed off the sterile walls, and Yang Tao jumped, his head whipping around. Standing in the doorway was Wang "JiuKu" Tao, looking like he’d just run a marathon through a wind tunnel. His signature dark hair was a bird’s nest of static and sweat, his oversized team hoodie was tugged lopsidedly over his shoulders, and he was gasping for air.
He didn't wait for an invitation.
JiuKu lunged forward, closing the gap in three long strides. Before Yang Tao could say "Ge," he felt large, warm hands on his shoulders. JiuKu began turning him—literally rotating his torso left and right—his eyes scanning Yang Tao with the frantic intensity of a Roamer checking every bush for an ambush.
"Where? Where is it?" JiuKu panted, his voice thick with genuine panic. "You said you couldn't go back—is it a break? A tear? Why aren't you in a cast?"
"Ge, wait—stop, I'm dizzy—" Yang Tao tried to plant his feet, but JiuKu was already moving on to his arms, gently but firmly lifting Yang Tao’s right hand as if it were made of thin glass. He turned the wrist over, examining the skin, his thumbs tracing the tendons with a feather-light touch.
The doctor, who had watched the entire whirlwind entry with a calm, knowing expression, leaned back in her chair. She didn't look annoyed; if anything, she looked relieved that the "support system" she’d requested had finally arrived, even if he did look like he’d jumped out of a moving vehicle.
She cleared her throat, a sharp, professional sound that cut through JiuKu’s frantic hovering.
JiuKu froze, his hands still cradling Yang Tao’s wrist. He slowly looked up, his face flushing a deep red as he realized he wasn't alone with his teammate. He didn't let go of Yang Tao’s hand, though. He just adjusted his grip, standing protectively at the younger boy’s side.
"Doctor," JiuKu said, his breathing finally beginning to level out. "I'm his... I’m his teammate. His brother. Please. Tell me what’s happening."
The doctor gestured for JiuKu to sit, but he remained standing, a silent sentry. "As I told Yang Tao, there is no visible trauma. No break, no bandage-worthy wound. But internally, the soft tissue and nerves in the wrist are reaching a point of no return. The high-APM (Actions Per Minute) required for a Jungler is effectively poisoning his recovery."
JiuKu’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He knew what that meant. In the game, if a Jungler falls behind, the whole team starves. If Yang Tao couldn't play at 100%, the professional world would discard him.
"So, what's the play?" JiuKu asked, his voice losing its panic and replacing it with the steely resolve he used when making late-game calls. "There’s always a play."
The doctor looked at Yang Tao, then back at JiuKu. "The play is rest. And, if he wants to stay in the industry... a complete change in how he interacts with the game. Less strain. Less speed."
Yang Tao looked down at his lap. "She means I'm finished, Ge."
"No," JiuKu interrupted, his voice sharp and startlingly firm. He stepped closer, forcing Yang Tao to look at him. "She said you can't be a Jungler. She didn't say you couldn't play."
-
The interior of JiuKu’s car was quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the rhythmic click of the turn signal. Yang Tao leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. The silence felt heavy, like the fog of war on a map where you’ve lost all vision.
JiuKu gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, his knuckles still a bit white. He kept glancing toward the passenger seat, checking on Yang Tao as if he were a precious cargo that might break if the car hit a pothole.
"Stop looking at me like I’m an invalid, Ge," Yang Tao muttered, though there was no heat in his voice. "I just have a bad wrist, not a terminal illness."
"I'm not looking at an invalid," JiuKu countered, his eyes returning to the road. "I'm looking at a Jungler who’s too stubborn to see the map for what it is. You’re tilted, Tao-Tao. And when you’re tilted, you miss the obvious plays."
Yang Tao let out a hollow laugh. "The play is over. If I can't play Nakroth or Luna—if I can't out-smite the enemy at the Lord pit—then what am I? A mascot?"
JiuKu slowed the car as they approached a red light. He turned fully toward Yang Tao then, his expression shifting from worry to something calculating, something bold.
"You’re a genius, that’s what you are," JiuKu said firmly. "Your mechanics are what everyone sees, but it’s your macro—your ability to read the enemy’s movement before they even make it—that makes you 'NoFear.' The doctor said you need less strain, less flicking. She didn't say you lost your brain."
"Where are you going with this?"
"The Jungle is a sprint, Tao-Tao. But other roles? They’re a marathon. Mid-lane is about wave management and positioning. But even better..." JiuKu paused, taking a deep breath. "There’s the Roamer role."
Yang Tao’s head snapped toward him. "Your role? Ge, don't be ridiculous. You’re the captain. You’re the heart of our defense."
"Think about it," JiuKu pressed on, his voice gaining momentum as the light turned green. "A Roamer doesn't need to tap at $400$ APM. A Roamer needs to be the eyes of the team. They need to predict the ganks. Who knows the enemy Jungler’s pathing better than you? You’ve lived in their heads for years. If you move to Support, you aren't fighting the monsters—you’re outsmarting the people."
Yang Tao stared at him, stunned. "You’re suggesting I take your job?"
"I’m suggesting we evolve," JiuKu corrected, a small, lopsided smile playing on his lips. "I can move to a different lane, or we can rotate. But I’ll be right there with you. I’ll teach you every ward spot, every bush-check, every timing. I’ll be your shield while you learn the ropes, and once you’ve got it... you’ll be the most dangerous Support in the league because you’ll know exactly how to shut the enemy Jungler down."
He reached over, briefly squeezing Yang Tao’s shoulder. "I’m not letting you retire because of a sore tendon. If your hands can't carry the sword anymore, then you carry the shield. I'll make sure no one gets close enough to hurt you while you do."
Yang Tao looked down at his right hand. The idea was terrifying. To go from the star executioner to the quiet protector felt like learning to breathe all over again. But looking at JiuKu’s determined face, the weight in his chest lightened just a fraction.
"You really think I can do it?" Yang Tao asked softly.
"I know you can," JiuKu replied. "Because I’ll be the one training you. And I don’t accept losing."
-
The headlights of JiuKu’s car swept across the entrance of the team house, illuminating a figure standing under the porch light. Both boys froze. It wasn't a teammate sneaking out for a late-night snack; it was Coach Lin. He stood with his arms crossed, his shadow long and imposing against the door.
"He’s going to bench me," Yang Tao whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Let me do the talking," JiuKu muttered, killing the engine. "We’ll tell him it’s just a minor strain. We need time to practice the transition before we go public."
But as they stepped out of the car, the cool night air seemed to sharpen Yang Tao’s resolve. He saw the way the Coach looked at his wrist, then at his face. The pity he’d seen in the doctor’s eyes was there, too—but beneath it was the cold, hard logic of a man who had to manage a winning roster.
"Coach," JiuKu started, stepping forward to shield Yang Tao, "about the hospital visit—"
"I’m not retiring."
The words cut through JiuKu’s defense. Yang Tao stepped out from behind his "Ge," his posture stiff but his eyes burning.
"Tao-Tao, wait—" JiuKu tried to grab his arm, but Yang Tao shook his head.
"I’m not retiring, and I’m not taking a break," Yang Tao said, his voice gaining strength. "The injury is... it’s real. I can’t play Jungle. My hands can’t keep the pace. But I’m not leaving the team. I’m going to retrain. I’ll learn a new role. Whatever the team needs that doesn’t require $400$ APM, I’ll do it."
A heavy silence fell over the driveway. JiuKu held his breath, expecting a lecture on contract viability or the upcoming playoffs. Coach Lin didn't move for a long time. Finally, he reached up, pushed his hair back with a weary hand, and let out a long, foggy sigh.
"I’ve been waiting for you to realize it yourself for three weeks," Coach Lin said quietly.
Both players blinked in surprise.
"You think I haven't noticed your Smite timings slipping? Or the way you massage your hand after every set?" The Coach stepped down from the porch. "I already had the 'retirement' talk prepared. But..." He looked at the two of them—the veteran Roamer and the stubborn Jungler standing shoulder-to-shoulder. "If you’re willing to put in the work to reinvent yourself, I won't be the one to stop you."
JiuKu let out a breath he’d been holding since the hospital. "Coach, does that mean—?"
"It means you both need to sleep," Coach Lin interrupted, though his voice had softened. "Tomorrow, you’re on a 'special practice' schedule. Just the two of you. No team scrims, no spectators. JiuKu, you’re responsible for him. If he overworks that wrist, I’m holding you accountable."
He turned back toward the door, then paused. "And stay off the main accounts. Use smurfs. Slip into some high-tier Ranked matches tonight if you must, but keep it quiet. I want to see if the 'NoFear' brain still works when the hands are slowed down."
As the Coach disappeared inside, Yang Tao felt a strange mix of terror and relief. He looked at JiuKu, who was already grinning, despite the disheveled hair and the stress of the day.
"You heard the man," JiuKu said, bumping his shoulder against Yang Tao’s. "Let’s go. We have a Roamer to build."
-
The morning light filtered through the blinds of their shared room, painting thin gold stripes across Yang Tao’s face. He blinked awake, his right wrist feeling stiff but not throbbing—a small mercy. He rolled over, expecting to see a sleeping JiuKu, but instead, he found his Ge exactly where he had been four hours ago: sitting at his desk, the blue light of his tablet illuminating a face that looked like it had been through a war.
"Ge? Did you even sleep?" Yang Tao croaked, sitting up.
JiuKu didn't even look up. He launched into a caffeine-fueled rant before Yang Tao could finish his yawn. "I’ve been looking at the current meta-supports. If we move you to Roamer, we can’t start you on mechanical heroes like Da Qiao; the micro-management will kill your wrist. We start with tanks. Meat shields. Or healers. You need to learn how to exist without needing to kill. We need to grind vision control, the gold-sharing mechanics, the—"
"JiuKu-ge," Yang Tao interrupted, staring at the deep, bruised circles under the older man’s eyes. "You look like a zombie."
"Zombies don't need sleep, they need brains. I have a brain, and right now, it's focused on your transition. Get dressed. Practice room. Now."
-
The practice room was eerily quiet at 6:00 AM. They sat side-by-side, the glow of their phones the only vibrant thing in the room.
"Okay," JiuKu commanded, "pick Zhang Fei. He’s tanky, he’s got a leap, and his ultimate is a massive disruptor. Your job isn't to kill the enemy ADC. Your job is to make sure nobody touches yours."
The match started, and within three minutes, the "NoFear" instinct flared up. Yang Tao saw the enemy mage at low health. Without thinking, his thumb twitched—the old Jungler habit of diving for the kill. He leaped in, burned his shield, and secured the kill, but left his own marksman completely exposed to a counter-gank.
"Yang Tao!" JiuKu barked, his voice echoing in the empty room. "What was that? You just traded your marksman’s life for a measly support kill. You aren't the star right now! You are the floor! You are the wall!"
"But he was one-tap!" Yang Tao protested, frustrated.
"It doesn't matter! If you’re a Roamer and you’re chasing kills, you’re just a bad Jungler with no gold." JiuKu sighed, his tone softening as he saw Yang Tao’s frustrated expression. "Give me the phone. Watch."
They swapped devices. Yang Tao watched JiuKu’s screen. It was a revelation.
JiuKu didn't look at the enemy's health bars; he looked at the map. He positioned his hero in the tiny gaps of vision, hovering just out of sight, a constant ghostly presence that made the enemy hesitate. When a teamfight broke out, JiuKu didn't look for the opening to attack. He looked at his teammates' health bars. He was like a conductor, placing heals exactly where the damage was about to land, body-blocking skill shots that Yang Tao hadn't even noticed were coming.
"See?" JiuKu whispered, his eyes tracking a frantic skirmish. "I’m not playing against the enemy. I’m playing for you. I’ve spent two years watching your back, Tao-Tao. I knew when you were going to dive before you even did. Now, you have to learn to watch mine."
Yang Tao watched as JiuKu’s hero took a hit meant for the Mage, barely surviving with a sliver of health, only to retreat and immediately start pinging the next objective. For the first time, Yang Tao realized the sheer mental exhaustion of the Roamer role. It wasn't about the glory of the announcement 'An Enemy Has Been Slain.' It was the quiet, invisible victory of 'Ally Rejuvenated.'
"I always thought you were just... there," Yang Tao admitted quietly. "I didn't realize how much you were doing to keep me from dying for my own mistakes."
JiuKu leaned back, a tired but proud smile on his face. "That’s the job. And now, it’s your turn to learn how to be the hero who stays in the shadows."
-
"Just once, Ge. Play him once. I need to see how you do it from the other side," Yang Tao pleaded, his eyes wide and unblinking.
JiuKu looked at his phone, then at Yang Tao’s eager face. He let out a sigh that was more of a fond huff. He rarely said no to Yang Tao, a habit the rest of the team often teased him for, calling him the "NoFear Enabler."
"Fine," JiuKu relented, his fingers dancing across the screen to lock in Taiyi Zhenren. "But watch closely. Taiyi isn't just a support; he’s a safety net. If you mess up the timing, the net breaks."
They loaded into a high-tier training match. Yang Tao took the role of the Marksman, feeling unnervingly vulnerable without his usual mobility as a Jungler. He watched JiuKu’s Taiyi Zhenren waddle ahead of him, the character’s strange, bubbling cauldron letting out a faint green glow.
"Watch the Sturdy Pot," JiuKu commanded.
Suddenly, JiuKu activated his first skill. The movement speed boost kicked in, and the cauldron began to hiss and shake. He didn't just run at the enemy; he curved his path, weaving through the brush to create pressure. Just as the brew reached its peak, JiuKu used Third Hand, his tentacle snapping out and pulling him directly onto the enemy mage.
BOOM.
The explosion stunned the entire backline. Because he hit a hero, the cooldown reset instantly, and JiuKu was already brewing the next pot.
"Now, dive!" JiuKu shouted.
Yang Tao moved in, but he got greedy. He overextended, forgetting he wasn't a tanky Jungler anymore. The enemy tower began to fire, and three enemies collapsed on him. His health bar vanished in a blink.
"I'm dead—" Yang Tao started, his heart sinking.
"No, you aren't," JiuKu said calmly.
Just as the final killing blow was about to land, a golden, ethereal glow enveloped Yang Tao. For Science! JiuKu had timed the Ultimate to the exact millisecond. Yang Tao’s character collapsed, but instead of the grey screen of death, he rose from the ground moments later, health partially restored, while the enemy was left with their abilities on cooldown.
"That's the Roamer's burden," JiuKu said, his voice quiet as they retreated safely. "Your KDA might look like 0/2/15. To the fans, it looks like you didn't do much. But that Resurrection? That's the difference between a wiped team and a counter-attack. You have to be okay with being the invisible savior."
Yang Tao stared at the screen, watching JiuKu’s Taiyi Zhenren lead him back to base. He realized that as a Jungler, he had always seen his teammates as tools to help him get kills. Now, seeing JiuKu play his signature hero, he realized the Roamer saw the team as a family they had to keep alive at any cost.
"I want to try," Yang Tao said, his voice firm. "Let me play Taiyi. Teach me the timing for the Resurrect."
JiuKu looked at him, the exhaustion in his eyes momentarily replaced by a spark of excitement. "Alright. But if you miss the Ult, you’re buying dinner for a week."
-
The morning air in the practice room was shattered not by a game sound, but by the heavy thud of the door swinging open. Manager Chen walked in, his face tight, followed by a lanky teenager who couldn't have been older than seventeen. The kid was twitching his fingers nervously, eyes glued to the floor, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Yang Tao," the Manager barked, ignoring the fact that JiuKu was literally mid-lesson. "This is Xiao Lu from the academy. He’s the top-ranked Jungler in the youth division. No injuries, 400 APM, and he’s hungry for a starting spot."
Yang Tao’s hand instinctively went to his wrist, hiding it behind his back.
"We’re holding an evaluation match at noon," Chen continued, his voice devoid of sentiment. "If you can’t show me that you’re a top-tier Roamer right now, I’m moving you to the inactive list. We can’t afford a 'learning curve' in the middle of the season. Lu will take the Jungle, and we’ll scout for a veteran Support."
JiuKu stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. He stepped in front of Yang Tao, his disheveled hair and dark circles making him look more like a protective ghost than a pro gamer.
"You’re doing what?" JiuKu’s voice was dangerously low. "Coach Lin already cleared the transition. He’s the one who runs the roster, not you. Why are you pushing a kid who isn't ready into a spot that isn't vacant?"
"I’m looking at the bottom line, JiuKu! We need a Jungler who can—"
"You aren't the one in the chairs!" JiuKu snapped, cutting him off. "You aren't the one training us. You don't see the macro, you just see the stats. If the Coach said he can transition, then he transitions. Who are you to override the person who actually knows how the game is played?"
The Manager turned red, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. He wasn't used to the players—especially the usually steady JiuKu—talking back with such venom.
"I... I am the Manager, and I—"
"And you’re overstepping," a new voice boomed.
Coach Lin stood in the doorway, and for a second, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. He looked at the Manager, then at the terrified academy kid, and finally at Yang Tao.
"Chen," the Coach said, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. "Did I, or did I not, tell you that I was handling the 'special practice' today? Do you think my authority is a suggestion?"
"Lin, be reasonable, the sponsors—"
"The sponsors want a winning team!" the Coach roared, going completely ballistic. He slammed a hand against the doorframe. "And a winning team is built on synergy and trust, not by throwing an injured veteran to the wolves and forcing a terrified trainee into a seat he didn't earn! Get out of my practice room. Now! Take the kid back to the academy before you ruin his nerves for good!"
The Manager scrambled, muttering something about a board meeting, and practically dragged the academy player away. The kid cast one last, apologetic look at Yang Tao before the door slammed shut.
Coach Lin took a deep breath, smoothing his hair back. The room was silent.
"Don't thank me," Lin said, looking at Yang Tao. "He was right about one thing: the clock is ticking. You have until the end of the week to prove to me that you can handle the Roamer's pressure. If you can't, I can't protect your spot forever."
He looked at JiuKu. "Keep training him. And someone get this man some coffee before he collapses."
-
The atmosphere in the practice room was stifling. Even though it was an unofficial scrimmage against a Tier-2 team, the stakes felt higher than a Grand Final. Yang Tao sat in his usual chair, but everything felt wrong. He wasn't looking at the Smite cooldown; he was staring at the support item in his inventory.
His teammates were quiet. Every few seconds, the Mid-laner or the Marksman would cast a sideways glance at him—doubting, questioning. They were used to "NoFear" being the spear. Now, they were being asked to trust him to be their shield.
The match started, and the "Jungler’s Curse" struck immediately.
"Tao, what are you doing?" the Marksman hissed as Yang Tao instinctively drifted toward the enemy’s Blue Buff, trying to set up a solo ambush.
"I’m trying to catch their Jungler—"
"You’re leaving me alone in a 1v2!"
They fell behind. One thousand gold. Two thousand. The enemy team realized the legendary NoFear was out of his element and began to exploit it, diving the bottom lane repeatedly. Yang Tao’s hands were shaking. His wrist throbbed with a dull heat, a reminder that he couldn't just flick his way out of this mess.
“Think like a Roamer,” JiuKu’s voice echoed in his head. “Stop playing against them. Start playing for us.”
The enemy launched a final, decisive push. They crashed against the base’s high-ground turret, four heroes strong, looking to end the game. Yang Tao’s teammates were low on health, retreating toward the fountain. The Manager stood in the corner of the room, already pulling out his phone—likely to call the Academy kid back.
Then, the world slowed down.
Yang Tao didn't see the enemies as targets anymore. He saw the trajectory of the killing blow heading for his Mid-laner. He didn't think about his KDA. He thought about the net.
He lunged forward with Taiyi Zhenren.
Skill 1: Sturdy Pot. He didn't use it to run away; he used it to zone. Skill 2: Third Hand. He snatched the enemy's frontline, pulling himself into the center of the chaos. He took the brunt of the damage, his health bar screaming in red.
"Now!" he shouted.
As his teammates’ health bars hit zero under the enemy's burst, Yang Tao slammed his thumb onto his Ultimate.
For Science!
A massive, golden shockwave erupted. Three of his teammates, who should have been dead, were suddenly encased in brilliant light. They rose from the ground with a second lease on life. The enemy, having burned all their ultimates and abilities for nothing, was caught in the middle of the fountain fire with no way out.
"Wipe them!" Yang Tao commanded.
The turnaround was legendary. His team rallied, cleaning up the stunned enemies and rushing down the mid-lane to end the game in a single, defiant counter-push.
As the "VICTORY" screen flashed across his phone, the room was silent. Then, his Marksman let out a jagged breath. "That... that was actually insane, Tao."
The Manager tucked his phone away, his face a mask of frustrated disbelief. Even the Coach was nodding, a small, rare smile tugging at his lips.
Yang Tao’s heart was racing. He breathed out, a massive weight lifting from his shoulders. He turned toward the observation chairs, wanting to see the one face that mattered. He wanted to see JiuKu’s lopsided grin. He wanted his Ge to tell him he’d done it.
But the chair next to the Coach was empty.
JiuKu, who had been there at the start of the match, whispering encouragement, was gone. Only his jacket remained draped over the back of the seat.
"Coach?" Yang Tao asked, his voice suddenly small. "Where’s JiuKu-ge?"
Coach Lin’s smile faded, replaced by a look of grim concern. He looked at the empty chair, then back at Yang Tao. "He stepped out about ten minutes ago. He said he had an 'appointment' he couldn't miss."
Yang Tao felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. JiuKu never missed a scrimmage. Especially not his first scrimmage.
-
"I need to find him," Yang Tao muttered, his voice barely audible over the sudden chatter of his teammates. He didn’t wait for the Coach to answer or for the Manager to spout more corporate praise. He shoved his phone into his pocket and bolted from the room.
His wrist twinged, but he ignored it. His mind was spinning faster than his fingers ever had during a match. Why would JiuKu leave during the most important game of Yang Tao’s life?
He checked the kitchen. Empty. The gym. Empty. Finally, he wandered toward the small balcony at the back of the facility, the one that overlooked the city skyline. The door was cracked open, letting in a draft of chilly evening air.
He heard JiuKu’s voice—not the commanding, loud tone of a captain, but something soft, weary, and strangely relieved.
"I know, I know," JiuKu was saying into his phone. "The paperwork is ready. I’ll sign as soon as the season wrap-up is finalized. Just keep it quiet for a few more weeks."
Yang Tao froze, his breath hitching in his throat. He stayed in the shadow of the hallway, his heart sinking into his stomach.
"He’s ready," JiuKu continued, and Yang Tao could hear the smile in his voice—a sad, proud sound. "I watched the scrim just now. He landed the resurrection perfectly. He’s got the macro. He’s going to be a better Roamer than I ever was. The team is in good hands... he'll be okay without me."
There was a pause as the person on the other end spoke.
"Yeah," JiuKu sighed. "New city, new start. It’s for the best. My contract is up, and if I stay, I’m just blocking his growth. Besides, your offer is good. I’ve been looking at the roster—it’s a challenge, but I’m ready to build something new there. I promised I'd come as soon as I was sure the 'NoFear' situation was handled. And it is. He’s safe now."
Yang Tao felt like he’d been hit by a physical blow. The world seemed to tilt.
The "special practice," the sleepless nights, the relentless defense against the Manager—it wasn't just about saving Yang Tao’s career. It was about replacing himself. JiuKu had been grooming his own successor so he could leave without feeling the guilt of abandoning a broken team. He was moving to a different city, a different team, hundreds of miles away.
He was the shield that was meant to protect Yang Tao, but now that shield was being handed over—and the person holding it was being left behind.
Yang Tao stood there, unable to move, unable to speak. His mind whirled with the realization that his second chance at a career was the very thing that was allowing his "Ge" to walk away. The victory from minutes ago suddenly tasted like ash.
JiuKu hung up the phone and leaned against the railing, looking out at the lights of a city he was already preparing to leave. He looked smaller than usual, the weight of the secret finally settling on his shoulders.
Yang Tao stepped back into the darkness, the floorboards creaking slightly, but he didn't call out. He couldn't. How do you ask someone to stay when they’ve spent every ounce of their energy making sure you’d be fine when they left?
-
Two weeks had passed, and the atmosphere in the team house had shifted from tense to clinical. Yang Tao had become a machine. He played the Roamer role with a cold, surgical precision that exceeded everyone's expectations. He was no longer just learning; he was innovating, pushing the boundaries of the role so far that the team’s win rate had skyrocketed.
The fans were ecstatic. The forums were filled with "NoFear’s Redemption" threads. But whenever someone asked where JiuKu was, the official response was always a vague "strategic rotation."
Yang Tao had stopped speaking to JiuKu. He ignored the seats saved for him at dinner; he looked past JiuKu in the hallways. He treated his Ge like a ghost, and JiuKu... JiuKu let him. He didn't demand an explanation. He didn't fight back. He just watched Yang Tao from the back of the room with eyes that were heavy with a quiet, devastating hurt, yet remained stubbornly proud.
The Manager walked around the house with a permanent smirk, looking like a man who had just traded a used car for a supercar. Only Coach Lin seemed to be carrying a weight that grew heavier by the day.
It happened late on a Tuesday night. Yang Tao was returning from a late-night solo queue session when he heard voices coming from the Coach’s office. The door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling onto the carpet.
"Are you truly sure about this, Wang Tao?" Coach Lin’s voice was strained, using JiuKu’s real name—a sign of deep personal concern. "I’ve looked at the final roster submission. You’ve essentially erased yourself. You aren't even listed as a sub. You’re just... gone."
"Aren't we winning more and more now, Coach?" JiuKu’s voice was calm, but it had a hollow ring to it. "The team is stable. The synergy is there. My job is done."
"But you're hurting yourself, Wang Tao," the Coach sighed heavily. "I don't want to see you get hurt, and I don't want to see Yang Tao hurt either when he realizes—"
"Coach," JiuKu interrupted, and Yang Tao could practically see that lopsided, sad smile. "Yang Tao hates me."
Yang Tao’s breath hitched. He pressed himself against the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"What do you mean?" Coach Lin sounded baffled. "That boy practically worships you. He follows you like a shadow."
"He heard the talk," JiuKu said quietly. "The day of his first scrim. I called the other team—the one in the south. I know he must have heard me. Since that day, he won't even look at me."
"Wang Tao—"
"I know, I know," JiuKu’s voice cracked slightly, then steadied. "But he hates me for it, and honestly? I’m not even mad. He’s perfect for this role. But he's smart, Coach. He knows. He thinks that his second chance at a career was the very thing that was allowing his 'Ge' to walk away. He thinks he’s the reason I’m leaving."
"And you’re just going to let him believe that? Even if he hates you?"
"Exactly," JiuKu whispered, the word echoing the very fear Yang Tao had felt in the hallway weeks ago. "If hating me makes him play this hard, if it makes him stay focused so he doesn't feel the gap I leave behind... then let him hate me. It’s the last thing I can do for him as his Roamer. I’ll be the shield one last time, even if I’m shielding him from the truth."
Yang Tao couldn't move. He felt like he was suffocating. Every cold shoulder, every ignored text, every silent moment—he had been punishing JiuKu for a sacrifice he hadn't asked for, and JiuKu had simply stood there and taken the hits because that’s what a Support does.
Footsteps approached the door.
Panic surged through Yang Tao. He couldn't be caught here. He couldn't face them—not with the hot sting of tears beginning to blur his vision. He retreated silently, slipping into the darkness of the corridor and disappearing into his room before the door to the office fully opened.
He sat on his bed in the dark, staring at his wrist. It didn't ache anymore, but his chest felt like it was being crushed.
-
The morning of the departure was colder than it had any right to be. The team house felt hollowed out, the usual energetic tapping of fingers on glass replaced by a deafening, ringing silence. On social media, the announcement was already trending: [Official] KPL Transfer: Wang "JiuKu" Tao moves to Guangzhou for a new chapter.
Yang Tao didn't join the team for breakfast. He walked into their shared room, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. The room was mostly stripped bare. JiuKu’s side of the desk—usually cluttered with chargers and half-empty energy drinks—was spotless.
In the center of the desk sat a small, black box.
Yang Tao opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a specialized wrist brace, the expensive, medical-grade kind used by surgeons and elite athletes to stabilize tendons without sacrificing mobility. Tucked under the strap was a single piece of notebook paper.
I saw you rubbing your wrist during the third set yesterday. Use this. It’ll help with the micro-taps. If you don't want it, you can throw it away. I won't know.
I'm sorry.
— JiuKu
"You idiot," Yang Tao whispered, the paper crinkling in his grip. "You absolute idiot."
The "sorry" wasn't for leaving. It was for the burden. It was for the silence. It was for being the shield that Yang Tao had tried so hard to break.
Yang Tao didn't think. He didn't grab a coat. He grabbed his phone and ran. He ignored the shouts of the Manager in the hallway and the confused look from the Coach as he sprinted past the team bus and hailed a taxi.
"The airport," he choked out. "International Terminal. Please. Hurry."
The drive was an agonizing blur of red lights and morning traffic. Yang Tao checked the time on his phone every ten seconds. He looked at his wrist, now wrapped in the brace JiuKu had left behind. It felt firm. It felt supportive. It felt like JiuKu was still there, holding his hand steady.
When the taxi finally pulled up to the curb, Yang Tao bolted. He wove through the crowds of travelers, his eyes scanning for that familiar, lopsided posture and the oversized hoodie.
"JiuKu-ge!" he shouted, his voice lost in the roar of the terminal announcements. "Wang Tao!"
He reached the security gate, his chest heaving, his lungs burning. He scanned the line, frantic. And then, he saw him.
JiuKu was standing just past the final boarding gate entrance. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder, his phone in his hand—probably checking the map of a city he didn't know yet. He looked lonely. For the first time, the "Shield" looked like he had no one to protect him.
"GE!" Yang Tao screamed, gripping the glass partition.
JiuKu didn't hear him. The noise of the terminal was too loud, the distance too great. He simply handed his boarding pass to the attendant, stepped through the threshold, and disappeared into the jet bridge.
Yang Tao’s hand slid down the glass.
He had come to tell him that he didn't hate him. He had come to tell him that he understood now—that the "second chance" wasn't a curse, but a gift he would spend the rest of his career honoring. He had come to ask the one question that had been haunting him since he heard the talk in the Coach’s office:
“You spent your whole life protecting me... who’s going to protect you now?”
But the gate was closed. The fog of war had settled over the map, and for the first time in his life, Yang Tao had no vision of his teammate.
He stood alone in the crowded terminal, a Roamer without a lane, realizing that the hardest part of the role wasn't the timing of a resurrection or the precision of a stun. It was the realization that sometimes, the person who saves you has to walk away so you can finally learn how to stand on your own.
-
The arena was a cathedral of neon and noise. Outside, the giant LED screens flashed the face-off of the night. But for the fans, the headline was simpler: The Student vs. The Master.
Yang Tao sat in the waiting room, the familiar weight of the phone in his hands feeling different now. He wore the black wrist brace JiuKu had left him—it was a part of him now, a constant, tactile reminder of the man who had rebuilt him. His teammates were discussing level-one invade strategies, but Yang Tao’s mind was elsewhere.
"I'm going to the restroom," he muttered, standing up before anyone could question him.
He didn't go to the restroom. He moved through the winding back hallways of the stadium, navigating the maze of cables and equipment until he reached the wing assigned to the away teams. He stood outside the door marked as Jiuku's team, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm he hadn't felt since his debut.
The door opened, and a staff member walked out, giving Yang Tao enough time to slip into the foyer.
There, sitting on a equipment crate away from the main group, was JiuKu.
He was wearing a jersey of a different color—a vibrant, startling blue that made him look like a stranger. He was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen, but he wasn't playing. He looked... fragile. The dark circles under his eyes hadn't faded; if anything, they had deepened into a permanent exhaustion. He was paler than Yang Tao remembered, his skin almost translucent under the harsh stadium lights.
"Ge," Yang Tao whispered.
JiuKu’s head snapped up. For a split second, the professional mask slipped, and the old, warm JiuKu flickered in his eyes. He tried to stand, a lopsided smile ghosting across his lips. "Tao-Tao? You shouldn't be here. The officials—"
Yang Tao didn't let him finish. He crossed the space in two strides and pulled the older man into a fierce, desperate hug.
JiuKu stiffened in surprise, then slowly, he let out a long, shaky breath and leaned into the embrace. He smelled the same—faintly of coffee and the citrus soap from the team house. But he felt thinner. Yang Tao could feel the sharp line of JiuKu’s shoulder blades through the thin jersey.
Throughout the months of silence, Yang Tao had rehearsed a thousand angry questions. Why did you leave? Why didn't you look back? But held in the quiet gravity of the hug, the anger evaporated, leaving behind a terrifyingly clear realization. It wasn't just admiration he had been feeling all those years. It wasn't just the gratitude of a protégé.
The hollow ache he’d felt every night in their shared room wasn't because he missed a mentor. It was because he had lost his heart.
"You're too pale," Yang Tao muttered into JiuKu's shoulder, his grip tightening as if he could keep the man from fading away. "Are they taking care of you? Are you eating?"
"I'm fine, Tao-Tao," JiuKu lied, his voice a bit raspy. He pulled back just enough to look at Yang Tao, his hands resting on Yang Tao’s arms. He noticed the black brace immediately. His eyes softened, a shimmer of moisture appearing in the corners. "You're wearing it."
"I never take it off," Yang Tao said fiercely. "But your team... they’re playing like monsters lately. You’re pushing them too hard, aren't you? You’re doing the same thing you did for me—carrying the whole world on your back so they can shine."
JiuKu just smiled, that same self-sacrificing look that now made Yang Tao’s chest ache. "That's what a Roamer does. Besides, I have to be at my best. I'm playing against the best Roamer in the league tonight."
"I'm going to beat you," Yang Tao promised, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm going to beat you so you can finally stop worrying about me and start worrying about yourself."
JiuKu laughed, a soft, genuine sound. "I'd like to see you try, NoFear."
As Yang Tao walked back to his own tunnel, the realization settled deep in his bones. He loved this man. And tonight, he would have to prove it by destroying him on the map—because only by winning could he prove to JiuKu that the shield was finally, truly, in the right hands.
-
The seventh game. The "Deciding Match."
The energy in the stadium had shifted from excitement to a jagged, frantic tension. Six games of absolute carnage had left both teams drained, but the Roamers were the ones bearing the weight. On the big screen, the hero selection began. When the countdown reached Yang Tao, he didn't hesitate. He locked in Taiyi Zhenren.
The crowd roared. It was a declaration of war and a love letter all at once. “I am using the shield you gave me,” he was telling the man sitting across the stage.
JiuKu countered with a pick no one expected—a newly released, high-mobility aggressive Support. As the match began, Yang Tao realized with a jolt of adrenaline that JiuKu hadn't just been surviving in Guangzhou; he had been evolving. He was playing with a ruthless, sharp edge, ghosting through the jungle and predicting Yang Tao’s every move. It was like playing against a mirror that knew his future.
But as the game crossed the fifteen-minute mark, the "NoFear" intuition screamed. Something was wrong. JiuKu’s hero missed a simple skill-shot—a mistake a player of his caliber never made. His movement became sluggish, drifting into walls.
Then, the world stopped.
A jagged, digital screech echoed through the speakers—the sound of a technical pause. But it was drowned out by a sickening, heavy thump that picked up on the stage mics.
The stadium, usually a cacophony of cheers, fell into a terrifying, vacuum-like silence, followed instantly by a wave of screams. Fans in the front row stood up, their faces contorted in horror, pointing at the Guangzhou booth.
Yang Tao didn't wait for the referees. He didn't wait for the "unpause." He ripped his headset off, the plastic snapping under the force, and bolted across the stage. He shoved past a stunned official and a panicked cameraman, throwing himself into the opposing booth.
"GE!"
JiuKu was on the floor. His phone had skidded across the linoleum, the screen cracked. He was crumpled in a heap, his face ashen, a thin trail of cold sweat matting his hair to his forehead. He looked small—unbearably small—surrounded by the flashing lights of the gaming rigs.
"Back off! Give him air!" the Guangzhou manager shouted, trying to reach for him.
"Don't touch him!" Yang Tao roared, his voice cracking with a raw, primal ferocity that stopped everyone in their tracks.
He dropped to his knees, sliding onto the floor and pulling JiuKu’s limp body into his lap. He cradled JiuKu’s head against his chest, his hands—wrapped in the brace JiuKu had bought him—trembling violently. He didn't care about the cameras, the thousands of viewers on the livestream, or the rules of the league.
"JiuKu-ge, wake up. Open your eyes," Yang Tao pleaded, tucking JiuKu’s head under his chin, trying to shield him from the prying eyes of the world. "You said I was the Roamer now. You said you were safe. Wake up!"
JiuKu’s eyelids fluttered, but they didn't open. His breathing was shallow, his hands ice-cold. He had pushed himself past the breaking point, burning his own health to ensure the team he was leaving behind—and the boy he loved—would never have to worry about him again.
The medical staff rushed in with a stretcher, but Yang Tao wouldn't let go. He held the older man like a lifeline, his eyes wild and defensive.
"I've got you," Yang Tao whispered into JiuKu's ear, his tears finally falling, hot and fast, onto JiuKu's jersey. "I'm the Support now, Ge. It's my turn to protect you. Just breathe. Please just breathe."
-
The white noise of the infirmary hummed, a sterile contrast to the chaotic roar of the stadium they had just left. The match had been indefinitely postponed—the league officials recognized that under the shadow of such a collapse, there was no game left to play.
Yang Tao sat on a plastic chair, his knees drawn to his chest. He was still in his Chengdu jersey, the bright colors looking garish in the dim light. He had refused to leave JiuKu’s side, ignoring the frantic calls from his own manager. To him, the standings, the trophies, and the "NoFear" legacy were nothing but pixels. The only reality that mattered was the man behind the curtain, currently hooked to an IV drip.
The teammates stood by the door, looking exhausted and guilty. Finally, their Marksman—a young guy who had spent the last few months being shielded by JiuKu—stepped forward.
"The doctors said it’s severe anemia complicated by extreme physical exhaustion," the boy whispered. "He wasn't eating. He was staying up until four in the morning reviewing our VODs, then getting up at seven to do his own mechanical drills. We tried to tell him to slow down, but he just... he had this look in his eyes. Like he was running out of time to prove something."
Yang Tao’s grip on his own arms tightened. "Prove what? He’s the best Roamer in the country. Everyone knows that."
"He wanted to be better than that," the Marksman countered softly. He looked at his teammates, then back at Yang Tao, his voice dropping to a vulnerable level. "He talked about you. A lot. Especially that night after we won our first series."
Yang Tao looked up, his eyes bloodshot.
"He got drunk. The only time I’ve ever seen him lose that 'Captain' mask," the boy continued. "He told us he loved you. Not like a teammate, not even like a brother. He said he loved you with everything he had left."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Yang Tao’s heart skipped a beat, a sharp, electric pain radiating through his chest.
"But he told us those feelings would never be reciprocated," the Marksman added, his voice tinged with a bitter sort of pity. "He told us you hated him for leaving. And even if you didn't hate him, he said you only ever saw him as a 'Ge.' A protector. A pillar. He said he’d rather you hate him and stay a star than know the truth and feel burdened by a broken-down Support like him."
Yang Tao felt a sob rise in his throat, hot and suffocating. All those months of cold silence, of pushing JiuKu away, of trying to "surpass" him—he had been unintentionally confirming JiuKu’s worst fear. Every time Yang Tao had turned his back, he had been telling the man who loved him that he was right to be alone.
He looked through the glass partition at JiuKu. The older man looked so frail under the white sheets, his hands—the hands that had taught Yang Tao how to play, how to survive, how to live—resting still and pale against the blanket.
JiuKu had been playing the ultimate Support game: he had been absorbing all the pain, all the loneliness, and all the heartbreak so that Yang Tao’s path would be clear of obstacles. He had sacrificed his own heart to ensure Yang Tao's didn't have to ache.
"He's an idiot," Yang Tao choked out, the tears finally spilling over. "He’s the smartest player I know, and he’s a total idiot."
He stood up and walked toward the bed, ignoring the teammates as they stepped aside. He took JiuKu’s hand—the one not attached to the IV—and pressed it against his cheek.
"I don't want a brother, Ge," he whispered into the quiet room. "And I never hated you. I was just terrified of how much I needed you."
-
The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room when JiuKu’s eyes finally flickered open. The dim, blue-tinged light of the infirmary cast long shadows over the walls. For a moment, he looked confused, his fingers twitching against the starched white sheets. Then, the memory of the stage, the sudden darkness, and the roar of the crowd rushed back.
He felt a warmth on his left hand. He turned his head slowly and saw Yang Tao, still in his jersey, gripping his hand as if it were the only thing keeping them both grounded.
Instead of the soft smile Yang Tao expected, JiuKu’s expression curdled. He yanked his hand back with a sudden, violent strength that sent a sharp alarm pinging on the monitor.
"Get out," JiuKu rasped. His voice was raw, stripped of its usual warmth, sounding like gravel grinding together.
Yang Tao flinched, his heart leaping into his throat. "Ge, you’re awake. The doctor said—"
"I don't care what the doctor said." JiuKu struggled to sit up, his movements clumsy and weak, but his eyes were like ice—a cold, piercing look that Yang Tao had never seen directed at him in all their years together. "Get out of this room, Yang Tao. Go back to your team. Go back to your fans."
"I'm not leaving you," Yang Tao insisted, reaching out again.
JiuKu slapped his hand away. The sound of skin hitting skin was sharp in the quiet room. "Don't touch me! Haven't you done enough? You got what you wanted, didn't you? You're the star now. You're the perfect Roamer. You don't need me hovering over you anymore. So leave!"
Yang Tao stood there, frozen. The vitriol in JiuKu’s voice was a physical weight, pushing him back. But then, a realization sparked through the pain. He looked at JiuKu’s trembling shoulders and the way he was breathing—fast, shallow, and terrified.
"Is this how you felt?" Yang Tao asked, his voice trembling. "Those months before you left... when I wouldn't look at you? When I ignored your texts and treated you like a stranger? Is this what I did to you, Ge?"
JiuKu’s breath hitched. He turned his face away, staring at the far wall, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. "It doesn't matter. I’m a different team's player now. We’re rivals. There’s nothing left for us to talk about."
"There's everything to talk about!" Yang Tao stepped closer, but JiuKu flinched, tucking his arms against his chest, making himself as small as possible on the hospital bed.
"Leave me alone!" JiuKu shouted, his voice cracking. "I gave you everything! I gave you my position, my spot on the roster, my whole life so you could keep playing! And you hated me for it! So just... let me go! Let me have what’s left of my dignity!"
He turned his back completely, pulling the thin hospital blanket over his head, a silent, shaking wall of misery. Every time Yang Tao tried to reach for the edge of the blanket, JiuKu kicked out blindly, a desperate animal trying to drive away the person it loved most because the pain of being near them was too much to bear.
Yang Tao stood in the center of the room, the silence now more painful than the shouting. He realized that the "Shield" hadn't just protected him; it had become a prison for JiuKu. By being the perfect protector, JiuKu had forgotten how to be the one who was held.
"I'm not leaving, Wang Tao," Yang Tao said, his voice dropping into a steady, stubborn tone—the same tone he used when he refused to lose a match. "You can scream, you can kick, and you can tell me you hate me. But I’ve learned how to be a Roamer too. And a Roamer never leaves his teammate behind. Especially not when they’re at one-HP."
JiuKu didn't respond, but the shaking beneath the blanket intensified.
-
Yang Tao stared at the mound of blankets on the bed, his mind reeling. The whiplash was staggering. Just hours ago, in the dim hallway of the stadium, JiuKu had melted into his embrace, clinging to him like a man drowning. The warmth of that hug had been real—the way JiuKu’s heartbeat had thudded against his chest had been a confession in itself.
But now, the person under those sheets was a stranger, armored in a coldness that felt even more impenetrable than his playstyle.
The nurses eventually tried to usher Yang Tao out, citing visiting hours and the need for the patient to rest. Yang Tao didn't argue. He simply walked out the door, waited for the shift change, and slipped back in through the service entrance. He didn't try to touch the bed again. Instead, he pulled the plastic chair to the corner of the room, sat down, and pulled out his phone.
The familiar, orchestral swell of the Honor of Kings login screen filled the quiet room, the volume turned down to a low, rhythmic hum. Welcome to Honor of Kings.
"I know you’re awake, Ge," Yang Tao said softly, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen as he entered a solo practice match. "I'm just going to run some drills. My wrist is feeling good. That brace you got me? It’s perfect. It feels like you’re the one holding my hand steady every time I move for a stun."
The blanket on the bed didn't move, but the rhythm of JiuKu’s breathing hitched.
"I heard the call," Yang Tao continued, his voice steady even as his heart pounded. "That day of the first scrimmage. I was standing in the hallway. I heard you tell that team that I was ready. I heard you say I didn't need you anymore."
He cleared a jungle camp on the screen, the sound of the gold coins clinking filling the silence.
"I hated you for it. I thought you were just looking for an excuse to get away from me. I thought I was a burden you were finally glad to drop. So I played like a demon. I wanted to show you that I could be better than you, so you’d regret leaving." He let out a dry, jagged laugh. "But the better I got, the more I realized how much you had to give up to make me that way. You weren't just teaching me a role, Ge. You were giving me your life."
Yang Tao’s character on the screen—Taiyi Zhenren—stood idle in the middle of the river.
"I'm not a Jungler anymore. I don't need to be the one with the most kills or the most gold. I finally understand what you meant back in the car. It’s not about the glory. It’s about the person standing next to you." He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't care about Chengdu. I don't care about Guangzhou. If you’re going to a new city, I’m going too. Even if I have to play for a Tier-3 team just to stay in the same building as you."
A small movement came from the bed. The blanket was slowly pulled down, revealing JiuKu’s eyes. They weren't cold anymore; they were red-rimmed and brimming with a terrifying vulnerability.
"You're a fool, Yang Tao," JiuKu whispered, his voice cracking. "You'd throw away everything for a Roamer who can't even stay conscious for a full series?"
"I'd throw it away for the man who saved me," Yang Tao countered, finally looking up from his phone. "I don't need a protector, Ge. I need you. And if your 'Shield' is broken, then let me be yours for a while. That's how a duo works, isn't it?"
JiuKu stared at him, the silence between them no longer a wall, but a bridge. The sounds of the game continued to hum in the background—the sounds of the world they had built together, and the one they were finally starting to fix.
-
The honesty hung in the air, thick and heavy, but JiuKu wasn't ready to surrender. He looked at Yang Tao—really looked at him—seeing the boy who had grown into a man wearing his old burden. He saw the wrist brace, the exhaustion in Yang Tao’s eyes, and the sheer, terrifying devotion that had led him to abandon a professional match just to sit in a sterile infirmary corner.
JiuKu’s lip trembled for a fraction of a second. The "cold" mask he had tried to don was cracking, but instead of shattering, he retreated.
He let out a sharp, frustrated huff—the kind of sound he used to make when Yang Tao missed a simple rotation in practice. Without a word, he yanked the blanket back over his head, effectively burying himself in a cocoon of white linen, and pointedly turned his back toward the room.
"Go back to sleep, Yang Tao," his voice came muffled from beneath the layers. "You’re talking nonsense because you’re tired. Go back to your team."
It was a classic JiuKu move: the tactical retreat. When the pressure was too high and the damage was too great, he withdrew to buy time. But Yang Tao didn't move. He didn't feel the sting of rejection this time because he recognized the move. He knew the "Shield" was just trying to find its footing again.
"I’m not tired, Ge," Yang Tao said to the back of the blanket, his voice calm and anchored. "And I’m not leaving. I’ve got my charger, my phone, and a chair. I can stay here as long as it takes for your HP to regen."
He leaned back in the plastic chair, the rhythmic sounds of the Honor of Kings menu music continuing to play. He watched the steady rise and fall of the blanket. JiuKu was still there. He was still breathing. And for the first time in months, they were in the same room without a stage or a map between them.
Yang Tao closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the hum of the hospital. He knew the Manager would be furious. He knew the headlines tomorrow would be a mess. But as he sat there in the dark, watching over the man who had spent years watching over him, he realized he had never felt more like a true Roamer.
He wasn't just guarding a lane anymore. He was guarding the only person who made the game worth playing.