2030, League of Legends World Championship Quarterfinals — TES vs HLE.

  "What a pity. MSI runner-up TES falls 1–3 to Korea's second seed HLE and ends their run in the quarterfinals."

  As the sighs from the casters echoed, the camera cut to the stage.

  The players walked off in silence. The spotlight from behind outlined each lonely silhouette.

  In the post-match interview zone, TES mid-laner Su Muxue sat before the camera. Her posture was straight, her expression calm. Even after a painful defeat, her gaze remained clear and steady. She was the kind of woman who drew attention not with makeup or flashy clothes, but with a quiet, unshakable grace. Her beauty wasn’t ostentatious, but on camera, it was undeniable.

  Even under the weight of public scrutiny and loss, she answered every question with a smile, calm tone, and composed manner.

  "How do you see that final Baron fight?" the host asked, handing her the mic.

  Muxue's eyes flickered slightly as the scene replayed in her mind: her Cassiopeia flashed forward to ult three enemies in perfect formation. The shoutcasters had erupted in awe. Victory seemed within reach — if only the bot lane followed up, if only the jungler controlled the frontline. They could've taken Baron. They could've turned the game.

  But what met her instead were hesitant steps, cooldowns not ready, and missing vision. She dove in alone, teammates chained to invisible weights.

  After a brief pause, she answered professionally, "Maybe I didn’t communicate clearly enough. Everyone had different ideas in that moment. That’s just how it goes sometimes. We’ll review it properly."

  She didn’t dodge responsibility. Didn’t offer excuses. She made it seem as if the mistake truly was hers.

  Meanwhile, in a dim apartment in Shanghai, Huo Tianchen sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the television, brows furrowed.

  ...

  The door lock turned. A beautiful, yet exhausted woman entered. Her high heels paused at the threshold like a weight was finally set down. Su Muxue, ever composed under the spotlight, now looked worn and fragile.

  The moment she saw Tianchen, her eyes reddened. She rushed into his arms, sobbing.

  "I’m sorry... I really... tried my best..."

  "Don’t apologize," Tianchen gently stroked her hair, his voice calm but firm. "You did great."

  He sat her down, wrapped her in a soft blanket, and ran his fingers through her messy hair, slowly tracing down her trembling back.

  He said, "We already talked about this. We made enough money. Retiring isn’t a bad thing." His voice was casual, like two old friends chatting. As if Worlds elimination was just a small bump in life.

  But the brief glint in his eyes said otherwise. His breath hitched as he turned away to get water, the tension in his shoulders betraying his calm.

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  The fist clenched at his side turned white. His body, more honest than his words, revealed the truth:

  This was far from over.

  ...

  Days later, TES announced it would not renew Su Muxue's contract.

  The short statement sparked a social media storm.

  Rumors surfaced that TES’s ADC had been lobbying for a mechanical Korean mid-laner since the summer split. And even though the replay showed it was the team’s hesitation that lost the Baron fight, not Muxue’s play, public opinion still turned against her.

  Casters ambiguously cited "poor coordination" and "uncertainty" — fueling online speculation.

  Comment sections became battlegrounds:

  * "Should’ve replaced her long ago. Women can’t cut it in pro play."

  * "She’s soft. No sense of tempo."

  * "Not her fault? Yeah, right."

  Those who actually watched the game, who understood the context, were drowned out by the noise.

  ...

  At the same time, a nearly bankrupt team in the LPL's secondary league quietly went up for sale. Its training room lay abandoned, dusty flags and faded whiteboards the only witnesses to forgotten glory.

  A few days later, a flashy young investor named Zhang Yunjie bought the team. A self-proclaimed "gamer and entrepreneur," he had no management experience, but plenty of passion.

  "I just wanna do something fun," he said with a grin. "My man, the team’s yours. Build the roster, lead them to the top. I’ll pay, you run it."

  On the other end of the call was former JDG top-laner Yuan Yiming.

  "Seriously? That hands-off?" Yiming sighed but smiled anyway.

  "You know the scene. You know the talent. And hey, what about Tianchen? He’s free right now, right? Don’t tell me he’s too old. He used to be even scarier than you back in Dota. You two are still tight, right?"

  A pause.

  The name, once resounding in esports circles, stirred again from memory.

  ...

  Yuan Yiming went to talk to Huo Tianchen.

  The two had been classmates since middle school, climbing the esports ranks side by side through Dota. While Yiming switched to League of Legends early on, Tianchen stayed in Dota2 for years. Even after their paths split, they kept in touch. Reunited in Korean solo queue years later, their synergy was still terrifying, with fans dubbing them "the most synchronized solo players."

  Now, standing outside his door, Yiming knew: only Tianchen could bring this new team together.

  "Go pro again? Nah," Tianchen leaned on his balcony, cigarette in hand. "I’m too old for that."

  But Yiming didn’t leave.

  He remembered Tianchen’s accolades: a Dota2 carry legend, Major champion, TI runner-up. And he knew what haunted him — never winning The International.

  As Dota2 faded, Tianchen’s team disbanded. At 23, he became a League of Legends ranked booster. With brilliant mechanics and game sense, he quickly rose to fame as a jungler. His Diana and Master Yi were perennially top of the Korean ladder.

  That’s when he met Su Muxue.

  They first crossed paths in an online scrim. He noticed the calm, calculated mid-laner on the enemy team. Later conversations revealed her warmth and optimism, her ability to ease tension with just a few words.

  During that period, Tianchen was lost. Once a champion, now a nameless grinder. He was bitter and directionless.

  Muxue was a light in the dark. She never asked about his past. Never judged his present. She simply stayed.

  "Your past is your story," she once told him. "But in my eyes, you’re always one of a kind."

  He never replied. But from that moment on, he knew:

  He would shelter her. Fight for her.

  Her career became his second journey.

  "I have a wife, a home, and savings. Isn’t peace enough?"

  "You can choose to settle," Yiming said, more serious than ever, "but that peace came from years of fighting. Not because you gave up on your dreams."

  He pointed to a photo on Tianchen’s desk: a younger man lifting the Dota2 TI second place trophy.

  "You sacrificed so much for her career. Are you really okay watching her fade away like this? You know she didn’t lose because she was weak. She just won’t get another chance."

  "You act like you don’t care. But what you’re really afraid of… is disappointing her again."

  That night, Huo Tianchen sat alone for hours.

  Ash piled beneath his feet. The city lights dimmed.

  But deep inside, a long-slumbering string had quietly drawn taut once more.