Chapter 3

Jiang Ming’s previously gentle smile vanished instantly; his tone turned stern: “Who smoked? Didn’t I say smoking is strictly forbidden in the training room?”

The top laner Norsha’s face paled; he jumped up immediately. “Sorry, Ming-ge, I… I was just tired and wanted to stay alert.”

“Stay alert?”

“Song Yuan, are you treating my words like wind through your ears?”

Jiang Ming’s fingers slammed hard against the yellowed wall of rules, making the four red characters “NO SMOKING” tremble. The lingering smell of smoke mingled with the aroma of snacks and instant noodles in the damp air—just like the wild, untamed esports ecosystem of this era, where ideals and recklessness grew side by side.

“Song Yuan, do you think a 7.5-yuan Hong Shuangxi is Bai Nai Jin?” He snatched the cigarette pack and hurled it onto the tactical board. “Do you know how many restrictions the state imposed on internet cafes and esports after the 2002 Lan Jisu fire that killed twenty-five students?”

The top laner’s neck flushed crimson; the “Daily Training Plan” taped beside the board fluttered down—it was a meticulous Excel 97 spreadsheet created by Jiang Ming, precise to the minute for last-hitting drills.

MMP, Chinese esports was already crushed for a decade by the 2002 internet cafe arson. If our own team pulls this shit, LPL might die in the womb.

“Let me be clear: I pay your salaries, so you’re employees of this team. You must strictly follow every rule.”

“If you’re going pro, then go pro properly. If not, get out. There are plenty who’ll take your spot.”

“Ming-ge, I—”

“What? Your parents work in a clothing factory, their fingers pierced by needles three times just to earn 2,500. And you sit here tapping keys, earning 1,600 a month—steady.”

Jiang Ming wasn’t exaggerating. By the end of 2012, compared to most teams still operating on passion alone—paying out of pocket for venues, begging for sponsors—his team’s players received free meals and lodging, plus a monthly salary of 1,600 yuan, placing them firmly in the top tier.

Three-legged toads are hard to find, but two-legged kids chasing esports dreams and hoping to make money through pro play? There are plenty.

He didn’t preach grand theories. To these teenagers who’d dropped out of junior high and plunged into society, a single word—“dismissed”—carried more weight than any lecture.

Listening to Jiang Ming’s reprimand, not just Song Yuan but the other four in the room also hunched their shoulders. The blue glow of monitors reflected off five youthful faces; the water dispenser gurgled.

They didn’t understand business loops. All they knew was that this basement was warmer than home—at least here there was 24-hour hot water, unlike the ice-crusted toilets of black internet cafes.

“Sorry, Ming-ge! I swear I won’t do it again—I’ll change! Please give me another chance!”

“Fine, punish me—dock my pay, anything…”

After a long silence, watching the top laner grow increasingly desperate, Jiang Ming sighed. “I forbid smoking for your own good. Safety aside—nicotine is a stimulant that temporarily sharpens focus. If you become dependent, what happens when you can’t smoke during a match? Will you just retire on the spot?”

Unlike second-generation players like Si Cong who entered esports as a casual hobby, Jiang Ming truly saw it as his foundation for rise. Since founding the team, he’d consciously steered management toward standardization.

Although economic constraints kept them far from the polished clubs of the future, they were still far superior to most internet cafe teams of the time.

“No pay deductions. Extra thirty minutes of fundamentals training today. No next time!”

“Yes, yes, Ming-ge! I’ll go solo queue right after we finish.” Song Yuan beamed, bowing repeatedly in thanks.

Jiang Ming waved his hand. “Enough. Come eat.”

The fried rice they’d ordered before arriving at the base had been delivered by the shop’s helper. Pro players typically trained from 9 PM to 1 or 2 AM; skipping meals left their stomachs aching.

Perhaps because of the scolding over smoking, the players ate in silence, heads down—unlike before, when they’d chatter casually over meals.

“Hand me the training schedule.”

Sitting with the players at the computer desk, eating the six-yuan-per-bowl fried rice from the Guizhou shop owner, Jiang Ming spoke to the support player Pang Ran.

“Yes, Ming-ge. Today’s fundamentals training was completed on time and to standard. Vision control drills are still in progress.”

Jiang Ming listened while flipping through his pinned task sheet. During the day, while he streamed and managed his online shop, he’d delegated supervision of fundamentals to the support player—but he occasionally checked completion rates afterward.

S3 fundamentals training was simple: last-hitting and ward placement. Mid-game vision control was still advanced—this was the era when a smile last-hitting over a hundred minions in ten minutes was wildly praised.

The last-hitting standard was low: during the laning phase (first ten minutes), passing was around 80, excellent was over 90, top-tier was 100 or more.

Players who reached top-tier received a 200-yuan bonus.

…

After finishing the late snack and tossing the disposable utensils into the trash, Jiang Ming turned to his five players. “Our regional LPL league is about to launch. There are only twelve slots for the LPL preseason. Since our team didn’t exist yet, we missed the four slots from city battles and media selections. So we must secure one of the eight promotion slots from the server battle online qualifiers.”

“Our first server battle online match is tomorrow at 5 PM. Opponent: War College’s team, ranked second in their server. For the remaining time, we’ll focus on vision control, wave management, and rotation support.”

Jiang Ming sat at a computer, opened a video stored in his D drive, and gestured for everyone to gather close.

“Pro matches differ from solo queue. Fundamentals, vision, team coordination, and tactical design—all are indispensable.”

“Our current weakness is lack of five-vs-five team synergy. In the server battle, we must train our teamwork intensely…”

Because his team was founded by a pancake-streamer with no name, they had zero reputation—no one would agree to training matches. So they could only solve most problems through video analysis.

Yet even so, the five young men in the room stared at him with burning eyes, hungry for every scrap of pro knowledge he imparted.

No one complained. They remembered three months ago, crammed in a VIP internet cafe booth: five machines, three IDs, hiding in toilet stalls when police raided at night.