Chapter 5: Go Home and Raise Pigs!

In the CRT monitor array of Zhujang Road Internet Cafe, station #17 was hosting a small pilgrimage. A makeshift stand of three stacked packs of Nanjing cigarettes displayed a slow-motion replay of Jie’s assassination on the phone screen—when the execution mark exploded, a chorus of metallic clatters rose from the back row: over thirty mineral water bottles hitting the floor in tribute.

“Rewind! Rewind and watch the energy control!” The yellow-haired net admin squeezed through the crowd, his T-shirt bearing the spray-painted “Noxus Guillotine” now smudged by sweat. “This guy’s definitely using a script—who calculates energy down to the single digit?”

No one disputed it. Everyone held their breath as Jiang Ming demonstrated “Shadow Brush” in the video: the instant W linked with E to trigger energy recovery, Jie abruptly turned at a right angle, grazing past the Blind Monk’s Sonic Wave—precise as a compass-drawn evasion path.

“Fuck! This play’s good enough to brag about for three years!” The boy playing the Sword Saint slammed his keyboard, the spacebar spring flying up and hitting the ceiling. The net admin silently noted the moment, planning to add “Safety belts required when watching JM’s videos” to the shop rules the next day.

When the progress bar reached the equipment analysis segment, someone tapped Lin Xiao on the shoulder. He turned to see two boys with dark circles under their eyes, standing at the very end of the all-night queue; the leader rubbed his hands and smiled: “Bro, can you cast this to the big screen? We’ll cover the internet fee.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“This positioning, this awareness...” As the video streamed to the big screen, many players waiting to queue for games stared in awe. “This guy’s insanely good!”

“If JM weren’t distracted by streaming, he’d be #1 in the national server. His learning speed for new champions is terrifying.”

Anyone who knows new champions knows they’re all stat monsters—grab them immediately before nerfs, and climb without fail.

But that’s also the problem: starting from zero, just mastering a new champion’s abilities takes time, let alone all the intricate details afterward.

As the video uploaded across major platforms and views surged, countless viewers marveled at Jiang Ming’s extraordinary talent and deep game understanding—he had already mastered Lightning in high-rank play by the third day of the champion’s release, dissecting every mechanic from head to toe in the video.

Soon, Jiang Ming’s new champion tutorial entered the Shiye of many professional team players, whose reactions mirrored those of ordinary players.

Shanghai WE Training Base.

Inside the room, the IPL5 championship trophy gleamed coldly before the tactical whiteboard.

In front of a row of clustered computers, a boy with a bowl cut was straining over his screen.

Ming Kai, just finished a ranked match, Wufengxianjie into the next queue. As a Changnianbabang player on the national ladder, he needed massive match volume just to stay above the pack.

Ming Kai’s mouse scroll wheel emitted a faint scratch. On screen, the Master of Shadows slipped through the three-wolf wall at an impossible angle. At the 47-second mark, he tapped the spacebar, freezing the frame on the vision ward planted 0.3 seconds before the enemy jungler’s death.

“This guy’s awareness is insane,” the curly-haired support tore open a snack pack and leaned close. “Try some!” Cucumber crumbs fell onto the mousepad emblazoned with WE’s logo.

Jiang Ming’s voice synced from the video: 【Never walk in to check vision here. If there’s someone in the brush, a shadow + double E will let Jie regain energy.】

In-game, Jie used a shadow clone followed by Ghost Slash; sensing the energy return, he took tiny steps to twist away just as the Sonic Wave flew from the fog—anticipating and countering the Blind Monk’s gank.

Ming Kai’s monitor froze on a detail: at 25:13, Jiang Ming pinged the dragon pit three times—right as the enemy jungler had just returned to base to place a true sight. He pulled up WE’s training match footage against SKT and found their second-team midlaner had made the exact same mark at the same timestamp.

“This isn’t talent,” Ming Kai bit through a crispy noodle. “It’s fucking prophecy.”

“The Master of Shadows looks like it’ll be the new season’s darling,” the curly-haired support nodded. “Our global flow build’s been gutted.”

Ming Kai grabbed a tactical board and drew a skull next to “Jie.”

“What about Ruofeng? How’s his assassin practice going?” Ming Kai asked.

“He and Weixiao were tied up with events all day—they’re asleep. I haven’t checked yet,” the curly-haired support replied without hesitation.

The bowl-cut boy frowned but, seeing no one else around, held back from lashing out at his friend, muttering softly: “Everyone knows it’s an assassin patch, yet he won’t practice? What’s he gonna show at LPL opening with this level?”

“If you’re bad and won’t practice, why even play pro? Just go home and raise pigs...”

“We’ve got to survive too—we have to take commercial gigs.”

Behind Ming Kai and the curly-haired support, a sharp voice cut in.

Abu barged in, arms full of documents, Jiazhe the latest edition of “Esports Manager Certification Exam Outline.”

Ming Kai glanced back at Abi but said nothing, returning his gaze to the video.

“I’ve been following this video blogger too, Ming Kai. He’s a midlaner with serious skill and deep game understanding.”

“Especially in champion mechanics—he’s mastered nearly every new champion within two days of release over the past half-year.”

“Should we try inviting him to join WE as a pro?”

In Ming Kai’s mind, if such a powerful midlaner joined their team...

“Hah, what are you thinking?” Before Abi could respond, the curly-haired support burst out laughing. “He’s currently the top-tier League of Legends tutorial blogger—his YY live stream sometimes draws more viewers than ours. One time, his fans leaked he’s a student at Jinling University. How’s someone like that gonna become a pro like us?”

Abi continued: “Before us, IG actually tried to recruit him.”

“IG?”

“ZhiTai plays mid for IG—he’s top-tier. Are they switching so fast?”

“Probably not. They likely recognized JM’s game understanding. Other regions are already hiring coaching staff—IG probably wants to follow suit.”

“Did JM accept IG’s offer?”

“No,” Abi flipped through his papers. “Last week, JM publicly recruited high-rank players on his stream and formed a team called NXG—he seems to want to lead it into pro competition himself.”

At this, Ming Kai and the curly-haired support froze.

Indeed, who’d risk playing pro when they could be their own boss?

“Looks like JM made a fortune selling meat buns...” the curly-haired support sighed.

“He’s definitely made a ton. Every JM video is terrifyingly high-quality—high-rank gameplay plus detailed commentary, each one hits at least hundreds of thousands of views. Even if only one percent of viewers visit his store, that’s an insane sum.” Abi perked up mentioning JM’s Taobao shop. “Many in our circle think his business model is worth copying: use live streams or videos to drive traffic to his Taobao store, turning gaming into a major revenue stream.”

“Taobao store, revenue—like selling meat buns like him?”

“It’s not just meat buns. I checked his Taobao shop—he sells snacks, esports peripherals, even trendy clothing. He’s making at least a hundred thousand a month.”

Abi’s tone dripped with envy.

No wonder—he’s a top student from Jinling University. His brain’s just sharper than ours. A college kid making a hundred thousand a month!

The curly-haired support suddenly remembered something and pulled up his Taobao order history: “Last week I bought meat buns—the shipping origin was Jinling University’s Entrepreneurship Park... Holy shit! He sent us free samples at the WE base!”