Summary: The stage is set, the brackets drawn, but the real tension plays out in the silence between names, in the glances that linger too long, and in the spaces where power quietly shifts. Tong Yao stands apart—not unseen, but unmistakably watched. And when the past steps forward, demanding to be acknowledged, she doesn't flinch. Not because she's fearless, but because this time, she isn't standing alone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The arena was quiet in that distinct, anticipatory way that only ever settled in the moments before something official—the hush that preceded the lights coming up, the cameras flickering on, the transformation of a dim, echoing space into a stage of spectacle and sound. Below, the Drawing Ceremony stage was being prepped—a sleek construct of polished glass panels and gently pulsing screens that flashed league logos, seasonal brackets, and the scrolling names of every team slated to compete this season.
In the central pit—a bowl-like depression carved just beneath the main floor for ideal camera angles—the players were already in place.
At the center of ZGDX's row sat Lu Sicheng, his long legs angled forward in that signature sprawl, one arm hooked lazily over the back of his chair, posture steeped in effortless command, his expression the same cool, impenetrable mask it always was.
On either side of him were Lao K and Lao Mao, their expressions unreadable to most, but to those who knew them, clearly broadcasting a carefully maintained mix of focus and barely restrained boredom. Pang lounged with arms crossed, his jaw set in that faint line that usually meant he was hungry, and Ming sat slightly forward, tapping his fingers in rhythm against his knee, his eyes darting between the stage and the exits like he was already calculating escape routes.
Yao, however, wasn't seated with them. She was in the audience—four rows back from the front, near the edge where the coaching staff and management had been instructed to sit. She was nestled between Coach Kwon and Rui, hands folded neatly in her lap, the soft glow of the stage lights casting a muted sheen over the silver braid that lay over her shoulder. Yue slouched beside Rui with all the grace of a bored teenager, chewing gum and twirling a pen between his fingers as he leaned just far enough forward to glance toward the lower tier.
"Looks like there's a delay," Yue muttered, voice flat with disinterest. "Tech guy's still fiddling with the bracket system."
Yao gave a small nod but her eyes weren't on the stage. They weren't on the screens. They weren't even on her team. Her gaze wasn't on the stage, nor the flickering screen, nor the murmuring rows of teams below. It was fixed—pointedly, uncomfortably—on someone seated several rows across the pit, flanked by the sharp blue and white accents of the CK roster.
Jian Yang.
He hadn't looked away from her since the moment she entered.
Not once.
At first, she'd thought it was coincidence—a glance caught mid-scan, a flicker of recognition. Maybe curiosity. But it hadn't stopped. Every time her eyes drifted, even slightly, toward that section of the arena, his were already waiting—watching, lingering. Too direct. Too deliberate. Too familiar. She shifted, subtle but precise, her fingers moving to adjust the hem of the fitted ZGDX blazer she'd worn for the ceremony—black, crisply pressed, collar set just so. Her posture remained straight, composed. But her shoulders had gone rigid, tension tightening along her spine in silent protest.
Kwon didn't notice. His focus was locked on the bracket algorithm, muttering about tier matchups and potential seed disadvantages. Rui, for once, was too distracted by the tech delay, whispering furiously to himself about sponsors who couldn't be bothered to fund a proper set of HDMI cables.
But Yue, for all his slouched posture and absent-minded gum-chewing, wasn't nearly as checked out as he looked. His eyes slid sideways—trailing her gaze.
And narrowed.
Just slightly.
Because he saw it.
He saw the way Jian Yang was looking at her—not with professional neutrality, not with distant interest, but with that weighted, entitled attention that came with memory. A kind of intimacy that hadn't been invited. A kind of gaze that assumed it still belonged.
Yue didn't like it.
Not one bit.
Yao shifted again, barely, her hands folding tighter in her lap, the hem of her sleeve twisting between her fingers. Her breath came just a touch shallower than before, her jaw set with quiet precision, her gaze fixed straight ahead with the discipline of someone determined not to give anything away. She didn't need to speak. Because it wasn't fear that gripped her. Not exactly. It was something colder. A subtle, crawling unease. A reminder that not all ghosts came in silence—some sat across from you, unblinking, as if they'd never left.
And down in the pit, as if summoned by instinct alone, Lu Sicheng's gaze lifted.
Sharp.
Focused.
Searching.
He turned slightly in his seat, eyes scanning the stands—not rushed, but with the practiced, calculated intensity of someone who never looked unless there was a reason. And he found her. Found her tension. Found her locked frame, her distant stare. And than, he followed it. Traced it to Jian Yang. And when he saw the way the other man was looking at her, something cold flickered behind his expression. A shift. Subtle, but unmistakable. A glint of warning beneath a layer of composed silence. Because if Jian Yang didn't look away soon? Lu Sicheng wasn't going to wait for the ceremony to end before reminding him that some things, once lost, were never his to look at again.
The ceremony ended in a wash of spectacle—spotlights flaring, digital brackets locking into place with satisfying finality on the massive LED screen above, dramatic music swelling behind the host's final, overly-enthusiastic sendoff to the teams and their fans. Applause broke across the venue—not deafening, but steady, sharp, and layered with the quiet energy of competition beginning to move into motion.
Down in the pit, players, coaches, and staff began rising from their seats in organized waves, posture shifting from composed stillness to practiced readiness, every movement clocked, purposeful, and under scrutiny.
High in the stands, Yao stood carefully—slow and controlled, not from fatigue, but from deliberate restraint. The kind she'd taught herself in places like this—where eyes lingered too long, where voices overlapped, where the sound never quite faded.
Kwon rose first, tucking his binder beneath one arm, muttering something about following up with Rui's contact before next week's schedule locked. Rui was already absorbed in his phone, a silent flurry of tapped responses and managerial triage. Yue stretched with a lazy roll of his shoulders, arms folded behind his head as he cast Yao a subtle glance—casual to the untrained eye, but quietly watchful beneath the surface.
But it was Yao who moved the slowest. She adjusted her blazer as she stood, fingers tugging gently at the sleeves, one hand curling into the fabric at the hem like she needed something to ground her. Her eyes remained downcast, fixed not on the stage, not on the players, but somewhere at the edge of the stairs—some quiet anchor point in the blur of sound and color.
The crowd hadn't thinned much. The cameras were still watching.
And so were the whispers.
She felt them.
A few heads turned as she descended—team assistants, media staff still loitering near the security barriers, a handful of fans with laminated press passes who nudged each other as she passed. Recognizing her not just as the new analyst, but as her. The girl in the team photos. The one whose presence still made waves because they hadn't decided where she belonged yet. She didn't meet their eyes. She didn't have to. She felt the weight of their attention settling across her like static. And the closer they got to the pit, to the rows where ZGDX had been seated, the more she folded inward—arms drawn closer to her sides, shoulders tucking in, head bowing just enough to let the loosened veil of her platinum braid shield her from view.
Yue kept close behind, not intruding, not speaking, just present. Kwon was already ahead, greeting the others. Rui fell into step beside her, slightly angled like a buffer between her and the field of eyes still trying to map her against expectation.
And then—she saw him.
Sicheng.
Still seated, still sprawled in that easy, territorial way that made a row of seats look like a throne, one arm slung over the backrest, legs extended, posture indifferent but absolutely commanding. But the moment she appeared—his eyes lifted. And the change was instant. Effortless stillness sharpened into quiet attention, casual posture tightening beneath subtle control. He saw the way her head was down. He saw the white grip of her fingers curled around the edge of her blazer.
And that was all it took.
He stood. Unhurried, unrushed, and without a word—rising to his full height like the movement alone was enough to realign the space around him. He adjusted his sleeves with slow, deliberate ease, stepping forward with the kind of presence that made people instinctively step aside—not because he asked, but because no one dared interrupt the weight of his focus.
And his focus was her.
Yao felt it.
The moment their eyes met—hazel to amber—something inside her eased. Her shoulders didn't drop. Her pace didn't speed up. But her steps sharpened—more grounded, more sure. As if she had suddenly remembered exactly where she was supposed to be.Because no matter how many cameras clicked, no matter how many eyes followed. She knew where safety was.
And Sicheng, with all the quiet gravity of someone who never needed to speak to be understood, extended one hand. Not to pull. Not to shield. To offer. And Yao, without a single hesitation, placed her hand in his. As if she'd been doing it all along.
The moment Yao's fingers slipped into his—soft, unsure, but trusting—Sicheng's gaze lifted from her to the sea of players still lingering in the pit below, his eyes sharp as they swept the crowd, cataloguing every familiar face now cast in cool light beneath the arena's overhead glow. And just as he expected, he saw it. The looks. They weren't even trying to hide them. Half a dozen players—some young and wide-eyed, others older and jaded—had their attention pinned to her, not with casual curiosity or respectful acknowledgment, but with that unmistakable glint of interest. Intrigued. Smitten. And far too obvious about it.
One rookie from KING was outright gawking, his mouth parted slightly like he'd never seen a woman before, let alone one in a league-issued blazer. Another, a benchwarmer from LAN, nudged his teammate and muttered something behind a grin that wasn't even pretending to be subtle.
Sicheng's jaw tightened. Because Yao—his quiet, flustered, completely unaware Xiǎo Tùzǐ—had no idea. She didn't see what he saw. Didn't realize the way their gazes followed her, not like a colleague, not even like a competitor, but like something delicate and desirable—something they didn't quite know how to approach, but wanted to try anyway. He gave her hand the slightest squeeze. Just enough for her to glance up, puzzled, but reassured when she found his eyes.
Still—he scanned.
Most of them were harmless. Pathetic, even.
As they descended into the pit to rejoin the others, Yao stayed close, not clinging, not visibly distressed, but there was a quiet tension in the way her shoulders stayed tight and her gaze refused to wander, like she was counting steps until the spotlight shifted off them.
Sicheng noticed. Of course he did. And his hand remained steady at the small of her back, guiding her past the last wave of curious glances and murmured speculation with the silent finality of a man who didn't ask for respect—he commanded it.
Because she was with him. And that meant she was not to be approached. Not to be discussed. Not to be touched. His gaze kept moving, still cataloguing, still assessing—and then it landed again.
Ai Jia.
YQCB's Midlaner.
Sitting three rows over, posture rigid, eyes dark. He wasn't glaring. He wasn't smiling. He was watching.
Sicheng's eyes narrowed slightly, reading the full shape of that look. Because Ai Jia hadn't gotten over it. Not the moment she'd looked him in the eye, realized he wasn't going to speak up for Yue during the investigation, and made her decision.
She had taken his phone.
Used it.
Walked out without permission and gone directly to the ZGDX boardroom—stormed in, played the unedited video of the confrontation from Ai Jia's camera roll, and cleared Yue's name in front of every executive on the call. She had been the reason Yue walked away without punishment.
And Ai Jia?
He'd been reprimanded. Not by her. But by Liang Sheng. For staying quiet. For letting it happen. For needing a girl he once called his friend to step in and do what he should've done himself. And now he sat there, fists loosely clenched, jaw tight, watching her not with longing, but with the dull, bitter ache of a man who knew he'd lost the last of someone's respect—and couldn't even argue that it hadn't been earned.
Yao didn't notice. Still curled subtly into Sicheng's side, still doing her best to block out the world without folding under it. She didn't know the wars being fought around her. She didn't see the glances, the silent power plays, the lines being drawn without a word.
The hallway leading toward the back exit buzzed with the fading echoes of movement—faint overhead announcements and the distant chatter of press and staff disappearing behind closed doors as the energy of the event slowly unraveled into post-ceremony silence.
Yao kept her head down, following quietly beside Sicheng, her body angled just slightly toward him the way it always did when she was overstimulated, the residual hum of the crowd's attention still clinging to her skin like static. She hadn't spoken since they left the stage. No one had. Not because there was tension, but because something unspoken always settled over them in these in-between moments, a quiet breath before the return to their base.
They were nearly to the back entrance where their bus waited, the security checkpoint already in view, when a shadow broke away from the side of the corridor and stepped directly into their path.
Jian Yang.
Captain of CK.
His posture was confident, calculated, the kind he had mastered for the cameras, but beneath it—Sicheng saw it immediately—there was something unsettled in his expression. Something bitter. His gaze barely flicked over the others. It landed directly on her. "So, it's true." His voice was low, tight. "ZGDX."
Yao stopped instinctively, her shoulders drawing up under the smooth fall of her black blazer. Sicheng, walking just half a step ahead of her, turned with deliberate calm—but the shift in his presence was instant, no longer just protective but calculating and watchful.
Jian Yang's gaze dropped, just slightly, to where Sicheng's hand hovered protectively at the small of her back. "And him?" he added, voice curling with disdain. "Of all people?"
The rest of the team slowed behind them, tensing in the way only ZGDX could—the kind of tension that said one wrong move and the entire corridor would stop being quiet.
Yao inhaled softly, her fingers curling against her blazer. And then—she straightened. Not much. Just enough to lift her chin. Just enough to look Jian Yang in the eye. "You're upset because I didn't choose you."
Jian Yang's jaw ticked. "You think this is about—"
"I know what this is about." Her voice wasn't loud, but it was steady. "Everyone already knows you tried to date me to get access to my dissertation. To get to my data."
Behind her, Lao Mao muttered something low and sharp. Yue blinked, his jaw setting. The others didn't speak, but their body language made one thing perfectly clear—they had known this part. Yao had told them. And they had not forgotten.
Sicheng didn't move. Didn't need to. He already knew where this was going. He was the only one who knew what was coming next. Because the next words? She had only ever said them to him. But now, her voice dropped, quieter but no less clear.
"What no one else knows," she said, "is that the first time we played OPL together… I beat you."
Silence fell like a stone.
Sicheng didn't blink. Because he had known. He had known since that day in the coffee shop, when she had quietly admitted she had played under two alternate accounts—Smiling and Yuki—and he had realized she was the one who had bested him. And Jian Yang.
But the others?
They froze.
Yue's mouth parted slightly. Ming narrowed his eyes slowly. Pang exhaled through his nose, something sharp and close to satisfaction curling at the edges of his smile.
"She what?" Lao K muttered, barely audible.
Yao didn't flinch. Her voice held, softer now but firm. "You got angry. You said things you shouldn't have. You called me names. And when I refused to help you afterward, you made it very clear that the only reason you were ever interested in me… was because you thought I could make you look better."
Jian Yang took a step forward, expression tightening.
But Sicheng moved. Not with violence. Just stillness. He stepped directly in front of Yao, his hand settling gently at her elbow as he shifted his stance. Not blocking her. But standing beside her. Between her and the past. "She said what needed to be said." His voice was calm, too calm. "So unless you want that loss replayed—this time on stream—walk away."
Jian Yang stared at him.
Sicheng stared back. There was no threat in his voice. He didn't need one. Because Jian Yang wasn't just facing Lu Sicheng, ZGDX's captain. He was facing the man who had chosen her.
And Jian Yang knew it. After a long, bitter pause—he turned. No words. Just a sharp pivot and a stiff walk toward the opposite corridor, his shoulders tight with humiliation. When he was gone, silence lingered.
Yao exhaled quietly, the breath escaping her chest like it had been trapped for years. And without drawing attention to it, Sicheng slid his hand into hers. Not because she needed his protection. But because she had already proved she didn't. She had just needed the space to speak. And now that she had? There wasn't a man in that hallway who didn't know it. Tong Yao didn't need anyone to fight her battles.
But ZGDX?
They would burn the world for her anyway.