Chapter 3
Chris was once the top prodigy of the national server.
He burst onto the scene at fifteen, famous for his lightning-fast mechanics and unmatched assassin champion skills. People called him "the future top player."
His first team was the powerhouse, Myth.
Everyone thought he would become the next legend.
But after just one season, Myth dropped him because of a nasty wrist injury.
In just half a year, he went from hero to zero.
After that, Chris disappeared from the pro scene—like he'd vanished off the face of the earth.
Some said he went back home, others joked he was washed up and screwing bolts in some electronics factory.
I spent two days pulling every string I could, and finally, I found a clue in a friend's social media post.
It was a photo taken in an internet game club—a blurry figure in the corner, power-leveling for his hirer.
That was Chris.
I followed the address and found the game club, hidden deep in the slums.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke, and the clatter of keyboards mixed with yells and swearing.
I spotted him tucked away in the corner.
He wore a baseball cap pulled low, a washed-out T-shirt, and his eyes were glued to the screen.
His hand was still lightning-fast.
But if one paid attention, one'd notice his right wrist always hesitated and shook a little after every insane play.
That was the aftermath of his old injury.
When the match ended, he secured an easy win for his hirer.
The hirer handed him a hundred bucks and a cigarette. Chris took the cash but turned down the cigarette.
"Thanks, Chris," the hirer said.
Chris didn't say a word. He just nodded, got up, and made his way to the counter for some crackers.
I stepped in front of him.
"Chris," I said.
He looked up, his face lean and all sharp angles, his eyes wary and distant.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Ted Wood."
His eyes flickered—he recognized me.
"Wait, Ted Wood from Spark?"
"Yeah."
He curled his lips into a mocking grin. "Oh, you're that idiot who just won the championship and got dumped by his girlfriend? What do you want? Here to mess with me, too?"
His words were harsh.
But I kept my cool.
I knew those sharp words were just his way of keeping people at arm's length.
"I'm here to ask you to join my new team," I said.
He burst out laughing, like I'd just cracked the funniest joke ever.
Everyone in the game club turned to look at us.
"New team? You mean that hollowed-out Spark squad of yours? Give me a break, Ted. My hand's wrecked, my spirit's gone. I'm out of the pro scene for good," he said.
He sidestepped me and headed for the exit.
"Your hand's not done," I said.
My words stopped him in his tracks.
He spun around, staring at me like I'd just dropped a bomb.
"What did you just say?" he asked.
"I watched you play just now," I said, locking eyes with him. "Your mechanics are still top-tier. The real issue isn't your speed—it's your stamina and the way you're putting force into your plays.
"Whenever you go all out for a series of high-level moves, your wrist takes on too much stress, so you get muscle cramps, and your consistency falls apart after that."
He froze.
His team doc and the rehab guy told him the same thing, but they never bothered to break it down for him.
"I can help you," I said. "I've studied sports rehab science. I've got a set of new training methods and power techniques that can let you keep your speed but minimize the strain on your wrist. Hell, I can even turn your injury into a weapon."
Chris's eyes flickered from sarcasm to surprise, then suspicion.
"Why should I trust you?" he asked.
"Because right now, I've got nothing left. You're all I've got," I said, meeting his gaze. "I need you, Chris. I need your skills, your talent. And you need a shot, a chance to prove to everyone you're still in the game.
"A chance to strike back at everyone who gave up on you, mocked you, and said you were finished."
My words were like a key, unlocking a door in his heart that had been locked away for ages.
The wariness and coldness in his eyes started to melt, replaced by a fire that had been bottled up for far too long.
He was silent for so long that I thought he was going to turn me down.
Finally, he tossed the crackers in the trash.
"Is room and board covered?" he asked.
I smiled. "Of course."
"Alright." He nodded. "Count me in."