Outside, the interview stage was bursting with excitement. Every now and then, waves of fan screams pierced the air—shouts like “Wind wuaaah!”, “Feng-bao, mommy loves you!”, and “Hubby, when are you streaming again?”—all that teasing chaos only made AQ’s backstage lounge feel even more desolate by contrast.
Inside, it was dead silent. Everyone was as quiet as chickens, the only sounds coming from the faint rustle of items being packed up. Fan Fan stood calmly by the door, supervising the players as they gathered their keyboards, mice, and personal belongings.
While packing up, Wang Yuyi snuck glances at their support and shot-caller.
When the coach wasn’t looking, he nudged Lu Yao with his elbow and whispered, “Hey, it’s just a BO3. No need to be this salty, right?”
Lu Yao, his face black as the bottom of a pot, shot him a glare. His mouth twitched perfunctorily. “Hehe.”
“…Damn, seriously?”
“I’m not mad about losing a regular season match,” Lu Yao rolled his eyes.
“Then what are you mad about? Your face looks like charcoal.”
Lu Yao turned away, not wanting to talk.
Though their voices were low, others still heard them. Zhou Hang frowned, his expression cold. “Yeah, I’d like to know too—who exactly are you pulling that face at?”
Lu Yao froze.
…Who? You really don’t know? No sense of self-awareness at all? Lu Yao found it almost funny—how could the culprit himself have the gall to speak in that tone?
“No one. I’m mad at myself,” Lu Yao sneered. “Mad I couldn’t 1v5 in the final teamfight.”
Zhou Hang’s temper was even worse. He clenched his jaw and glared back, voice flat. “You talking about that teamfight—what’s that supposed to mean? You think we played it wrong? Or that I played it wrong?”
“No, no problem at all. How could you ever be wrong?”
“…”
Anger boiled in Zhou Hang’s chest. He tried to swallow it down, but it burst out anyway. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it straight! Stop being such a passive-aggressive bitch!”
Lu Yao’s own temper flared. His eyes locked on Zhou Hang like burning coals. “Say what? Would anyone listen? You want me to spell it out? I didn’t call you out for chasing Yuna at the end just to save you face, and now you’re throwing it back at me?”
“When the marksman’s dead you still dare chase in? Killed Wind once and now you’re thrilled, huh? Think that makes up for getting crushed all game?”
Lu Yao slammed his mouse and keyboard into his bag with a loud clang, voice sharp as a whip. “What happened to the front line? Their Spear guy got a triple kill! Didn’t I say to focus the Spear first? Did you listen?!”
Zhou Hang’s face twisted with anger. “You don’t know shit! If I didn’t kill Yuna right then, once her cooldowns were back, everyone would’ve died!”
That did it—Lu Yao’s fury erupted like a volcano. “Who the hell’s the shot-caller on this team, me or you?! If I say don’t chase, you don’t chase! Got a better plan, why didn’t you say it then?!”
What shot-caller could tolerate a player telling them “you don’t know shit”? If the final fight’s shot-calling failed, that’s on the commander—but ignoring the commander’s call? That’s blatant insubordination! Most could never stand it, and Lu Yao certainly couldn’t.
Being the only one who disobeys orders doesn’t make you “independent.” It makes you disconnected from the team.
Getting yelled at like that, Zhou Hang’s blood boiled over. He threw his backpack hard onto the floor, the contents crashing with a deafening bang.
“Enough?” Coach Fan Fan’s voice was calm. “You two planning to start a fistfight now?”
Both of them froze, bodies tense with hostility.
Fan Fan’s eyes swept over the pair, then the other players who stood silent as statues. “...When did post-match discussions turn into this kind of circus?”
Post-game reflection had turned into two Buddhas dueling while everyone else held their breath. Fan Fan rubbed his temples; the vein at his temple throbbed painfully.
They’d finished the spring split strong, climbing from the bottom of the league to 13th place on a streak of wins. The atmosphere then had been cheerful, teammates laughing together. Fan Fan had thought the team’s bad habits were behind them.
But with summer split just beginning—after only one BO3—it hit him hard: some flaws don’t go away so easily.
A timid shot-caller like Lu Yao, a stubborn soloist like Zhou Hang, indecisive Wang Yuyi, overaggressive Xu Tianrui, and silent, withdrawn Chen Jing… this team hadn’t changed at all.
We’re still the same team as last season. But our enemies are no longer the same. PNG had already gone far, far ahead. Thinking back to PNG’s past performance compared to today’s, Fan Fan could only sigh deeply. “...Pack up. We’re heading back.”
His heart was heavy.
——
With the match over, players and fans alike began to head home.
PNG had come by team bus. After Sui Ning finished his interview, Chen Chen said a few brief words, and the group naturally left the same way they came.
The esports venue and their base were both in Longhu District, about a 30-minute ride apart. Sui Ning had meant to take a short nap, but Lin Zhaoxu kept letting out weird cack cack cack noises from the back row, giving him a strange sense of foreboding.
Ji Yunyu, sitting beside him, turned to glance over and quietly pulled the curtain tighter. “Can’t sleep? Too bright?”
“…No,” Sui Ning yawned, the corners of his eyes tinged red with drowsiness. “What’s the kid laughing at?”
Ji Yunyu raised a brow, sat up straighter, and turned toward the back. “Hey, kid—your dad’s asking what’s so funny. You sound like a dying duck.”
Lin Zhaoxu was about to snap back, but then his grin widened mischievously. In a sing-song voice, he said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m watching my dad~.”
Ji Yunyu: ?
Sui Ning: ……?
Sui Ning instantly woke up.
He turned too, staring at Lin Zhaoxu in disbelief. “You said you’re watching what?”
“Heeheehehehehe…”
Barely holding back laughter, Lin Zhaoxu covered his mouth like a cackling witch. His free hand, however, was busy forwarding a video link to the PNG group chat. “Sent it to the group! Put on your headphones before you open it, hehe~.”
At the same moment, Sui Ning’s phone buzzed.
…To be honest, he really didn’t want to look.
Facing Lin Zhaoxu’s evil grin, Sui Ning suppressed his unease, forced a serious expression, and—with slightly trembling hands—put on his earphones and clicked the link.
It was a video on Didi Video Net.
[Whoever badmouths Idol Gas Station is my enemy.]
Uploader: Wind’s Little Puppy No. 2150
Sui Ning: …Great. Straight to the point. No need to watch.
“Eh, eh, eh—don’t! You have to watch it!”
Lin Zhaoxu, sharp-eyed, noticed Sui Ning trying to turn off the screen and immediately leaned over the seatback in front of him.
With lightning speed, he tapped the play button for him. “Your fan’s masterpiece—how can you not watch it? You’d be letting them down!”
Sui Ning really wanted to say he’d be just fine letting them down. But before he could, a wailing dirge—so mournful it could have been played at a funeral—pierced through his soul, forcing his eyes toward the screen.
At the center of the frame was a fan wearing a white mourning headband, a lemon doodled right in the middle.
He was dressed in a bright yellow tracksuit with Xu Meng, I Love You embroidered across the chest, holding two lemons like he was the reincarnation of a lemon spirit. But whether intentional or not, his jacket was unzipped slightly—revealing the unmistakable PNG team jersey underneath.
Sui Ning: …That’s not even subtle.
“Recently, so many people online have been badmouthing my Mengmeng, badmouthing Idol Gas Station,” the man began to wail. “How could you?! Have you no heart?! Do you even realize how much psychological trauma your words could cause a twenty-year-old Xu—uh, child?!”
“I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. Every time I see your comments, I cry my eyes out! I can’t believe my favorite idol and show are being attacked by half the internet!”
Still sobbing, he roared, “Half the internet! I just want to ask—does the law even exist anymore, huh?!”
“Luckily, there’s still the other half of the internet, and to you guys I just want to say—”
He sniffled loudly, then bellowed, “Do you guys not fucking have keyboards?!”
[666666]
[LMAO he’s actually on our side]
[Damn, I drew my 40-meter sword but pulled it back at 39, almost went for him]
[ Come on, look closer—the guy’s wearing a PNG team shirt under that lemon suit. The bias is showing, bro.]
[Ah yes, my favorite segment—Mourning for Mengmeng~]
[Mourning? Nah, it’s time for the funeral parade.]
The uploader suddenly switched tone, cutting to a screen recording. “But seriously, guys, roast anyone else if you want, but Idol Gas Station? That’s off-limits. Especially if you’re a PNG fan—anyone who trashes that show, we’ve got beef.”
“Everyone knows Idol Gas Station Season One ended in late April, right?” He began showing clips of Sui Ning’s talent show performances.
[??? Calm down, no need for the raw footage.]
[You’ll get used to it after a while. I’m dying of laughter.]
[During today’s post-match interview, when Xiao Luo asked Wind when he’d perform again, the entire livestream just… went silent hahahaha. I was crying.]
[Same! The look on his face when she asked—pure despair, like: ‘If you want me dead, just do it quickly, no need for this torture.’]
[ Damn, a literary critic. But he’s right!]
[Good thing I put on headphones fast. Otherwise people would think I was watching a horror pig-slaughtering video.]
[Pro tip: no more unedited live singing segments on shows, please. That’s how people die. Hahaha.]
“Now, late April, what was going on then? Mid-season tournament already finished! When did our Feng-bao start tryouts? Early March! When did he sign the contract? Not sure on the exact date, but according to Chen Chen’s post, it was right when the transfer window opened—around April 27th!”
He spoke with righteous conviction. “So honestly, Idol Gas Station did a good thing! A great thing! They eliminated Feng-bao, and that woke him up! Think about it—those shady contracts on that show were insane, and Feng-bao still signed one! Clearly, he really wanted to be a celebrity. But as we all know, maybe—just maybe—he had a slight, tiny… minuscule misunderstanding about where his talents lay.”
[New Concept Word of the Day: “Slight.”]
[Classic “Minuscule”—half HP gone in one hit, one more hit and he’s at 1%. Now it applies to the entertainment industry too, huh?]
[Wait… he’s kinda right though.]
[If he’d kept practicing singing and dancing for the show, he wouldn’t have had time to grind ranked. Which means no national #1, no Fenglan, no Wind… holy crap.]
[I’m Feng-bao’s dog, and now I’m speechless. Turns out that shitty show’s actually my savior.]
[Already thanked Idol Gas Station in their comment section. Still lit a candle, though ^^]
The five-minute-long, half-mocking, half-mourning video had gone viral that day. By the time Sui Ning finished watching, suppressing secondhand embarrassment, the entire PNG team was staring at him.
Sui Ning: …
Everyone struggled not to burst out laughing.
After a long pause, Chen Chen spoke first, covering his grin with a fist. “Your streaming contract’s settled too. The Little Shark platform says they can feature you not just in the gaming category but also—pfft—dance and—hah—music. You could… hahahaha… try streaming there sometimes.”
The room erupted in laughter.
Sui Ning: “…That won’t be necessary.”
Absolutely ridiculous.
Ji Yunyu was still laughing nonstop, until Sui Ning turned his head slightly and gave him a faintly mournful side glance.
Ji Yunyu immediately clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes crinkling with mirth. “I’m not laughing… pfft—not laughing anymore.”
“You’re solo-queuing when we get back.”
“I’m really not laughing anymore.” The boy straightened up instantly, face solemn, posture righteous.
——
Meanwhile, the official Idol Gas Station Season One website comment section had been flooded by a sudden wave of messages.
Comment: The esports world sends its thanks. Thank you, Idol Gas Station
Comment: Thank you, Idol Gas Station
Comment: Thank you, Idol Gas Station
The show’s production team was baffled.
They were prepping for Season Two and thought the first season had somehow gone viral again—but the premium view count hadn’t budged. Only the comments had jumped by tens of thousands.
“What does this even mean?” asked the forty-something director, calling over his young assistant. “Why are netizens suddenly thanking us? And why the candle emojis?”
…Well, because candles are used for memorials. Clearly, this was sarcasm—a mock funeral tribute.
But the assistant couldn’t say that out loud. He just gave an awkward smile and said he didn’t know either.
The director pondered for a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever. Those ‘esports’ people—they play games, right? Our next season’s about gaming too. Maybe they’re our potential audience.”
The assistant nodded quickly, though inwardly he sneered: You don’t even understand basic slang, don’t follow esports news, and just keep trying to chase trends to cash in… No wonder you’re still a small-time director whose shows never blow up—only backfire.
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