Dawn - Chapter 4

Early the next morning, I blew a whistle in the courtyard.

The players lined up in slippers, hair wild, yawning their heads off.

Only Jiang Zhi looked at me with bright-eyed energy.

“Coach, what are we training today?”

Two glances at the plan Su Lai had devised for Dawn were all I needed before throwing it in the bin.

I tossed several pairs of running shoes down in front of them.

“Cross-country run first.”

Esports were still sports.

By the end of a match, it came down to stamina.

I didn’t want my players in uneven condition on stage.

Fortunately, the farmhouse restaurant was self-sufficient. The owner took care of all their food, keeping it healthy and nutritious. That was one less thing for me to worry about.

As for their abilities, I had done my research.

I had watched every match replay more than once, including their practice matches back in the youth academy.

Li Xingyao was the main damage dealer.

Jiang Zhi was the sniper.

The team also had two supports.

Their main support, Fang Sui, was a veteran I had played against before.

His style was infuriatingly slippery. Making opponents miserable was his specialty. What had really made him famous in the league back then, though, was his appalling stinginess.

The boy in black-rimmed glasses was Chen Jiamu, the youngest on the team and their off-support.

He played so passively that people once accused him of chanting prayers for his dead teammates instead of helping them. He had been “the Monk” ever since.

That weekend, I swallowed my pride and called in old favors to arrange a scrim.

These days, nobody wanted anything to do with Dawn.

The other teams worried that playing them would serve no training purpose and might even throw off their own form.

Our opponents were a rising team of middling strength. I ordered everyone to give it everything they had.

The result was exactly as expected.

We lost horribly.

It was a one-sided massacre.

The review session was bleak.

The owner sat to one side, watching the latest league interview on a computer.

Si Yao and Su Lai sat shoulder to shoulder, a picture-perfect couple.

The host smiled. “Some people say you’re like Lai’s puppy now. What do you think, Si?”

Si Yao leaned toward the microphone, his obsidian eyes fixed on the camera.

“I’m her sword.”

He looked so full of swagger that the fans below the stage screamed.

At the sound, the owner let out a despairing sigh.

She was thinking about selling the club again.

I walked over and hit the space bar.

The video stopped on Si Yao’s face, looking as if he were starring in a romance drama.

“Now. Two key points.” I turned around. “Fang Sui, come here.”

Hands in his pockets, Fang Sui sauntered over.

“Why are you the main support?” I asked, watching him.

“Seniority.” He shrugged.

True. In terms of experience, the position naturally went to him.

But supplying resources and steadying the team—the main support’s core responsibilities—ran directly counter to his slippery-as-an-eel style.

I pointed to the boy in the corner.

“Starting today, you’re the main support.”

Young as Chen Jiamu was, he played a steady, conservative game.

Putting him on off-support only exposed his lack of flexibility and aggression.

Suddenly promoted, the boy pointed at himself in disbelief.

Changing a key role just before a tournament was extremely risky. He would need time to adapt.

But I had no choice.

As for the second problem, I called Li Xingyao over.

“Why are everyone’s resources going to you?”

That was Su Lai’s strategy.

Three protecting one.

Li Xingyao was playing the current patch’s favorite: a fragile hero with little ability to keep itself alive.

The whole team’s resources had to go toward creating space for him to deal damage.

Refined properly, this composition really could become a sword sharp enough to cleave metal and jade.

The other side of that was its unavoidable fragility. It could snap.

And Dawn, as it stood, was a piece of blunt, rusty scrap iron.

“You’re not playing that hero anymore,” I said firmly. “From today on, practice Shadowblade.”

Shadowblade was a roaming assassin. In terms of strength, it wasn’t a top-tier pick.

In terms of difficulty, it was unquestionably number one.

Even among the best active players, only a handful really understood how to play it.

Kyr had made his name with that hero, winning the year’s MVP award after a godlike performance.

When I plucked Si Yao from the youth academy, I had put him on Shadowblade too.

Now I was asking the same of Li Xingyao.

People online accused me of knowing nothing but how to recreate Kyr’s success.

But Shadowblade’s abilities embodied the game’s underlying logic.

And both Si Yao and Li Xingyao had the potential to master it.

That said, getting players to accept a change was always difficult.

Damage dealers in particular.

Even on a weak team, the main carry was treated like the crown prince.

Switching heroes meant starting from scratch. Nobody liked that.

I leaned against the table, waiting for Li Xingyao to argue, lose his temper, perhaps even slam the door on his way out.

He only stared for two seconds.

Then he scratched his head and nodded, a little dazed.

“Okay. Where do I start?”