Against the Algorithm

Chapter 43: Off-Script

And then—

A loud knock interrupted the moment, sharp and precise.

" Cheng! " Ming's voice rang through the door, muffled but unmistakably annoyed. "Move your ass, let's go! We've got five minutes!"

Sicheng let out a slow breath, his gaze never leaving hers. "Of course," he muttered, voice flat and dry, "he would be the one to ruin the moment."

Yao blinked, still breathless, then let out a nervous little laugh that died the moment he leaned in again—not to kiss her, but to press his forehead to hers, just long enough for her to feel the weight of his intent settle over her like a vow.

"I'll win this for you," he whispered, the low promise slipping across her lips like heat. "Watch me." And then he stepped back—slow, reluctant, but steady. His hand brushed along hers for the briefest moment before he turned, the edge of that dangerous calm sliding back into place as he walked toward the door, his voice sharp and clear now. "I'm coming, Ming. Keep your headset on and your mouth shut."

The door opened.

Then closed behind him.

Leaving Yao standing in the lounge, fingers brushing her lips, her heart pounding far too loud for anyone to hear but her.

The stage lights roared to life, flooding the arena in a sea of electric blue and steel white as the opening round of ZGDX versus FNC launched with the thunder of the crowd behind it. The casters barely had time to introduce the match before the atmosphere shifted—something sharp and undeniable laced into the rhythm of ZGDX's movement, something cold, calculated, and utterly ruthless.

From the first second, it was clear there would be no warm-up phase. There was no pacing, no playing safe. Only intent.

And at the center of it all sat Lu Sicheng, his amber eyes like ice on fire beneath the visor of his headset, his fingers gliding across the keyboard and mouse with the kind of precision born of pure focus and unresolved fury. Because Hang Suk had run his mouth. Because Kun Hyeok had stirred the pot. Because his Bunny—his—had flushed and whispered Baobei in a voice that still echoed like a spark in the back of his mind.

And now?

Now Hang Suk was going to suffer for all of it.

Mid-lane was a slaughter, Ming covering it with no effort. Lao K and Lao Mao played with brutal synergy, each gank perfectly timed, every trap executed with surgical efficiency. Pang's timing as support was merciless, landing hard crowd-control setups that left no room for retreat.

And Sicheng—

Sicheng didn't play like he was looking for a win. He played like he was hunting. Every time Hang Suk tried to press forward, Sicheng tore through the map like a blade in water, punishing every misstep, tracking every rotation, and forcing FNC to retreat before they even had time to group.

By the ten-minute mark, the score was 12–1 in favor of ZGDX.

By fifteen, it was 19–3.

And when the twentieth minute passed with a full team wipe against FNC just outside their inhibitor turret, the crowd exploded, the casters shouting breathlessly over the roar.

"Z–G–D–X is relentless today! This is not just control—they're dismantling FNC, piece by piece!"

Backstage, in the team lounge, Yao sat still in her seat, eyes fixed on the monitor, not speaking, barely blinking. She knew her team. She knew their rhythm. But what she was seeing now wasn't just strategy—it was fury, discipline, and punishment disguised in perfect form.