Chapter Five: The Powerhouse

Yu Zhe was clearly taken aback and reflexively asked, “Are you talking to me?”

He couldn’t even remember the last time a classmate had invited him out to play, so his first reaction was that he had misheard, or perhaps Zhao Zejun had misspoken.

Because of his family circumstances, Yu Zhe was more mature and sensitive than his peers. He was not oblivious to the malice around him, but he lacked the ability to handle it properly, relying instead on money.

Friendship cost money, but money alone could never buy real friends. Yu Zhe quickly fell into a vicious cycle—the more he spent, the less his classmates valued him, which left him feeling even more aggrieved, so he spent even more...

“Hey, what are you spacing out for? Of course I’m talking to you. Is there anyone else around?” Zhao Zejun looked at him, puzzled.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go, I’ll go! Oh, by the way, I’m not very good—will that be a problem?”

Zhao Zejun laughed heartily. “You’re not good? That’s perfect, I’m terrible too. They never let me play with them. This way, we can figure out how to play together.”

“I mean, I’m really, really bad…”

“You talk too much. Are you coming or not? If not, I’ll find someone else,” Zhao Zejun said impatiently.

Yu Zhe nodded quickly, stumbling over his words, “I’ll go, I’ll go. I’ll pay for everything—drinks, internet fees. Oh, do you smoke?”

It turned out Yu Zhe smoked as well. When they arrived at Storm Internet Café, he immediately asked the owner, Elephant, for a pack of Chunghwa cigarettes. Zhao Zejun stopped him and ordered a pack of the Marlboros he used to smoke in his last life.

Before Yu Zhe could insist on paying, Zhao Zejun handed twenty yuan to Elephant, opened the pack, and offered Yu Zhe a cigarette. “Try a foreign brand. I’ll pay for the smokes, you cover the internet.”

Elephant glanced at Zhao Zejun in surprise. Zhao Zejun was a regular at Storm, but he either didn’t smoke or bought the cheapest brand, Hongmei, at four yuan a pack, and often just bought singles at one yuan for four sticks.

Why was he suddenly being so generous today, splurging on imported cigarettes?

He didn’t ask further, just gave them seven yuan in change with a smile and set them up at their computers.

After ten minutes of playing, Zhao Zejun realized two things.

First, appearances could be deceiving. Yu Zhe usually seemed meek and pitiful, but he was absolutely a seasoned smoker. Foreign cigarettes were stronger and harsher than domestic ones, and most casual smokers couldn’t handle them. But Yu Zhe squinted as he puffed, cigarette dangling from his lips, exhaling smoke like a locomotive, blowing rings whenever he was in a good mood—more adept than Jiang Xuan, who’d been smoking since thirteen.

Such skill didn’t come without long “practice.” Clearly, Yu Zhe’s parents doted on him to an astonishing degree.

Second, Yu Zhe’s CS skills weren’t just bad—they were abysmal, hopelessly so.

The moment he entered the match, he became a different person, face flushed with excitement, wildly spraying bullets everywhere.

Most people play CS to hit enemies, but Yu Zhe seemed to play just to vent—whether he hit anything didn’t matter.

Ratatatat—an entire AK magazine was wasted, leaving a T-shaped pattern of bullet holes on the wall.

Zhao Zejun’s character stood there, unmoving, still with over 70% health. Zhao Zejun himself was stunned. I stood here as a sitting duck and you still missed?

“Trying to run? I’ll get you! I’ll get you!” Yu Zhe shouted, thinking himself quite fierce, switching to his pistol and emptying it at Zhao Zejun, who was already hiding behind a wall, not realizing that the terrorist’s pistol couldn’t shoot through walls.

Zhao Zejun almost burst out laughing. CS had been out for nearly two years—how could anyone still be this bad?

No wonder his classmates never included him. It wasn’t just that they looked down on him; playing with such a newbie was no fun at all. Plus, Yu Zhe seemed to go berserk as soon as the game started—like someone with a manic disorder.

Clumsy and cocky… No wonder…

But Zhao Zejun wanted exactly this kind of Yu Zhe. If this kid had been sharp like Jiang Xuan, Zhao Zejun would have had a much harder time making his move!

He found it amusing, but his expression remained serious. Instead, he shouted in frustration, “Damn, you’re too good! I’m coming for you!”

With his exaggerated acting and Yu Zhe’s terrible aim, eventually Zhao Zejun’s character fell after another magazine was wasted.

“Yes!” Yu Zhe slapped the keyboard hard, scattering ash everywhere. People nearby turned to look at this lunatic.

Zhao Zejun hit the TAB key to check the scores: Yu Zhe had won twenty-two times and lost twenty, slightly ahead.

“Haha, that was awesome! Zhao Zejun, your skills are terrible. You can’t even beat me!”

“Damn it, I don’t believe it! I’m only two games behind. Let’s switch maps and go again!” Zhao Zejun protested.

Another fierce battle ensued, and more than an hour flew by in no time.

Playing with Yu Zhe was a technical challenge.

Zhao Zejun couldn’t play at his true level; otherwise, he’d overwhelm Yu Zhe, who would lose interest if the skill gap was too great. On the other hand, he couldn’t let Yu Zhe sense that he was holding back—that would be even less satisfying.

This wasn’t just playing a game; it was a performance.

Produced by Zhao Zejun, written by Zhao Zejun, directed by Zhao Zejun, and starring Zhao Zejun—all roles in one!

No looks required—just acting skills.

Over the next hour, they switched through three maps, with Zhao Zejun skillfully controlling the flow. The scores were always close, rising in tandem. Yu Zhe maintained a slight lead in victories, but Zhao Zejun was never far behind, always threatening to catch up. Yu Zhe had to give his all to maintain his slim advantage, relying on a bit of “luck.”

Of course, all that “luck” came from Zhao Zejun.

Every round was a struggle for Yu Zhe, often coming down to the wire, surviving with just a sliver of health to defeat Zhao Zejun, or running out of bullets and resorting to knife fights—this happened again and again.

The closer the matches, the more excited Yu Zhe became, his eyes burning with intensity. He stared at the screen, oblivious to the ash accumulating on his clothes, occasionally letting out manic shouts.

Zhao Zejun played while observing Yu Zhe, very satisfied with his reactions.

In his previous life, he’d played countless games, from early mobile classics like Snake to massive online games, to the simple browser and mobile games popular before his “transmigration.” With over a decade of experience, he knew exactly what gamers craved most.

Two things: urgency and a sense of achievement.

The more evenly matched the game, the greater the sense of urgency. Only then does a player become fully invested. If the gap is too large, they lose motivation and interest.

The whole point of creating urgency is to win—to feel accomplished!

Victory after a hard-fought battle, especially when won by a hair’s breadth, brings a far greater sense of accomplishment than an easy win.

In class, every minute dragged on, but time in the internet café flew by. Soon it was six-thirty. Senior year students could relax occasionally, but playing too long was out of line—there was still homework to do. Zhao Zejun took the initiative to quit the game.

He couldn’t let Yu Zhe have his fill all at once; it was better to leave him wanting more. If he wasn’t satisfied this time, he’d look forward to the next.

Yu Zhe was still wanting more, rubbing his neck, sore from staring at the screen so long. “Wow, that was amazing! I’ve never had so much fun playing before. Zhao Zejun, I think your skills are actually pretty good—you were so close to catching up to me. If you’d had a bit more luck, you might have won a few rounds!”

Zhao Zejun was amused. This guy had been repressed for so long—give him a taste of victory and he’s over the moon, shamelessly boasting.

Good—that’s exactly what I want! The happier you are now, the happier I’ll be in the future.

When everyone’s happy, that’s true happiness!

Zhao Zejun was secretly pleased, but outwardly he wore a disgruntled expression. “No way, today’s loss was too frustrating. I was so close! Tomorrow, we’ll play again!”

“Deal!” Yu Zhe nodded so vigorously he wrenched his neck.

Yu Zhe paid for the internet and two cans of cola. The cola cost six yuan—one more than the internet.

This time, Zhao Zejun didn’t insist on paying. In the early stages of their acquaintance, he wanted Yu Zhe to feel like they were equals.

Having grown up in an official’s household, Yu Zhe was far more sensitive than other boys his age. Before, they’d barely exchanged greetings, and if Zhao Zejun suddenly became overly attentive, Yu Zhe might become suspicious—too much too soon would backfire.

But someone like Yu Zhe also had an arrogant streak. If he always paid, he wouldn’t care about the money, but over time, he’d start to see Zhao Zejun as a lackey, maybe even look down on him, making it awkward to ask for favors later.

Cater to his tastes—neither servile nor overbearing, close yet distant.

It worked equally well on men and women, and Zhao Zejun understood this perfectly.