Chapter Eight: Life Is Like a Game of Chess
Time flew by, and Zhao Zejun and Yu Zhe’s relationship had already progressed from drinking buddies to confidants. Only the final push remained—to create an opportunity for Yu Zhe to be asked for help.
It was the weekend again. Yu Zhe invited Zhao Zejun for another round of Counter-Strike. Zhao Zejun said he had something to do at home that night and needed to leave early; Storm Internet Café was too far. So they picked a shady little spot not far from Zhao’s house.
Inside, a few unruly young men were in the middle of a Counter-Strike LAN battle. “Still want to play on the blood map?” Yu Zhe asked.
Zhao Zejun thought for a moment. “One-on-one is getting dull. Let’s try the LAN room.”
“Alright, it gets boring always beating you anyway,” Yu Zhe boasted.
“Come on, I’ve been letting you win,” Zhao Zejun replied with a smile.
After so many lies, even when Zhao Zejun told the truth, Yu Zhe didn’t believe him. He just shot Zhao a look of disdain and flipped him off.
“No, seriously, I’ve been letting you win!” Zhao Zejun protested with mock grievance.
“Fine, fine, let’s say you have. Happy now?”
There was only one game room open on the LAN. Yu Zhe joined first, Zhao Zejun right behind him, both choosing the terrorist side.
After a month of dueling with Zhao Zejun, Yu Zhe’s skills had indeed improved. Tonight, luck seemed especially on his side; in no time, he’d climbed to first place.
But Yu Zhe had a flaw—when he got cocky, he forgot himself. While playing CS with Zhao Zejun, if he lost, he swore; if he won, he’d slap the keyboard and shout, sometimes even taunt Zhao Zejun.
Everyone in the game room was from the same internet café, including those little punks. At first, Yu Zhe kept his arrogance in check, but after winning more than twenty rounds, his old habits resurfaced.
Every time he killed an opponent’s character, he’d make a show of gunning down the body—a classic act of disrespect in Counter-Strike.
Getting killed was nothing, but to desecrate a body was an insult.
Ironically, it was Zhao Zejun who had taught him this trick. From their very first day gaming together, Zhao Zejun had deliberately encouraged Yu Zhe to adopt this “fun habit.” The worse someone’s skills, the more they enjoyed this, and Yu Zhe was a textbook example. Soon, he was hooked, thinking it made him look cool.
Gradually, the atmosphere in the café shifted. A few yellow-haired punks began casting cold glances at Yu Zhe.
In the next room, Jiang Xuan was half-concealed in a hoodie, playing games and chatting on QQ.
On QQ, Zhao Zejun’s icon was lit up.
…
The final step of the plan was the ruse of self-sacrifice.
Zhao Zejun had brought Yu Zhe to a café where they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew, and nudged him into the LAN room for CS.
Those punks in the café were all followers of Jiang Xuan from tech school; Jiang had already told them to let Yu Zhe win.
Everything else would follow naturally: Yu Zhe would play CS with the punks, get cocky after his victory and insult them, angering them enough that they’d drag him out “for a talk.” Zhao Zejun would play the loyal friend, stepping in to protect Yu Zhe—and get a thorough beating for his trouble.
The key was that Zhao had to take a real, heavy beating, even if it meant missing his final exams because of his injuries. Yu Zhe would be grateful, guilty, and feel indebted.
Zhao Zejun hadn’t told Jiang Xuan why he wanted to “trouble” this classmate, and Jiang hadn’t asked. They only discussed the details.
To make it convincing, the punks believed Jiang Xuan wanted to set up Yu Zhe. None of them knew Zhao Zejun was “one of us,” and they wouldn’t hold back—Zhao was about to take a real beating.
Of course, there was no danger to his life. Jiang Xuan had chosen these guys carefully; seasoned street fighters who knew when to stop.
The planned extent of Zhao’s injuries: bleeding and swelling, but no broken bones or facial disfigurement.
Jiang Xuan himself would remain out of sight, seated in another room, commanding the operation over QQ and waiting for Zhao’s signal. He was also the insurance policy—if something went wrong and the punks got too rough, Jiang would swoop in and save the day.
All of this had been plotted by Zhao Zejun during a sleepless, stormy night. To get the bureau director’s son to go all out for him, he’d set up a chain of interlocking traps.
Smoke and mirrors, sneaking through the back door, a ruse of self-injury—one ruse after another, nearly two months of careful effort and his entire fortune invested for this moment: to get a solid beating.
All for the internet café license, Zhao Zejun was going all in.
He’d rehearsed the plan countless times; he was over ninety percent sure of success.
Seeing the moment had come, Zhao Zejun opened Jiang Xuan’s QQ chat and quickly typed “ok.”
Letting the cursor hover over the send button, Zhao Zejun took a final look at Yu Zhe.
Good and evil are unseen by others, but known to heaven. In all honesty, Zhao Zejun felt some guilt toward Yu Zhe. This was emotional deception, after all.
Only sincerity wins sincerity. Yu Zhe was genuinely kind to Zhao Zejun, and Zhao was not entirely insincere in return.
After spending some time together, Zhao Zejun felt that, despite his many flaws, Yu Zhe had no serious moral failings. He might not become a diehard friend like Jiang Xuan, but he was a good friend nonetheless.
If the chance arose, Zhao Zejun would find a way to help Yu Zhe. He had so much foreknowledge that just a few hints would be enough for Yu Zhe to benefit greatly, perhaps even to rise to fame.
But for now, nothing mattered more than securing the internet café license and seizing his first bucket of gold.
In his previous life, his mother would soon be laid off, his father toiling away at odd teaching jobs, and next summer, with the demolition looming, his parents had spent two fearful months in an abandoned, waterless, powerless building for the sake of an extra twenty thousand yuan in compensation.
He absolutely could not let those things happen again!
“Zejun, would you say we’re good brothers?” Suddenly, Yu Zhe turned and, in a rare moment of seriousness, asked Zhao Zejun as if he had something on his mind.
Zhao Zejun froze. His first thought was, Had Yu Zhe figured something out?
He casually closed the chat window and nodded calmly. “Of course, we’re brothers. If you need anything, just say so—I’ll do my best to help.”
Yu Zhe was silent for a while before finally saying, “I haven’t told anyone else about this—don’t tell a soul, okay?”
“Alright. What is it?” Zhao Zejun asked.
Yu Zhe quickly typed a web address into the browser.
The screen jumped to a website. As the page finished loading, Zhao Zejun’s eyes lit up.
Huh?!
Yu Zhe explained, “This is a novel website, called Sword-Washing Alliance. It’s not traditional fiction or anything by Jin Yong or Gu Long. Anyone can register an account and publish their own novels here—write whatever you want, however you want. The site has hundreds of thousands of readers waiting every day…”
Afraid Zhao Zejun wouldn’t understand, Yu Zhe rambled on with an explanation about “online novels.”
Zhao Zejun said nothing.
Who knew more about online novels and their philosophy than Zhao Zejun, who had traveled back from 2016?
Sword-Washing Alliance was the very first online fiction portal in the country, the oldest major Chinese web novel site. Before Qidian was founded, Sword-Washing Alliance had firmly held the industry’s top spot, ranking in the top hundred Chinese websites on Alexa.
It wasn’t until the emergence of Qidian—implementing a paid model, fostering a cadre of top writers and a loyal readership, and professionalizing the web novel industry—that Sword-Washing Alliance gradually faded into the background.
In 2001, Qidian didn’t yet exist. Aspiring writers’ first choice was Sword-Washing Alliance, formed from a merger of several smaller novel sites.
“I’ve been writing on Sword-Washing off and on for more than a year now,” Yu Zhe said gloomily, scratching his head. “I’ve written over three hundred thousand words, but hardly anyone reads it!”