Trash talk? Please. Anyone can throw out a few bold lines—but when you're staring down your opponent, surrounded by a room full of strangers, it's all about holding your ground.
"Howie" (a.k.a. the loudest guy in the entire internet café) was not going to back down. He puffed up his chest, voice booming like a megaphone across the smoky rows of monitors. "You think I'm scared of you clowns? Bring it on!"
Naturally, with a commotion like that, heads turned. The place wasn't exactly the quiet reading room of a library—gamer drama wasn't new—but Howie's volume and swagger were like catnip to bored players looking for a distraction.
A few onlookers swiveled in their chairs, some even abandoned their games, crowding toward the commotion.
"Whoa, is this a duel to settle some real-life beef?" someone snickered.
"Looks like it. CS match? Damn, these guys must be pros. Let's see if they're all bark or can actually shoot."
Once the crowd formed, backing out was no longer an option. Pride was on the line. In this world, there was no greater humiliation than talking big and losing in front of an audience. The rules of engagement were unspoken, but understood: if you're going to puff your chest, you'd better be ready to shoot your way out.
Then came the challenge.
"Alright, Fatty," drawled Lu Xiqing with a lazy smirk, arms crossed as he leaned against a wall. "Guess we're not walking away from this one quietly. But what's a match without a little wager?"
He raised a brow. "Here's the deal. I'll set up the room. No ganging up, no cheap tricks—just straight-up one-on-one. You beat all of us, I get down on my knees, knock my forehead on the floor, and call you Grandpa. Sound good?"
He paused, let the crowd murmur.
"But if you lose… even one round… you do the same. On your knees, loud and proud: 'Grandpa Lu.' Deal?"
People gasped, then immediately broke into laughter, a few even egging them on. You could feel the tension thickening like smog.
Doug Feng—cool as ever—stepped in, narrowing his eyes. "Hold up. That sounds fair on the surface, but think about it. It's four rounds, right? Even if it's 1v1 each time, if he loses once, he loses the whole bet. They're getting four shots at him. That's not a duel. That's a firing squad."
Lu Xiqing didn't flinch. He chuckled, wagging a finger. "Smart guy. Alright, fine. Fatty gets three lives. Beat all four of us before you lose those three, you win. Happy now?"
Howie rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. "Deal. You'd better start practicing how to say 'Grandpa Howie' with feeling."
With that, he sat down, adjusted his headset, and placed one meaty hand on the keyboard, the other gripping the mouse like a hammer. His confidence was palpable.
Lu Xiqing waved over his weakest player to go first. The game room was created: de_dust2, a classic. Both players loaded in. They bought their gear. Then it was on.
"Think I'm some noob you can sneak up on?" Howie muttered, hunched forward, sweat already glistening on his forehead.
He stalked the map, crouch-walking like a seasoned vet, listening intently.
Tat-tat-tat!
Gunfire burst behind him. Reflexively, he spun around—just in time. The guy had tried to flank him but hadn't expected Howie to be hiding behind a corner. A few shots grazed him, but it was nothing fatal.
"You trying to sneak me?" Howie barked, blood pumping. "Wrong move!"
He raised his AK, burst-fired.
Boom. Headshot.
The spectators roared. A clean kill.
"Damn, didn't expect that," one player muttered, impressed.
Lu Xiqing's lips curled into a cold smile. "One down."
Howie leaned back, smug as ever. "You see that, Doug? That's skill. That's experience. That's—"
"Careful," Doug warned, arms crossed. "I don't like the way Xiqing's smiling. Something's off."
"Oh, please," Howie scoffed. "What are they gonna do—use hacks in front of a whole crowd?"
Second round.
This time, the opponent didn't engage head-on. Instead, he danced around the map, popping in and out of cover, wasting time, drawing Howie into a prolonged cat-and-mouse game.
"Quit running, coward!" Howie growled, chasing him down.
Ten minutes of frustrating pursuit later, after whittling away at the guy's health with repeated bursts, Howie finally got the second kill.
"Two for two, baby!" he shouted, wiping sweat from his temple and grinning at the crowd. "Next! Come on, don't be shy!"
A few spectators whistled.
"Not bad."
"Dude's got solid movement."
"Bet he plays every day."
Lu Xiqing wasn't fazed. He leaned toward his teammate—an older-looking guy with a shadowed face under a duckbill cap. He was quiet. Focused. Dangerous.
"You get the pattern?" Lu asked.
"Yeah," the man murmured, eyes locked on the screen. "He's got rhythm, but nothing unpredictable. Read him like a book."
"Good. Time to break his streak."
Hat Guy adjusted his cap, cracked his knuckles, and logged in.
Same map. Same setup. But everything else changed.
Howie did his usual: map sweep, cover hop, searching for movement.
Bam.
Headshot.
The screen went red before he even saw the enemy.
"WHAT?!" Howie sat bolt upright, mouth open.
The crowd gasped. Even Doug's eyes narrowed.
"Damn… clean headshot," someone muttered.
Another whispered, "That guy's not just good. He's scary."
Lu Xiqing chuckled and held up one finger. "One life gone, my guy."
Howie wiped his brow with his sleeve and downed half a bottle of water. "Fluke," he growled. "Pure luck."
Round two. Last life.
Same map.
Same outcome.
Bam. Another one-tap headshot. Before he could even react.
The café erupted. Some players whistled. Others just stared, wide-eyed.
Lu Xiqing gave Howie a patronizing smile. "Still haven't faced me yet, and you've already used up two lives. Feeling lucky, Fatty?"
Howie clenched his fists.
This wasn't just about a match anymore. This was war.
(To be continued…)