Lü Xiqing leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, a smug smile plastered on his face.
"Damn it! I'm going all in!" Howie roared.
But before he could even catch a glimpse of his opponent's shadow—boom, headshot. The screen grayed out. Again.
He stared at the screen in disbelief. What kind of cursed death was that?
"Wait a sec—no way, is that… F-Da?" someone gasped behind them.
"F-Da? You mean the F-Da, one of the top ten players who repped our province in the national CS tournament? Placed eighth nationwide?"
"Yeah, that F-Da! I read online he was from Zhicheng, but I always thought it was a rumor. Who knew I'd actually see him in this tiny internet café!"
The room erupted in murmurs and low whistles. Everyone's gaze shifted toward the unassuming guy in the duckbill cap at Lü Xiqing's side.
F-Da—short for "Fighter Da"—wasn't just any gamer. He was one of China's top-tier CS legends. Counter-Strike, a global first-person shooter phenomenon, had its heyday when entire internet cafés would link up for LAN battles. In those days, being good at CS was practically divine. And F-Da? He was a god among men.
This was a man who had mastered the nuances of pixel-perfect shooting, reaction times under 0.2 seconds, and bunny-hopped like he had springs in his shoes. He wasn't just good—he was surgical.
"Yup," Lü Xiqing said proudly, no longer hiding the ace up his sleeve. "He's one of China's three Sniper Gods. You're lucky to even die by his hand."
Howie gulped. His palms were sweaty. He'd watched F-Da's highlight reels before—watched him singlehandedly carry squads, flick-shotting enemies from across maps like it was second nature.
But pride kept him standing. "Tch. Just some sneak attack artist. You've got skills? Come face me one-on-one!"
Was he bluffing? Totally. Did he care? Not one bit.
Truth was, if Howie wasn't his opponent today, he'd probably be begging F-Da to take him as an apprentice.
Lü Xiqing smirked. "Only one life left, fat boy. Want to waste it too? Honestly, just give up. You really think you can beat F-Da? Be a good boy, crawl over, and call me Grandpa."
With Howie's earlier bravado fading fast, Lü Xiqing let out a triumphant laugh. "Damn, this feels so good."
"Piss off!" Howie spat to the side, rubbing his palms on his jeans. The mouse trembled in his grip—he couldn't tell if it was fear or adrenaline.
"Look at Lü Xiqing acting all high and mighty," someone muttered from the crowd. "No wonder he's so cocky—he's got a national champ watching his back."
"Yeah, Howie's screwed. That F-Da guy is cracked. Even if he had ten lives, he wouldn't last a second."
In the corner, Doug Feng sat silently, watching the scene unfold, his fingers tapping on the desk. A part of him burned with frustration.
Then it clicked.
"Wait… I've got the Favorability System!"
He snapped open the invisible interface only visible to him. Thousands of items, skills, and upgrades flooded the screen. Most were locked—unavailable until his favorability with someone reached a higher tier. Only a few were lit up.
5 Favor Points Options:
Basic Physical Enhancement (C-rank)
Basic Intelligence Enhancement (C-rank)
Basic Memory Boost
Doug scoffed. "Useless. Intelligence boost is still active, and the physical one's on cooldown."
He scrolled further.
10 Favor Points Options:
Basic Cooking Skill
Basic Driving Skill
Basic Martial Arts Skill
Basic Gaming Skill
His eyes lit up.
"That's it. Basic Gaming Skill. With this, I'll become a true gamer… Even F-Da won't know what hit him!"
Without hesitation, Doug cashed in 10 favor points.
Boom.
A flood of knowledge crashed into his brain. Gaming mechanics, muscle memory patterns, map layouts, optimal loadouts, peeking strategies, recoil control… from early retro games all the way to bleeding-edge competitive FPS titles. His body jerked slightly, like a system rebooting under massive data input.
Doug gritted his teeth and endured the surge.
"Hey, Howie," he said, steadying himself.
"Huh?"
Doug placed a firm hand on Howie's shoulder. "Let me take this last round."
Howie blinked. "You?"
He turned, giving Doug a look somewhere between pity and disbelief. "Buddy, no offense, but you're worse than me. Letting you play? I might as well surrender and save myself the humiliation."
"Yo, yo, what's this?" Lü Xiqing sneered, perking up from his chair. "Doug Feng, isn't it? You wanna jump in? Fine. Saves me the trouble of crushing you later anyway."
He stood up, voice booming across the café.
"This is a grudge match between me and Fatty Howie. But since you're itching to be a hero, I'll kill two losers with one bullet!"
The crowd hooted.
"Ohhh snap!"
"Doug Feng's gonna regret this…"
"Man's about to speedrun humiliation!"
But Doug didn't flinch. His eyes were calm, his hand already adjusting the sensitivity on the mouse like a seasoned pro.
"Alright then," Lü Xiqing sneered. "If you lose, same deal—you kneel and call me Grandpa. Publicly."
He turned to the room. "Everyone, bear witness! If anyone chickens out after losing, don't let them walk out of this café!"
"Hell yeah!"
"Honor among gamers!"
"We'll back that!"
The room was now buzzing. Lü Xiqing, feeling on top of the world, tossed two red bills at the counter. "Hey, NetOp, drinks on me! Everyone gets a can of Wong Lo Kat!"
Cheers erupted.
As the match lobby loaded, Doug cracked his knuckles. His screen lit up with familiar terrain—the infamous Dust2 map.
One round. One chance.
F-Da, cool as ever, adjusted his headset. He hadn't spoken once since arriving, but his presence alone was oppressive.
But Doug's gaze didn't waver.
For the first time, he didn't feel like he was just a spectator in someone else's highlight reel.
This time, he was the main character.