Chapter 3: If You Won’t Do It, There Are Plenty Who Will!

Jiang Ming’s lips, which had originally curved into a gentle smile, instantly flattened as his tone turned stern. “Who smoked? Didn’t I say the training room is strictly no smoking?”

Norsha, the top laner, paled slightly and hurriedly stood up. “Sorry, Ming, I... I was just a bit tired and wanted to refresh myself.”

“Refresh yourself?”

“Song Yuan, do you think I’m deaf or something?” Jiang Ming slammed his fingers heavily on the yellowed rule board, causing the four red characters "No Smoking" to tremble slightly. The lingering smell of smoke mixed with the aroma of snacks and instant noodles in the damp air, perfectly embodying the chaotic and untamed world of esports in this wild-growth era—where ideals and raw survival coexist inseparably.

“Song Yuan, do you think a 7.5 RMB pack of Red Double Happiness is some kind of magic pill?” He grabbed the cigarette pack and threw it onto the tactical board. “Do you know how many strict regulations the government imposed on internet cafes and esports after the 2002 fire that killed 25 students at a blue-speed internet cafe?”

The top laner’s neck flushed red, and the “Daily Training Schedule” pinned beside the tactical board fluttered down—an Excel 97 spreadsheet Jiang Ming had painstakingly crafted, measuring every last detail down to the minute for last-hit practice.

Damn it, Chinese esports had been brutally stifled for a decade by that 2002 internet cafe arson. If their own team slipped up now, the LPL might never get off the ground.

“One thing—when I pay your salary, you are employees of this team. That means you must strictly abide by all the team’s rules and regulations.”

“If you want to play professionally, then play properly. If not, get out. There are plenty of others who want this chance.”

“Ming, I…”

“No ‘buts.’ Your parents work in a garment factory, stitching clothes, having their fingers pierced by needles three times a day just to make 2,500 yuan. And you sit here typing on a keyboard, earning a steady 1,600 yuan a month.”

Jiang Ming’s words were not empty threats. At the end of 2012, compared to most esports teams still operating out of passion, paying their own rent and scrambling for sponsorships, his team provided players with food, accommodation, and a timely monthly salary of 1,600 yuan. That placed them in the top tier.

A three-legged toad is hard to find; many young players dream of making money playing esports professionally.

He didn’t lecture them with lofty ideals. For these young men, barely out of middle school and scraping by in the world, the threat of being kicked out was far more powerful than any sermon.

---

Listening to Jiang Ming’s reprimand, not only Song Yuan but the other four players shrank their heads in silence. The blue light from the monitors cast soft glows on their youthful faces, while the water dispenser gurgled quietly.

They didn’t understand business cycles; they only knew this basement was warmer than home—at least here they had hot water 24/7, unlike the freezing toilets in shady internet cafes.

“Sorry, Ming, I swear it won’t happen again. I’ll change, please give me one more chance.” Realizing his boss was serious, Song Yuan became desperate.

“Punish me however you want—cut my pay, whatever…”

After a long silence, Jiang Ming sighed. “I forbid you from smoking for your own good. Safety aside, nicotine itself is a stimulant that keeps you alert. If you get addicted now, how will you play when you can’t smoke? Will you retire on the spot?”

Unlike second-generation players like Si Cong, who came into esports just to have fun, Jiang Ming truly intended to make esports the foundation of his rise. So after founding the team, he consciously moved management toward standardization.

Though his resources were far from the fully developed clubs of the future, he was still leagues ahead of most internet cafe teams today.

“No fines or salary cuts today. Instead, you’ll add an extra half-hour of fundamental training. Don’t let this happen again!”

“Okay, okay, Ming! I’ll start solo practice right after this!” Song Yuan was overjoyed and kept thanking him.

Jiang Ming waved his hand. “Enough. Come on, eat first.”

The fried rice they’d ordered before arriving at the training base had been delivered by a helper. Professional players usually trained from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m., and skipping food made their stomachs hurt.

Perhaps because of the earlier scolding for breaking rules, the players ate silently, unlike before when they chatted casually.

“Pass me the training task list.”

Sitting together at the computer desk, eating the six-yuan fried rice from Guizhou Province, Jiang Ming spoke to Pang Ran, the support player.

“Got it, Ming. Today's fundamental training tasks were completed with quality and quantity. The vision placement practice during matches is still ongoing.”

---

Jiang Ming listened while flipping through the pinned task list. Because he had to stream and manage his online store during the day, he entrusted the supervision of fundamental training to the support player but occasionally spot-checked their completion.

The fundamental training in Season 3 was actually quite simple: last hitting and ward placement practice. Mid-game vision control was considered advanced. After all, this was an era when a smile and a hundred last hits in ten minutes earned wild praise.

The last-hitting standards were not high: during laning phase (first ten minutes), passing was about 80 last hits, excellent was over 90, and top-tier was 100 or more.

Players who reached the top-tier standard received a 200 yuan bonus.

...

After finishing their late-night meal and tossing the disposable bowls and chopsticks into the trash, Jiang Ming turned to the five players.

“Our region’s League of Legends professional league, the LPL, is about to be founded. There are only twelve spots in the LPL preseason. Since our team wasn’t formed during the city championship and media selection, we don’t have those four spots. That means we must secure one of the eight spots in the server championship online qualifier.”

“Our first match in the online qualifier is tomorrow at 5 p.m. against the second-ranked team from the War Academy. The remaining time we’ll focus on reviewing vision control, wave management, and rotation support.”

Jiang Ming sat down at a computer and casually opened a replay stored on the D drive, signaling everyone to gather around.

“Professional matches differ from solo queue. Fundamentals, vision, teamwork, and tactical design are all indispensable.”

“Our weakness right now is a lack of five-on-five team coordination practice. So in the server championship, we need to focus on building team chemistry…”

Since the team was founded by himself, a pancake-selling streamer, and lacked fame, they couldn’t find many scrimmage partners, so most problems had to be addressed through replay analysis.

Even so, the five young men in the room stared intently, their eyes burning with a thirst for the professional knowledge Jiang Ming imparted.

No complaints. They remembered the days three months ago, crammed into a VIP room at an internet cafe: five machines, three IDs, dodging the police like moles in stalls during night inspections.