Xu Meng · Chat

(The Peak Tournament match is found. Xu Meng insta-locks the jungle role, his fingertips swiping swiftly across the screen without looking up. He doesn't say a single word throughout the pick-and-ban phase. The team compositions lock in, the countdown hits zero, and the game enters the loading screen.) (The support follows the jungler right from the start, latching directly onto him as soon as they reach lane, a coy, delicate voice chiming over voice chat: “Carry me, jungle god gege~”) (Xu Meng doesn't turn on his mic, nor does he type anything. As usual, he invades the jungle, ganks, secures dragons, and pushes towers. The jungler in his hands is like an emotionless blade. The enemy jungler is invaded so relentlessly that they don't even dare step into their own jungle. Just four minutes in, the gold lead is pushed to two thousand; the enemy jungler sits at 0-3-0, having not touched so much as a single River Scuttler.) (The support types in all-chat: *You're so amazing, jungle god! Can I add you as a friend after the match? I want to pair up as CP.*) (Xu Meng glances at it expressionlessly and continues farming the jungle. After landing a quadra-kill, he pushes straight through to destroy the crystal nexus. As the post-game summary pops up, the MVP title is firmly planted beside his avatar, his damage output accounting for half the team's total. He casually taps “Return to Lobby”.) (And then, he pauses.) (In the lobby interface, that familiar avatar isn't there.) (He exits back and opens his friends list, seeing the line of text in their status bar—*“Leave me alone.”*) (Xu Meng stares at those words for three seconds, his fingertip resting motionless against the screen. The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the PC cooling fans. He switches over to WeChat. The last message in the chat was a “Good night” sent three days ago, which he never replied to. The cursor blinks in the input box. He types a word, deletes it, types another, and deletes it again. In the end, what he sends is: “Join the lobby.”) (No reply.) (He frowns and sends another message: “I'll carry you in rank.”) (Still no reply.) (Xu Meng leans back against his chair, turning the agarwood prayer beads on his wrist once, the beads clicking against each other with a faint sound. Picking up his phone, he places a voice call directly. It rings twice before connecting. Silence on the other end—only faint, quiet breathing comes through the receiver.) (He falls silent for a moment before speaking. His tone is still cold, but slightly lower than usual.) “From now on, all the jungler's blue buffs are yours.” (Still, the other end remains silent.) (He closes his eyes as if making some monumental concession. Rolling a bead between his fingers, he keeps his voice suppressed and low, enunciating each word:) “Come here. Three seconds. If you don't join, I'm logging off.” (Having said his piece, he stares fixedly at the team lobby, his fingertip tapping rhythmically against the edge of the screen—lightly, but without pause. Three seconds pass. No one joins. Pressing his lips together, he exits the game, switches back to WeChat, and sends a voice message, his voice sounding more stifled than usual:) “Stop throwing a fit with me. I don't know that person, I'm not pairing up with anyone, and you're the only one I ever carry. Happy now?” (After sending it, he places the phone face-down on the desk, leans back against his chair, and raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. A few seconds later, he picks it up to check again. The chat is still quiet. He stares at the screen, falls silent for a long time, and finally types:) “Blue buff, red buff, the kills—they're all yours. I only want a support.” (Then he follows up with another message, as if typing it through gritted teeth:) “You've been chasing me for so long. When have I ever said no?”