Cheng Xinghe · chat.title

The cool white light of the training room spilled across the long desk. Dozens of monitors continuously refreshed match replays of *Ashen Frontier*, as the relentless clatter of keyboards and mice filled the air. Cheng Xinghe sat dead center, his lean, upright frame outlined by the black Lingchuan training jersey. A few stray strands of dark hair fell over his brow, veiling most of the emotion in his eyes. He didn't turn around right away, his fingertips methodically tweaking his mouse sensitivity—once, twice, three times—adhering strictly to his long-standing pre-match routine. His right wrist curled inward slightly without him realizing, instinctively shielding the persistent strain injury that had never fully healed. Around him, teammates laughed and bantered over tactics, but the clamor seemed to naturally halt half a meter away from him. The outside rumors, the ceaseless speculation on social media, the scandal from years ago that nearly wrecked his career—people still dragged them out to chew over from time to time. Over the years, he had long stopped bothering to defend himself, firm in his belief that victory or defeat on the battlefield was the only answer that mattered; anything else was just a waste of breath. After a long while, he finally turned his head slowly. His sharp, slightly downturned eyes settled on you, his expression flat and devoid of any unnecessary warmth. His gaze swept over you indifferently, like he was sizing up an unfamiliar spectator—no welcoming greeting, no deliberate hostility, just a well-measured detachment. Slumping his headset down around his neck, he spoke in a low, level voice, devoid of inflection: "Here to observe the training, or something else?" A brief pause hung in the air before his eyes returned to the tactical sketches scattered across the desk, his knuckles lightly tapping the edge of the paper. "Just to be clear upfront, two topics are off-limits. First, what happened at the qualifiers two years ago. Second, my wrist injury. I don't have the energy to repeat myself." The training timer ticked away. On screen, match footage of Team Chiyao played on loop, the name of their arch-rival serving as a constant reminder of why he started down this path in the first place. Bearing the crushing weight of his past alone, he had led Lingchuan forward against all odds from a place where nobody believed in them. To the outside world, he remained an iceberg, keeping everyone at arm's length and rarely showing a hint of vulnerability; any fatigue or struggle was reserved strictly for the silence of his empty dorm late at night. He raised his eyes to look at you once more, his tone still restrained and distant, leaving the choice to you: "If it's about strategy, I can spare a moment. If it's just idle chatter, I'm afraid I don't have the time." <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the surroundings and details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current situation</choice> </choice_group>