The smell of the Great Jing Empire—blood, salt, and ancient dust—slowly fades.
It is replaced by the sharp, synthetic scent of citrus floor cleaner, cheap instant noodles, and the ozone hum of overclocked PCs.
Four years ago. 'Xinghua High School.'
Li Feng wasn't a Prince back then. He was just a boy with a heavy backpack and a father who expected him to be a doctor, even though his chemistry grades were a disaster.
He stood in the hallway, clutching a failed mock exam, feeling the weight of the "Golden Child" expectations crushing his ribs.
"Hey, Captain. Don't stare at the 'F' too long. It'll start staring back."
Li Feng looked up. Han Jue was leaning against a locker, spinning a pencil like a pro.
He was the kid who sold "emergency" snacks during break time and somehow knew exactly which teacher was going to give a pop quiz.
"I'm cooked, Jue," Li Feng muttered. "My dad's gonna kill me."
"Nah," Han Jue grinned, sliding a smuggled bag of spicy strips into Li Feng's hand. "He can't kill a legend. Come on. The big guy is waiting."
They met in the back corner of the "Cyber Cloud" Internet Café, a place where the sunlight never touched and the rules of the school didn't apply.
That's where they found Zhou Yan (Big Cat). He was a mountain of a boy, six-foot-two and built like a truck, but he was currently sobbing over a digital dog that had died in his game.
"He was... he was a good boy," Big Cat sniveled, wiping his nose on a sleeve that was too short for his massive arms.
"He was pixels, Yan," a calm, clinical voice came from the next station.
Su Cheng didn't look like a Marquis. He looked like a nerd who hadn't slept since the middle school entrance exams. He was the only one with straight A's, but he had no friends because he was "too intense."
He spent his lunch breaks calculating the optimal gear stats for Big Cat's character.
"It's about the empathy, Cheng!" Big Cat barked.
"It's about the math," Su Cheng replied without looking up.
Li Feng sat down between them. He was the glue.
He wasn't the smartest (Su Cheng), the richest (Han Jue), or the strongest (Big Cat).
But he was the one who listened. When Big Cat got bullied for his size, Li Feng stood up first. When Han Jue's "business" got him in trouble with the principal, Li Feng took half the blame.
The memory shifts to a rainy Tuesday after school. They were all crammed into a small booth at a noodle shop, sharing two bowls because Han Jue had "reinvested" all their lunch money into a failed crypto-scheme.
"We're losers, aren't we?" Lin Kai asked softly. He was the quietest one—the kid who sat in the back of the class and drew dark, intricate sketches in his notebook. He was the "Ghost" even back then, invisible to the teachers.
"We're not losers," Li Feng said, slamming his chopsticks down. "We're a team. Look, Su Cheng is gonna be a scientist. Han Jue's gonna be a billionaire. Kai's gonna be a famous artist. Big Cat's gonna be... well, a pro gamer."
"And you, Captain?" Big Cat asked, his mouth full of noodles.
Li Feng looked at them—his real family. "I'm just gonna make sure you guys don't end up in jail."
They laughed, a loud, messy sound that drowned out the rain. They didn't care that they weren't the "top tier" of the school.
They had a code: 'No one gets left behind. Not in the game, and not in life.'
The final flashback:
The night of the bus trip.
They were sitting in the back of the bus, the neon lights of the city blurring past the window. Han Jue was bragging about the prize money they'd win at the tournament.
Su Cheng was checking the weather patterns. Lin Kai was sketching a mask in his book—the same mask he now wore as Number Seven.
Big Cat had fallen asleep on Li Feng's shoulder, snoring loudly.
"Hey, Feng," Han Jue whispered, looking out at the dark road. "If we actually win this thing... let's promise. No matter where we go after graduation, we stay a squad. Even if we're on different sides of the world."
Li Feng smiled, closing his eyes. "Different worlds, different lives. It doesn't matter. I'll find you guys."
A second later, the headlights blinded them. The screech of tires. The smell of burning rubber.
Li Feng's last thought wasn't about his grades or his father. It was a desperate prayer: 'Let them be okay. Take me, but let them be okay.'
Present Day:
Back in the dark, cold cabin, Han Jue looks at Big Cat's pale face. He remembers that rainy noodle shop. He remembers the way Big Cat used to protect his "healers" in the game with his digital life.
"You're not dying in a shack, Yan," Han Jue whispers, his voice cracking. "We made a promise."
Outside, the wind howls like a mourning wolf.
The "Captain" is in a palace, the "Nerd" is a scheming Marquis, and the "Ghost" is sharpening a blade.
The squad is broken, scattered across a world that wants them dead. But as Big Cat's hand twitches in his sleep, reaching for a friend who isn't there, the bond of the "12th Grade Losers" proves to be the only thing the Great Jing Empire can't kill.
The luxury of the Marquis's estate felt like a gilded cage. Su Cheng sat at his desk, his fingers twitching.
He wasn't solving quadratic equations anymore; he was balancing a budget for the Imperial Army that didn't add up.
"My Lord, the Emperor's personal eunuch is at the gate."
Su Cheng's heart did a slow, heavy thud. He adjusted his high-collared scholar's robes, the heavy jade pendant against his chest feeling like a lead weight.
Don't panic. It's just an interview with a CEO who can execute you.
'Think, Cheng. Think.'
The walk to the Hall of Eternal Purity was silent. Su Cheng kept his eyes fixed exactly three inches above the floor tiles.
In this world, looking the Emperor in the eye was considered a challenge to his divinity.
The Emperor sat on the raised dais, his presence radiating a cold, suffocating pressure. He didn't look at Su Cheng.
He was busy painting calligraphy on a long scroll, the brush moving with the precision of a surgeon.
"Marquis Su," the Emperor whispered. He didn't stop painting. "I hear the Northern borders are... quiet. Too quiet."
Su Cheng knelt, his forehead nearly touching the cold marble. He had to use the "Identification" to find the right words, filtering his modern thoughts through a thousand years of etiquette.
"The silence is a tribute to Your Majesty's overwhelming virtue," Su Cheng replied. His voice was steady, but his palms were damp against the floor. "The tribes fear the shadow of your banners."
"Virtue," the Emperor spat the word like it was poison. He finally looked up, his eyes sharp and yellowed. "I do not pay you for flattery, Marquis Su. I pay you for your mind. Tell me... why does the Shadow Merchant have more silver in his vaults than my Treasury has in its coffers?"
This was the trap.
"The Merchant is but a scavenger, Your Majesty," Su Cheng said, his brain running a thousand simulations per second. "He gathers the crumbs that fall from your table. However... if the Treasury is lacking, perhaps it is not because the Merchant has too much, but because your 'Ministers' have grown too heavy to carry their own bags of gold."
The Emperor paused, his brush hovering over the paper. A single drop of black ink fell, staining the white silk. A guard stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt.
The silence lasted an eternity. Then, the Emperor smiled—a jagged, terrifying expression.
"You have a sharp tongue, Marquis. See that it doesn't cut your own throat. I want a full audit of the Merchant's holdings. And I want to know why the Crown Prince is so interested in a dying General. Watch him. If my son falters... you are the one who will provide the evidence of his 'instability.'"
Su Cheng's blood turned to ice. He wants me to spy on The Crowned Prince.
"I live only to serve your will," Su Cheng whispered, his voice a hollow echo.
Su Cheng backed out of the presence chamber, his legs feeling like water. He had just been handed a death warrant disguised as a promotion.
He hurried down the white marble steps of the Inner Court, his wide scholar-sleeves snapping in the bitter winter wind.
At the base of the stairs, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew sharp with the scent of leather, horse-sweat, and raw authority.
The Imperial Guard slammed their spear-butts against the ground in a deafening unison.
"Make way for the Crown Prince!"