Alan sat in the dim glow of his monitor, the rhythmic hum of his computer, the quiet clicks of players in games—it all felt distant. His focus was locked on the system’s interface, the glowing text reflecting in his determined eyes.
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System Dashboard:
Name: Alan Zhong
Age: 18
Role: Mid Lane
Overall Rating: 46 (+1)
Template: Caps
Hard Skills:
- Farming: 40
- Lane Pressure: 42
- Roaming: 52
- Split Push: 55
- Team Fights: 50
- Situational Awareness: 54
- Picks: 54
- Micro Mechanics: 43 (+1)
Soft Skills:
- Communication: 50
- Macro Play: 52
- Leadership: 49 (+1)
- Mental Resilience: 47
- Aggression: 54
- Creativity: 49
- Adaptation: 54
- Clutch: 57 (+1)
Badges:
Kassa-win (Bronze): Upon reaching level 16 on Kassadin, improves clutch by 5 points.
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The stats stared back at him, an unyielding mirror of his potential and his flaws. Alan leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. For all his triumphs in the past two games, the numbers told a story he didn’t want to read.
“Mental Resilience: 47,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing. The number felt personal, like an insult buried in cold data.
He clicked on the stat, and a brief description appeared:
Mental Resilience:
Your ability to remain composed under pressure, recover from setbacks, and maintain focus in high-stakes scenarios.
Alan exhaled sharply. He didn’t need the explanation to tell him what he already knew. The memories came rushing back—rage-quitting scrims, throwing games after a single mistake, letting frustration spiral into apathy. In his first life, he’d been crushed by the weight of his own expectations. He’d built a wall around himself, isolating his talent from the team around him. And in the end, that wall had crumbled.
“If I want to surpass Faker, this can’t stay my Achilles’ heel,” he whispered.
His gaze shifted to another stat: Leadership. At 49, it was slightly above average, but nothing remarkable. Yet the word carried a gravity that Alan couldn’t ignore. He clicked on it, and another description appeared:
Leadership:
Your ability to inspire teammates, make decisive calls, and maintain team cohesion during adversity.
Alan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Caps’ influence,” he murmured. “That guy could rally a team out of nowhere.”
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Caps’ legendary moments flashed in his mind: daring Baron calls when the team was behind, pushing unconventional picks that no one else would have dared to try, and lifting the spirits of teammates after brutal losses. Caps wasn’t just a player—he was a force of nature, someone who made the people around him believe in the impossible.
“Is that what I need to be?” Alan wondered aloud. “Not just the best, but the one everyone else can lean on?”
For so long, Alan had been laser-focused on his own performance. In 2025, he’d carried games solo when he could, silently blaming his teammates when he couldn’t. But now, the path to becoming the GOAT felt clearer. It wasn’t just about skill; it was about legacy. And legacy was built with more than solo kills.
The interface pulsed faintly as Alan navigated deeper into the system. A new menu glowed, its text crisp and inviting:
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Potential Features Unlocked:
- Dynamic Skill Growth: Skills improve with practice, critical moments, and consistent performance.
- Badge System: Special conditions unlock badges that amplify specific traits or skills.
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Alan’s eyes landed on Dynamic Skill Growth. He clicked it, reading the brief explanation:
Dynamic Skill Growth:
Skills are not static. They will evolve as you rise to challenges, demonstrate mastery, and overcome adversity.
Alan felt a strange thrill course through him. It wasn’t just about numbers ticking up after wins. It was about proving himself, growing through every critical play and every mistake. He recalled the Liquid match, when he’d called the mid-game engage after noticing Orianna’s ultimate was down. That decision hadn’t felt like luck, it had been something sharper, clearer. The system had nudged him, honing his situational awareness, and when the play succeeded, his Clutch and Leadership stats had ticked upward.
“This system isn’t here to carry me,” Alan realized. “It’s here to push me.”
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His gaze shifted to the Kassa-win badge.
Kassa-win (Bronze):
Upon reaching level 16 on Kassadin, improves clutch by 5 points.
It seemed so simple, but Alan couldn’t help but smile. Kassadin was the perfect metaphor for his journey: weak early, nearly unplayable if left unsupported. But if nurtured, Kassadin became an unstoppable force, a late-game terror.
“That’s me,” Alan whispered, his voice resolute. “Weak early, scaling late.”
His confidence swelled as he stared at the interface. For all its cryptic messages and glowing numbers, the system was giving him something no one else in this timeline had—a roadmap to greatness. The rest was up to him.
Alan leaned forward, his voice low but steady. “System,” he said aloud, as if speaking directly to the glowing dashboard, “You’ve shown me the path, but I’m not stopping at Caps. You better be ready for me to break this game.”
The system flickered faintly, almost like it was acknowledging the challenge.
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Alan closed the interface, letting the weight of the stats fade from his mind. He shifted his focus back to the Discord call, where the voices of his teammates filled the air.
“Yo, Alan, you good?” Balls asked. “You’ve been quiet.”
Alan smirked, his confidence bleeding through his tone. “I’m great. Let’s keep this win streak going.”
Balls laughed, his voice light. “That’s what I like to hear. Next match in ten.”
Alan muted his mic, letting the buzz of the café settle around him. The glow of his monitor reflected his calm but burning resolve. The system, the stats, the badges—they were tools. The real journey was still ahead.
Alan clenched his fists, his thoughts razor-sharp. “Faker,” he whispered, his voice carrying a promise, “You’ve dominated this game long enough. It’s my turn now.”
As the café lights flickered, signaling closing time, Alan didn’t move. His focus was absolute. This wasn’t just about numbers on a screen. It was about becoming the kind of player the game had never seen.