The LCS Arena was dead silent.
On the massive LED screen above the stage, the final nail in the coffin was hammered in. The Chinese midlaner for Top Esports, a 17-year-old prodigy known as "GodJ", effortlessly executed a pixel-perfect Azir shuffle, sending the last North American representative crashing out of Worlds 2030. The casters barely had time to react before the Nexus shattered. A clean 3-0. Another year, another humiliation.
"That’s it! That’s it! Another year where NA doesn’t even sniff semis!" Tyler1 was losing his mind on stream. His webcam shook violently as he pointed at the screen. "Mid diff again! Do these FUCKING LOSERS even play the game? Or do they just queue up to spectate?"
"Ah yes, the classic North American experience," Caedrel chimed in on his co-stream, swirling his coffee like he was watching a predictable rom-com. "And people ask why I don’t take NA seriously. This region is playing a different game entirely." He leaned closer, smirking. "It’s just a retirement home for washed-up pros and paycheck stealers."
On social media, the hashtags were trending:
#NALUL
#ImportRegion
#MidDiff
The U.S. Esports Federation had seen enough.
"I’ll be blunt. Our midlaners lack killer instinct."
Yiliang "Doublelift" Peng sat in a government-funded Zoom call, his webcam centered on his unimpressed face. The boardroom in front of him was filled with LCS executives, talent scouts, and even a few U.S. government officials, all watching him expectantly.
"We rely too much on teamwork instead of pure carry potential. When you look at China and Korea, their mids are sharks. They roam relentlessly, they punish mistakes, they take over games. Our guys? They just play to not lose."
One of the executives cleared his throat. "So, what do you suggest?"
Doublelift leaned forward. "We need a program that forges killers."
Someone scoffed. "That sounds ridiculous. We’d need an actual legend to run something like that."
Doublelift smirked. "That’s why we’re bringing in Faker."
The room exploded with murmurs. It was ridiculous. Impossible. But the numbers spoke for themselves. And for $350 million, the greatest League of Legends player of all time was willing to lead the program.
Project Midlock was born.
"Why even try?"
Alex "Caelux" Evans leaned back in his chair, one hand idly spinning his mouse. The game on his monitor played out like a scripted tragedy. College League Nationals Qualifiers. But for him? Just another match. Just another loss.
He was miles ahead of the other nine players in the lobby. His Yasuo was flawless—perfect CS, impossible dodges, highlight-level mechanics. But mechanics didn’t matter when you didn’t care to win.
A teamfight broke out near Baron. His teammates screamed for help.
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He ignored them. Kept split-pushing bot instead.
They died. The enemy team ran down mid.
Defeat.
He took off his headset, staring at the "Defeat" screen like it was a death sentence. In the back of his mind, he saw the cryptocurrency transaction flash across his phone again—the deal he made in a shadowed alleyway of the university.
"It is what it is."
His teammates patted him on the back. The coach forced a smile. "Tough loss. We’ll get ‘em next year."
He wanted to vomit. He didn’t deserve their kindness.
The next day, the world turned on him.
He made his way onto the UCLA campus like any other day—except today wasn’t like any other day. The sun was blindingly bright, the air thick with an early autumn heat, but the real discomfort came from the people. Whispers trailed behind him like ghosts. Students stole glances his way, their eyes flickering with recognition, some with amusement, others with disgust. A girl visibly cringed as he passed, whispering something to her friend. The weight of their judgment pressed against his shoulders as he reached his locker.
He opened it. A dead mouse dropped onto his feet.
The professor was droning on about something irrelevant—history, or something just as distant from what mattered. The classroom was a dimly lit, windowless box, the artificial glow of flickering fluorescent lights casting an almost sickly tint onto the students' faces. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of overused cologne and the faint musk of coffee-fueled exhaustion.
No one cared. Heads lolled to the side, arms folded on desks as makeshift pillows, and a few brave students had already surrendered to sleep. Others pretended to listen while their eyes betrayed them, flicking between their notes and their phones.
Alex was no different. He opened his laptop, the glow of the screen reflected in his eyes as he scrolled through social media—volume muted, movement kept slow and deliberate so that it remained inconspicuous. But what awaited him was far worse than a boring lecture. Flooded with hate.
"LMAO ‘Caelux’ more like Sellux. This dude threw harder than TSM’s entire history."
"Yasuo IRL. Absolute lost cause."
"Dude’s got 100 CS lead and still loses? Mid diff in his own team."
Even the enemy midlaner, Ethan "Zephyr" Hayes, had something to say in a post-game interview.
"He was really talented," Zephyr said with a fake smile. "Maybe he was just having a bad day. Who knows?"
Liar.
Everyone knew the truth. Alex Evans was a fraud.
The hospital was quiet.
His mother smiled at him, weak but warm. "How’s school, Alex?"
"It’s fine."
"And your team?"
He forced a chuckle. "We didn’t make it."
She frowned. "Oh, honey, I’m sorry."
"It is what it is."
"And… the hospital bills?"
He waved it off. "Paid. You don’t need to worry about it."
She reached for his hand. "You always take care of me. But who takes care of you?"
He didn’t answer.
His room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of his monitor. The air was thick with the stagnant chill of an overworked AC, set too low to ward off the creeping cold of the night. His Victory screen still burned on the monitor, Yasuo standing atop a pile of defeated enemies. The room was oddly orderly for a League of Legends player—a neatly made bed with an SKT1 jersey draped over the headboard, empty cans of energy drinks lined up like fallen soldiers on his desk. The silence was deafening, save for the muted hum of his PC fan, a lone machine whirring in the dark.
A champion. A winner. A god on the Rift.
His jaw was clenched. His eyes burned with pure, unfiltered rage. His knuckles were white against his desk. His entire body shook, not with excitement—but with fury.
“How dare those peasants look down on me?!?!?”
A notification blinked in his inbox.
Project Midlock Invitation – URGENT.
Alex clicked the email, his breathing steadying. He read through the content and smirked.
For the first time in a long time, he felt something other than guilt. He felt purpose.
And he was ready to kill for it.