Chapter 86: Team Just Landed

Round three started, and they immediately put Amanda’s plan into action.

It was a vast improvement, but their execution wasn’t perfectly tight yet. Piercer peeked a split-second too wide before trying to dip back into cover—click, dropped. Angelo hesitated on his rhythm—click, gone. NightEye tried to trade, but her shoulder was exposed for a frame too long—click, dead.

Three down in seconds.

Just as I swept my cursor toward the last remaining quadrant, total silence hung over the lobby. Amanda hadn’t peeked at all during the chaos. She had remained completely motionless in my dead zone, letting her team draw all my focus.

The exact instant my pistol fired its third shot and my character was locked into the recoil animation, Amanda swung from a tight off-angle and tapped a single, devastating headshot.

VICTORY: ZENITH ESPORTS

"YES!" Amanda shouted, slapping her desk in triumph.

Piercer immediately turned in her chair, glaring at Amanda with an amused scoff. "Wait a minute! You literally used us as live bait! You sacrificed three of us just to catch his recoil window!"

Amanda grinned, adjusting her headset. "Well, I couldn’t exactly call out ’let Piercer die first’ on team comms, could I? Ethan would’ve heard me! A win is a win."

I set my laptop aside, clapping my hands slowly as I sat up in the massage chair. "Good job, Amanda. That’s exactly how you shut down impossible aim. Force the overlap, trade the animation lock, and take the angle."

NightEye let out a tired laugh. "So... boss, are you going to tell us what kind of crazy aim-god training you went through to hit shots like that on a laptop?"

I smirked, turning the laptop screen toward them to reveal the open script console running in the background. "I didn’t. I was using a custom, high-level soft auto-aim script."

The entire room went completely quiet for a second before exploding.

"WHAT?!" Piercer yelled, her jaw dropping. "You were CHEATING?!"

"Are you serious?!" NightEye gasped, clutching her chest. "We were stressing out over an algorithm?!"

"Listen," I said, my voice turning calm and dead serious as they gathered around. "I spent hours analyzing TitanSkell’s championship VODs. When they get pushed into a corner in the dying minutes of a tight match, their aim adjustments become statistically unnatural. I suspect they’re running a subtle, undetectable auto-aim assistance during high-stress clutches."

Amanda’s eyes widened, her competitive playstyle immediately connecting the dots. "Wait... that’s why their late-game retakes always feel so impossible to hold..."

"Exactly," I nodded, looking at all four of them. "I didn’t use auto-aim to beat you. I used it as a simulator. If TitanSkell is using unfair tools on stage, relying on raw mechanical 1v1s against them is suicide. You have to beat them with utility, pack tactics, and forced trade-lines—just like Amanda did on that last round."

Angelo looked at his hands, then up at me, a sharp determination settling over his face. "So... if we can outplay a computer, we can outplay them."

"Precisely," I smirked, leaning back into the massage chair. "Now, load back in. Four days left."

---

Six days flew by in a blur of relentless high-intensity drills, and before we knew it, match day had arrived.

We were cruising at 30,000 feet in Zenith’s ultra-luxurious private jet, flying directly to the host country for the regional tournament. Every single expense—the jet charter, the five-star penthouse suites, the private chefs, and full team logistics—was automatically processed and tacked onto my pending system multiplier, setting up a mind-blowing cashback payout the second the team made their official debut.

Inside the cabin, the vibe was surprisingly loose. Leather recliners, ambient lighting, and fully stocked catering had the squad completely relaxed.

NightEye leaned back in her oversized seat, swirling a glass of sparkling juice as she stared out the window at the clouds. "Honestly, boss... once we win this tournament, you’ve gotta teach me how investment works. I need to make sure I own one of these jets someday."

Angelo, who was casually playing a offline handheld game in the seat across from her, shook his head with a quiet smile. "I don’t know, man. Having this much money sounds comfortable, but it feels like way too much responsibility to manage."

Piercer instantly burst out laughing, throwing a warm pretzel right at his head. "Responsibility my ass! Angelo, go tell that line to my parents and see if they don’t smack you! Money solves ninety-nine percent of life’s problems!"

Amanda chuckled from the front desk, reviewing our draft strategies on her tablet. "She’s not wrong. But right now, the only responsibility we have is stepping onto that stage and destroying TitanSkell."

"Damn straight," Piercer smirked, cracking her knuckles. "Their three-year reign ends today."

I looked around at the four of them. The nervous energy from a week ago was completely gone, replaced by a cold, quiet confidence. They were geared up, rested, and trained to outplay both human pros and subtle algorithms alike.

As the captain announced our final approach to the runway, I locked my tablet and leaned back. The stage was set, and Zenith Esports was about to take over.

We stepped off the plane and were immediately whisked away by a sleek four-car black luxury convoy waiting on the tarmac.

When the vehicles pulled up to the arena’s main entrance, the scene was absolute chaos. Dozens of sports journalists, camera crews, and flashbulbs erupted the moment our doors opened. Press reporters shoved microphones forward, shouting questions about Zenith Esports’ bold debut and Amanda’s viral callout against TitanSkell.

Having handled major business deals before, I walked through the crowd completely unbothered. Amanda, Angelo, and NightEye were wide-eyed, taking it all in and grinning like actual A-list celebrities.

Piercer, on the other hand, was the total exception. She slammed her car door shut, shielding her face from the blinding strobe of a dozen media cameras.

"Ugh, my eyes!" Piercer groaned loudly, rubbing her temples as we pushed through the security line. "Do they really need fifty flashbulbs on full blast?! It’s fucking morning, jeez!"

We all laughed as security ushered us inside, passing through the grand lobby straight to the event control desk. After finishing our team registration and getting our official tournament credentials stamped, a staff coordinator guided us down the private athlete hallway to Zenith Esports’ assigned team room.

The setup inside was top-tier—custom soundproof walls, our official team banners draped over the monitors, and four fully configured tournament-spec PCs ready to go.

"This is where we prep," the coordinator explained. "You can leave all your personal gear, warm-up setups, and extra peripherals in here. When your match is called, you just walk out onto the main stage."

The tournament structure was brutally straightforward: a classic 16-team single-elimination bracket. Lose one single best-of-three series, and you were instantly packed up and sent home.

"Round of 16 starts in two hours," Amanda said, throwing her bag onto the couch and looking around at the squad. "No second chances, no second bracket. Every game is do-or-die."

"Good," Piercer smirked, cracking her wrist as she sat down at her designated rig. "Let’s give these reporters something real to write about."