Fernanda wasn’t fazed by his skepticism. If anything, she seemed emboldened. Tilting her chin slightly, she gestured toward the lounge beside her. “Why don’t we step inside and talk about it in detail?”

Inexplicably, Ritchie found himself following her.

It was his first time inside Fernanda’s team’s lounge, and the difference was like night and day. Their lounge was leagues ahead—sleek, polished, and oozing sophistication. By comparison, his team’s lounge felt like a glorified broom closet.

Each team had the freedom to design their space, tailoring it to their members’ preferences for a cozy, inviting vibe.

Judging by the meticulous decor of this lounge, it was clear how much pride Fernanda took in her team.

Ritchie’s team, however, was a different story. Their formation wasn’t driven by passion or strategy, but by a hunger for fame.

Before the competition, someone had pitched the idea to them. They were told that carving out a career in the arts meant building a fanbase, and what better way to do that than by riding the wave of an esports tournament? The team had been cobbled together with popularity in mind, not talent.

Ritchie’s team wasn’t exactly top-tier. Instead, the school selected members based on their looks from among those eligible to compete. Even the substitutes were picked based on their looks first and their skills second.

But Ritchie was different. His gaming skills were top-notch, and he genuinely loved the game. He poured his heart into every match, refusing to phone it in. Yet, despite his passion and skill, he was relegated to being a substitute—not because of his gameplay, but because his looks didn’t measure up to those who were in the spotlight. That sting of injustice gnawed at him badly.

“We have an esports studio,” Fernanda began. “Our goal is to nurture a roster of excellent and charismatic streamers, then groom a team of elite players to compete in the national tournament.”

National tournament! The phrase ignited a spark in Ritchie’s eyes.

For someone who lived and breathed the game, the allure of a national stage was irresistible—a chance to prove his mettle, to make a name for himself.

“So, you’ve already decided to pick me?” Ritchie asked. “If I join, will I be a starter? What about your current players?”

“They’re aging out,” Fernanda replied. “In esports, late twenties is practically old. We need fresh blood.”

“You’re just going to abandon them?”

Fernanda didn’t sugarcoat her answer. “It depends on their performance. If they’re still good enough, they’ll stay. If not, they’ll have to step aside. Skill trumps sentimentality.”

Her bluntness could have seemed cold, but it resonated with Ritchie. She spoke the language of competition—a world where only the best survived.

“Alright,” he said. “But why are you so keen on building an esports studio? What makes you think you’re qualified?”

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