Chi Zhan added the words “tournament video” at the end of the search bar. A moment later, a video titled “Seven Championship” popped up.
He clicked on it.
He had expected it to jump straight into in-game footage, but the video opened with a burst of loud voices and frenzied screaming. The frame was shaking, jostled in a sea of heads, before it suddenly lifted.
A team of boys sat in front of their computers, brows tightly furrowed—clearly a high-stakes match.
The camera panned too quickly, eventually settling on the young man seated at the center.
His pupils reflected the glow of the screen, pale and distant. He was murmuring quietly into his headset, his expression calm and indifferent, like snow that never melted atop a mountain peak.
The light from the screen outlined his striking features, his lashes dusted in a silvery hue. His slender, defined fingers moved with practiced precision across the keyboard—his motions almost imperceptible.
Then everything changed. The tide of the game turned rapidly, and in the blink of an eye, the crowd erupted—cheering, screaming. The enemy team was about to be crushed by a decisive blow. And at the very moment WT seized victory, the young man’s expression didn’t waver.
As if timed to perfection, just before the video ended, the man lifted his gaze and glanced toward the camera—almost absently.
His eyes, no longer lit by the screen, turned an inky black. A solitary beauty mark beneath one eye was revealed as he turned his head.
It was like watching an iceberg crash into the sea—uncontainable, inevitable, seeping straight into the viewer’s heart.
Oh, and one more keyword…
[Seven’s beauty mark killed me.]
Chi Zhan was dead.
Next payday… he—he still wanted to be Seven’s number-one supporter.
After binging every available recording of Seven deep into the night, Secretary Chi finally made the fatal mistake every overworked office worker has made at least once. And he swore with all his might: Never again would he stay up all night on his phone.
Yawning nonstop, Chi Zhan squeezed in a couple of eye drops, then checked his reflection. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t too obvious—thank heavens.
“Chi-ge, I’ve finished drafting the meeting minutes.” Jiang Yi came bounding over to his desk, brimming with enthusiasm. “Can you help me deliver them to President Zhou?”
He seemed full of energy today. Apparently, last night’s drinking hadn’t affected him one bit. That said, Zhou Yanxing’s behavior at the party had clearly killed Jiang Yi’s interest in pursuing him as a target. Instead, he’d been sticking to Chi Zhan more and more.
Chi Zhan nodded, not reacting to the more intimate nickname. “Just email them to me.”
“Chi-ge, you’re the best.” Jiang Yi looked deeply moved. He lowered his voice and grumbled, “Is Demon King Zhou going through menopause or something lately? Why does he snap at everything? Should we make him some herbal tea to cool his temper? I’ve got a great recipe…”
Chi Zhan offered a gentle, diplomatic answer. “Maybe things have just been a bit hectic lately. President Zhou isn’t usually like this.”
“Come on!” Jiang Yi huffed. “He was clearly messing with you today—making you redo his coffee over and over. One moment it was too bitter, the next too sweet. If he weren’t a romance target, I’d already—”
Chi Zhan cleared his throat twice.
Only then did Jiang Yi realize, trailing off. But his eyes lit up a second later, and with a bashful smile, he asked, “Chi-ge, are you free for lunch?”
“No. I mean, yes. I don’t have plans. Why?” Chi Zhan thought he was about to ask for Zhou Yanxing’s schedule. “President Zhou isn’t—”
“Great!” Jiang Yi blurted out, practically glowing. He grabbed Chi Zhan’s hand. “Let’s eat together! I know this amazing place!”
Chi Zhan was genuinely stunned. Just as he was trying to figure out Jiang Yi’s intentions, he suddenly felt a chill creep down his spine—like someone was staring daggers into his back. And sure enough, three seconds later—
“Secretary Chi, come in for a moment.”
“And the intern next to you—come in as well.”
The two of them looked like elementary schoolers being singled out by the headmaster. They exchanged a glance. Chi Zhan sighed and whispered, “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
Something was definitely off with Zhou Yanxing today. Cold as ice, irritable over every little thing. He’d made Chi Zhan remake his coffee six times, and the morning meeting had been a complete disaster. Tensions were sky-high. The marketing director had even misread a decimal point and reported that their annual KPI had been overachieved by two decimal places.
But Chi Zhan couldn’t figure out why.
Business was booming. Young Master Bai didn’t cause any drama today. Maybe Zhou Yanxing got bitten by a dog during his morning run?
Zhou Yanxing turned around, leaning back against his desk with arms crossed. His face was stone cold, eyes sharp and probing.
Jiang Yi stood ramrod straight—clearly scared stiff.
Chi Zhan said, “President Zhou, Xiao Jiang has finished the meeting summary. I’ll forward it to you shortly.”
Meaning: We really weren’t slacking off, you don’t have to hover.
Zhou Yanxing’s tone was cool and dispassionate. “And what were you doing during the meeting?”
Chi Zhan froze a little.
He’d been… just a bit too sleepy. Couldn’t help but doze off.
Only for about five minutes.
Zhou Yanxing had noticed?
Shit. Another reason for him to fire Chi Zhan.
Would the system step in to protect him?
Thoughts spiraling, Chi Zhan opened his mouth, ready to own up—only for Jiang Yi to interject indignantly, “I was writing the meeting minutes. What’s the problem?”
Now, technically, an intern like Jiang Yi shouldn’t be speaking to the all-powerful CEO like that. But Jiang Yi was no ordinary intern.
He was a player, with more power than even the president.
If he got mad and decided to tear this whole building down, Zhou Yanxing wouldn’t be able to stop him.
Zhou Yanxing asked, “Then why were you staring at Secretary Chi? Is there something written on his face?”
If he’d said anything else, Jiang Yi might’ve gone nuclear. But that question weirdly deflated him.
“I wasn’t looking!” he grumbled. “And how would you know if I was unless you were looking too?”
Zhou Yanxing gave them both a tongue-lashing. Only after Jiang Yi promised, all meek and well-behaved, that he wouldn’t “stare” again, did Zhou finally let him go.
Jiang Yi had been seconds away from blowing up. But then he remembered—if he threw a fit, Zhou Yanxing would flip his shit too, and Chi Zhan might get fired as collateral damage.
And then who would he hang out with?
