You Are Nothing but a Loser

Looks like the Oriental Leaf's intel isn't all that great either.

Who would've thought the Shouxin Society had already gone underground? That kind of scheme is clearly no small matter.

"So we're going up against the Super Youth Corps?"

"Not exactly."

Song Junhe shook his head. "We're not targeting the Super Youth Corps. What we're targeting is this rotten-to-the-core system. You've seen what the Peninsula is like now—the people on top are kneeling to hand the Americans knives, then turning around and holding those knives to their own people's throats. The North is screaming for war day and night..."

He paused.

"And China to the west is watching with hungry eyes, while Japan to the east is sharpening its blades. If we don't take our fate into our own hands, sooner or later we'll be devoured as pawns on someone else's chessboard."

Lin Mo said nothing, but his expression was perfectly calibrated—three parts wavering, seven parts weighing the matter.

Song Junhe saw his hesitation and didn't push for an answer on the spot.

"No rush. Think it over." He opened the car door. "Get in. Didn't I say I'd treat you to a meal? Let's eat first."

"Look how thin you are. Did you even skip dinner last night?"

Song Junhe's warmth was so enthusiastic it almost felt like he was hitting on him.

Lin Mo rolled his eyes, opened the passenger door, and got in.

The car engine started, and they merged onto the main road.

Song Junhe drove for a bit, then suddenly spoke up.

"Oh, by the way, how much is your inn per night?"

"Seven thousand."

"...Does that include breakfast?"

"Seven thousand, and you think it comes with breakfast?"

Song Junhe paused for two seconds, then stepped on the gas.

"Fine, dinner's on me. Consider it compensation from the Tianle Group on my part."

--System: Sometimes I genuinely wonder if the host will develop a split personality, acting like this all the time--

That night, at the executive lounge.

The lighting was dimmed low, jazz floated from the corner, and the bartender was wiping a glass behind the counter with great focus, as if that glass owed him money.

Lin Mo sat with a glass of pure fruit juice, while Oriental Leaf leaned against a pillar in the distance, sipping grape juice.

And sitting across from Lin Mo was Chen Zhiyuan.

The competition was, strictly speaking, already over. All that remained was waiting for the scores to be announced.

Chen Zhiyuan had come alone—no teammates, no coach, just his mouth and a glass of whiskey.

Whiskey after whiskey, he drank savagely: no water, no ice, just tipped his head back and downed it.

His face was already flushed red, even down to the roots of his neck.

Lin Mo didn't speak. He just watched him drink, occasionally sipping his own juice.

The juice was sweet—orange flavored.

Finally, Chen Zhiyuan slammed his glass down on the table, though the glass and thick wooden surface barely made a sound.

"I really envy you, Lin Mo."

Chen Zhiyuan had changed his nationality, but his native language was still the same.

"With talent like yours, you get real backing from the mainland."

The mainland.

Those two words slipped out of his mouth, and even he froze for a second.

He meant China, but that term... he no longer really had the right to use it.

"You could have had that too," Lin Mo said. "You just chose to leave."

"Bullshit!"

Chen Zhiyuan's head shot up, his eyes bloodshot—whether from the alcohol or the emotion, it was hard to tell.

"I had no connections. Over there, I was invisible. But when I went to the States, everything changed—Ivy League professors tutored me one-on-one, my scholarships grew every year. Do you know what that feels like?"

"So what?"

Lin Mo took a sip of juice. Sweet and sour, that's me.

"The States are great!"

Chen Zhiyuan's voice rose sharply. He was clearly pumped up.

Even as people in the lounge turned to look at him, he didn't care.

"The moment you join them, the money comes, the resources come. When I first got there, they set me up in a house—a standalone one, lawn in the front, pool in the back. Exactly like the ones I saw in movies as a kid!"

He stopped mid-sentence.

Then his eyes went red.

"You know what?" He lowered his head, his voice muffled in his chest. "I grew up in a forty-square-meter apartment. Five people in my family. My brother and I shared a bed. I did my homework on the dinner table, and my mom had to move my notebooks aside just so we could eat.

"In winter, the heating was never warm enough, so my mom would drape her cotton coat over my blanket..."

He wiped his face hard with the back of his hand.

"But look at me now—I have everything. Everything!"

Lin Mo watched him, saying nothing.

Zealot's fervor. That phrase came to mind with precision.

Chen Zhiyuan was the type who'd gained real, tangible benefits—a house, money, resources—so his fervor at least had a foundation.

Unlike that one donut-maker, who was already raving mad without having gotten a single real advantage. That was pure spiritual self-congratulation.

"What are you really trying to say?" Lin Mo set down his juice glass.

Chen Zhiyuan stared at Lin Mo, his drunken eyes struggling to focus.

"You're better than me. Way better than me. Your ceiling isn't something a place like China can contain. Join the States—they'll give you everything! Money, fame, a house, a car, women. Name your price."

Lin Mo almost laughed out loud.

That recruiting pitch was way too crude.

By all rights, his name should've been on the Divine Eye Bureau's watchlist by now.

Never mind recruiting him—even making contact with him would require extreme caution.

And they sent a drunk Chen Zhiyuan?

Or maybe this was just the American team's own scheme, and the Divine Eye Bureau didn't even know about it.

Possible. But it didn't matter.

"All that stuff you mentioned."

Lin Mo tilted his head. "I can have all of it staying in China."

The drunkenness in Chen Zhiyuan's eyes dulled slightly at those words.

He shook his head—shook it hard, his whole upper body swaying with it.

"It's different. The States have the most advanced technology in the world. What does China have? A backward country. All they do is make knockoffs—copy stuff and claim they invented it. Chips, patents—it's all stolen. The whole world knows it."

He said this in Chinese. The irony was that this entire belittling narrative about China was itself lifted from English-language internet forums. In a sense, it was also a form of piracy.

Lin Mo smiled.

Not a polite smile—the kind that sent a chill down someone's spine.

"Well, your precious States sure are tolerant."

Lin Mo took a sip from his juice glass and said, unhurriedly, "That guy making knockoff chips? He's still hiding out in America right now, and you all haven't thrown him out. You took him in without a second thought."

He paused, set the glass back down, and fixed his gaze on Chen Zhiyuan's face.

"Then again, it makes sense. Guys like you, the failures—you're all in America too. America is the fantasyland for losers like you.

"Really, though, it's just a shelter. Before you walk in, you think it's paradise. After you walk in, you realize you're just a tool.

"The only difference is, some tools still work, and some are already rusted."

The last sentence had no fancy rhetoric—it was just a statement of fact. But it hit harder than any insult.