Chapter One: Where Dreams Begin

"Come, come!"
"Viewers in the stream, follow my Iron Man combo closely—remember, you must open the sequence with a whiffed Q. Give your opponent the false joy of dodging your key skill, but in our 5A-level combo, Q isn’t the main thing."
"And always remember, it’s about weaving auto attacks with basic attacks—auto-attack cancels the end lag of the basic attack, and the basic attack cancels the end lag of the auto. The mantra is: if you can’t hit with A, cast Q; if you can’t hit with Q, cast E; if you can’t hit with E, unleash R; if you’re losing, press W. Never whiff your W—if you miss it, you’re done for. And when you combo during R, never, ever mess up your autos."
"Q-flash, R-flash, flash-auto—if you’re not a pro, don’t bother learning those. And always use your health potions while you’re still alive."

On a certain streaming platform.
Luo Ji was chattering away on voice chat while slowly controlling Iron Man to trade blows with Fiora. Under the stunned gaze of over a thousand viewers, the level-three Fiora danced all about the screen, but in the end, she still died to the plain and simple iron club.
There was nothing she could do.
The Hero of the Club always has a special effect against female champions—be it the toxic club or the flaming club.
First blood!
First kill secured.

[666666]
[Streamer, weaving autos with basics is too technical. Is there a simpler, stronger trick?]
[Coach, I always forget the sequence of autos and basics—what should I do?]
[Now here’s a question: what if my Iron Man gets zoned out of XP range by Yuumi at level one?]

Though the stream didn’t have many viewers, the chat was lively. As a rookie in the League of Legends category, Luo Ji’s streaming schedule was perfectly pragmatic.
He never streamed at night.
He couldn’t outwork those desperate grinders who streamed all night for money, so he picked mornings instead. The audience was smaller, but he could scoop up points from the all-nighters!
Besides, the League section was short of morning streamers anyway.
With his relentless Iron Man pick, he’d lost count of how many dazed top-lane points he’d farmed.

"Iron Man getting zoned by Yuumi?"
Luo Ji took a deep breath as he read the chat, and said seriously, "Honestly, your first priority should be evolving into a primate. Playing Iron Man against Yuumi is a bit advanced for you right now."
The whole stream erupted with laughter.
Seeing the flood of messages, Luo Ji couldn’t help but sigh inwardly.
Damn it.
With his streaming talent, if you dropped him into the S6–S8 era, he’d have made it big. But ending up at the tail end of S10—what was the point?

Yes.
Luo Ji, eighteen years old, an outstanding graduate of Public Restroom College, whose graduation ceremony was a sudden urge to pee—he entered the toilet, and when he came out, he’d inexplicably traveled to 2020. Gloriously admitted to the Orphanage for Transmigrators, he started with a massive deposit of five thousand silver coins, and then… nothing else.
Well, at least he had some money—not enough to end up on the streets.

After that, he started earning by playing as a substitute in internet cafés.
Due to lack of fame, he didn’t earn much, so he joined a youth training camp for free room and board. As luck would have it, he was scouted by EDG, who took him in, fed and housed him, and paid him ten thousand a month. Occasionally, he’d sub for LDL matches—a journey that had already taken over a year.

As for rising with EDG?
He wasn’t that lucky.
Just a week before this very stream, EDG had won the S11 World Championship. Unless the EDG boss lost his mind, the roster would stay as it was for at least another year to milk the fame, and he wasn’t even a substitute for the main team because their substitutes made at least twenty grand.

Now, he had to worry about his next move.
Still, it wasn’t so bad.
He couldn’t join a top team, but fish-tier teams would accept him easily.
Players from EDG were always in demand—even little-known youth trainees. If the club gave him a hand, becoming the main top-laner for a lower-tier team for tens of thousands a month was easy. After all, EDG’s history once included recruiting an Arena of Valor coach for OMG’s League division.

And he was a top-laner.
As a transmigrator, he hadn’t awakened any so-called system. The only change was that, after being reborn younger, his League talent seemed ridiculously enhanced.
When others heard a ‘ding’, their champion mastery maxed out.
If he heard a ‘ding’, it was probably, "You have a new food delivery order."

His reason for picking top-lane was simple.
Having traveled back from S15, Luo Ji knew exactly what the LPL would be like in the next few years.
Jungle was a flavor-of-the-month mess—one meta, one god, and you might be out of a job. Mid-lane was full of old-timers with no chance for new faces. ADC was a constant chaos of criticism and blame. Support was possible, but too reliant on stage experience.
So, top-lane was the best bet—few standout top-laners in the LPL, and those with ability would always get chances—especially since, if he remembered right, S12 TES would shuffle their top-lane searching for an "impostor," turning it into a circus.
And he had one distinct advantage over other LPL top-laners:
—He was extremely handsome!

—

After all, early risers feasted on the points of all-nighters. Even with a zero-skill 5A Iron Man, he easily dominated the top lane and set the pace for his team.
Having won the game, Luo Ji stretched and reached for a cold soda from the fridge.
With sugar, of course.
To him, drinking sugar-free cola for comfort was as pointless as taking safety precautions in an adult animation—utterly redundant.

It was nearly noon, and he had just ended his stream.
Streaming followed the unwritten rules of the big names—who streamed at what time was tacitly understood. He wasn’t strong enough to ignore those rules.

“Beep beep beep~”
Just then, his QQ notification popped up. Glancing at the flashing icon, he saw a familiar ID blinking repeatedly.

[Not an Otaku: So, found a team during transfer season, or are you staying another year with me?]
[Not a Wife-Lover: Got tryouts from a few fish-tier teams, haven’t gone yet. Stay? Let the old dog step aside for me?]
[Not an Otaku: Get lost, man! I just won the championship—time to cash in.]
[Not a Wife-Lover: Then what do you want?]

Not an Otaku.
Behind that account was none other than the S11 championship top-laner, the only Chinese top to win Worlds—The Gunner. The reason they knew each other was simple: same club, and Luo Ji had life experience from his past life. They could talk about anything, both were into anime, neither put on airs, and they clicked instantly.

It was a good thing for Luo Ji to get along with The Gunner.
For a whole year, his rapid improvement was thanks to the man’s selfless guidance. Everything but the championship prize money had been shared—a truly good guy.

Of course, he couldn’t stay.
As a transmigrator, he might not know stocks or real estate, but he knew a few big trends—rubles, gold, and the coming AI boom. He wasn’t lacking in direction, just original capital.
Being a substitute was fine, but being the main player was much more lucrative.
He was racing against time now—the more he accumulated early, the more he could earn later.

[Not an Otaku: Really not staying? I can let you touch my trophy.]
[Not a Wife-Lover: Disgusting. Why not let me breathe in your championship aura?]
[Not an Otaku: Not impossible.]
[Not a Wife-Lover: Get lost!]

On the other end, The Gunner scratched his head, grinning from ear to ear.
This youth trainee was the most like-minded top-laner he’d met in his entire career—neither proud nor shy, but genuinely a buddy. They talked about everything, practiced together, and even after losing a solo, Luo Ji never got upset. He didn’t seem to covet the main spot.
It was as if he knew he’d never replace him.
A strange guy.
But also a monster.

After a year of practicing together, The Gunner knew deep down that, aside from lacking stage experience, Luo Ji was already extraordinarily polished. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gotten so many tryout invites.

[Not an Otaku: If you’re not in a hurry, you can wait a bit before deciding.]
[Not a Wife-Lover: What, you planning to step down?]
[Not an Otaku: Think again. I just want to give you a big surprise. If it works out, be ready to treat me to a feast.]
[Not a Wife-Lover: A big surprise? Don’t let it end up just being the first two words.]

After a brief chat, they left it at that.
He’d never counted on this so-called big surprise. The only reason he hadn’t rushed to tryouts was to see if any better offers would come in.
People are fickle creatures.
If you respond to an invitation immediately, they’ll think you’re cheap. A bit of hesitation is the last dignity a regular person can give themselves—otherwise, why would Zhuge Liang insist on three visits before leaving his cottage?

Finishing his drink,
he sat back at his computer and queued for ranked.
Streaming time was limited, but if he wanted to earn big as a pro, training time was unlimited. Talent mattered, but so did hard work.
Even if it was for money,
since he’d traveled to this world, he had to change something, right?

...

The next morning,
Luo Ji, still waiting for offers, didn’t rush to set out. Instead, he opened his stream again. With Worlds over, no All-Star event, and Demacia Cup yet to arrive, streams had little to offer viewers. For streamers, it was golden time.

—

By the end of S11, the streaming platforms were saturated. Few new streamers could break out.
Unless you put on a "skin."
And if you got popular, maybe you could debut again in TX’s virtual circle for a limited Qingming event—but that wasn’t his style.
Still…
Though he didn’t have a skin, he’d managed to carve out a niche using memes that wouldn’t become popular for a few more years—like this 5A Iron Man.

[Here we go!]
[I live longer than the streamer—if you’re live, that means it’s time for me to go to bed.]
[Sleep? If you sleep now, that’s just staying up late—it’s bad for your health. I suggest you hold on until noon. That counts as an all-nighter. Experts haven’t said all-nighters are harmful.]
[We’re counting on you for breakfast entertainment—what crazy stuff are you planning today?]

"Today?"
"Today, I’ll teach you some real tips for climbing the ranks, so you stop saying I never teach anything useful."
"This account isn’t high-ranked—just an orphan-peak, master-tier account."
Luo Ji bantered with the chat while logging into another of his accounts on the Chinese super server.

End of S11.
The super server, also known as Orphan Peak, was still a haven for actors, but they usually only targeted famous players and big streamers. Against small fry like him, games were brutally honest—pure skill contests.
At times like these, he almost wished to run into actors.
But unfortunately,
the reason it was called Orphan Peak wasn’t just because of actors.

Soon, a game began.
He was immediately greeted with a series of headache-inducing pre-picks:
A stinky Graves jungler, an orphan Yasuo mid, and the classic bot lane of Ezreal and Yuumi. If he picked an AD top, it wouldn’t matter what—by ten minutes, the game would be fast-forwarding from burial to cremation.

[Lol, just dodge.]
[Hmm? Lacking AP? (Pattern detected)]
[It’s an Iron Man game—don’t hesitate, hit the 5A combo! Go for it, big bro!]
[Pick it and it’s doomed. This comp is dead on sight.]

"Don’t panic,"
Luo Ji soothed.
"Let me teach you a daily little trick—before we play, check our teammates’ match history, then decide if it’s worth playing."

With that,
he copied and pasted his teammates’ IDs, running live checks on each one.
League didn’t implement match history privacy until June 2022. Before that, as long as you knew the ID and server, you could check stats easily.
Sure enough,
the bot lane duo had been playing all night—just like thirty-something men, they were probably out of juice.
Mid Yasuo was a chronic case—pages of Yasuo games, mostly feeding or average, with only a handful of positive scores.
But the jungler was a beast.
Win or lose, nearly every game was MVP—there were carries, duds, and two deadweights. In theory, playable.
If he weren’t streaming, he’d have dodged this one.
But now, this was prime streaming content.

Just as he thought that,
in the next second, Iron Man was banned by the enemy.
Luo Ji: …
Clearly, the enemy checked match histories too. They’d calculated the odds—looking at their top pick, they locked in Camille, one of the Five Sisters.

Now, the comp was:
"Need AP, must counter Camille, and must be able to carry."
After a moment’s thought, Luo Ji moved his cursor to the AP section and then…
"Who is the champion? I shall steal their trophy—Rumble’s TGP 100% Overheat build is ready!"