Summary: When silence stretches too long and heartbreak threatens to bury everything unspoken, Lu Sicheng stops waiting. With ruthless determination, he tears down the last walls standing between them, crossing oceans and legacies alike to bring the only thing that ever mattered back home—her.
Chapter Six
The next day dawned gray and heavy, the weight of her silence pressing down on all of them like a storm brewing just out of reach.
Pang and Yue had started first, spamming the Salt and Chaos group chat with messages that grew increasingly ridiculous.
ZGDX_Pang: Yao-jiejie if you don't answer in ten minutes I'm flying to Cambridge and kidnapping you.
ZGDX_Lv: I'll bring snacks. We can stage a rescue mission.
No answer.
Ming messaged her privately with quiet, concerned reminders about taking care of herself.
Lao Mao sent a rare, serious message: Talk to us.
Rui, subtle as always, dropped a calm, professional note into her inbox, disguised as a routine check-in. Still nothing.
And through it all, Sicheng said nothing. Did nothing. On the surface. But inside, the fury was building, cold and controlled, the kind of slow, ruthless anger that was a hell of a lot more dangerous than shouting or slamming doors. By the third day of her radio silence, he had already decided. He was done waiting. Done assuming she would reach out. If she would not come to them, he would go to her. He was halfway through making quiet calls, pulling whatever strings he needed, when the knock came at the front door of the base.
Sharp.
Insistent.
Annoying.
From where he sat on the couch, still scrolling through flights under the guise of reviewing scrim schedules, he barely lifted his head.
Rui, closest to the door, frowned slightly and moved to answer it.
Before he could touch the handle, Sicheng's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Don't."
Rui froze.
Sicheng's eyes never left his phone. "Call security," he said, voice cold and final. "Tell them there's a stalker at the door."
Rui, to his credit, only blinked once before pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing.
The woman outside, dressed impeccably, heels clicking against the stone, clutching a slim leather bag and wearing a forced, polished smile, was the same one from the blind date his mother had arranged. The same woman he had barely spoken to before leaving early, uninterested and cold. He had made it clear than and he would make it even clearer now. He wasn't opening that door. Not for her. Not when there was only one woman he was willing to cross oceans for. And she wasn't standing outside.
Sicheng's fingers moved sharply across his contacts, pulling up Jinyang's number, hitting dial without hesitation.
It barely rang once before she picked up, her voice brisk. "Sicheng? What's going on? Shouldn't you be prepping for...."
"Is Yao okay?" he cut her off, low and blunt.
The sudden stillness on the other end was immediate.
"...We thought she was busy," Jinyang said after a moment, her voice slower, uncertainty threading into her words. "She hasn't answered us either, but—"
In the background, there was a muffled clatter, a sharp bark of laughter, and then Chen Tao's unmistakable voice, rough and scathing.
"Because you're both damn idiots!"
Sicheng straightened instinctively, grip tightening around his phone. There was a scuffle of the phone being wrestled away, and then Chen Tao's voice came through, low and lethal.
"Chessman, your blind date?" Tao said, each word clipped like it cost him something to speak them. "A fan took a picture."
The silence that followed was brutal.
"You know Yao has Weibo."
The weight of those words slammed into Sicheng's chest like a fist. Everything, the silence, the sudden absence, the way her messages had just... stopped…. It made brutal, terrible sense now. She had seen the photo. She had seen it and…
The line went dead.
Sicheng stood, the chair scraping backward violently, drawing the attention of every pair of eyes in the room. He didn't bother explaining. Didn't need to. They knew. And before anyone could open their mouths, he was already moving. Already planning. Because if she thought for even one second that he would let her stay in that pain. She was wrong. He would find her. He would tear down every single wall she tried to hide behind if he had to. Because she was his. Whether she knew it yet or not.
The room was heavy with tension, thick enough to cut through.
Sicheng stood in the center of the lounge, jaw tight, hands fisted loosely at his sides, barely holding himself together. He turned his head slightly, locking eyes with Ming across the room. "When's our next match after this one?" his voice came low, cold, edged with an authority that even the chaos around him did not dare challenge.
Ming, sharp enough to understand what was happening without being told, didn't hesitate. "None," he answered calmly. "This one locks in our placement, if we win it. Then we will have about a little over a month before the Championship Finale against CK.."
Sicheng nodded once, the movement sharp, controlled. Then he turned without another word, striding across the room.
Pang opened his mouth to ask something—probably something stupid—but Lao K slapped a hand over it before the sound could escape.
They all knew better than to get in his way right now.
Sicheng didn't stop moving until he reached the garage, slid into his car with a slam of the door, and peeled out onto the road. The drive to his parents' estate was a blur of gray skies and cold fury beating against his ribs with every mile that passed. By the time he pulled through the tall iron gates and up the long drive to the sprawling house that had never once felt like a home, the rage under his skin was so sharp it felt surgical. The servants barely had time to announce him before he was pushing through the heavy oak doors into the sitting room.
His mother was there.
Elegant.
Poised.
A perfect portrait of everything he had been raised to become—and everything he now despised about the cold, calculating world she had built.
She rose smoothly when she saw him, a faint frown touching her lips. "Sicheng...."
He didn't let her finish. "You're done." he said flatly, voice slicing through the room like a blade.
She froze, confusion flickering across her face. "What are you talking about?"
He stepped closer, every inch of him vibrating with restrained violence. "You set me up on a blind date," he said, his voice dangerously low, "without my permission. Again." Her mouth tightened, but he continued before she could summon whatever defense she thought would excuse her. "And because of you," he said, cold and final, "someone I..." he bit the word off, forcing it down before it could crack the armor holding him together, "someone important to me saw it. Saw a lie."
His mother's face barely changed, but he saw the flicker in her eyes—the same ruthless calculation she always wore when she thought she was doing something for his own good. "You are the heir," she said smoothly, voice laced with that patronizing, infuriating calm. "It's time you acted like one."
He laughed once, harsh and joyless. "I am acting like one," he said, stepping in close enough that she had no choice but to look up at him, to see the full weight of what she had just cost him. "Which is why starting today—you're out." Her eyes widened, the first crack in her perfect mask. "You are no longer my proxy for ZGDX," he said, each word deliberate, final. "You have no authority over the team. No more access to my contracts. No more negotiations. No more say."
"Sicheng—"
"And," he cut across her coldly, "if you ever—ever—arrange another meeting, another date, another anything without my direct, written permission?" He smiled then. Sharp. Cruel. Deadly. "I'll revoke every privilege you have left. Every title. Every courtesy." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper. "I will strip you down to exactly what you fear being the most," he said. "An irrelevant footnote." For the first time in years, he saw something he had not seen since he was a teenager. Fear. Real fear. He straightened slowly, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with careless precision. "This is the only warning you get," he said, voice flat and absolute. Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and walked out, the sound of his shoes striking the marble floor echoing like gunshots behind him.
The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy, final sound. Outside, he slid back into his car, exhaling a slow, shuddering breath he had been holding since he first saw that damn photo. No more distractions. No more waiting. His family could burn for all he cared. He was getting on a plane. And he was going to bring her home. Where she belonged.
The drive back to the base was fast, silent, the roar of the engine and the cold focus sharpening inside Lu Sicheng until it felt like steel carving down to his bones.
He parked without even remembering doing it, striding through the base's gates with a precision that turned more than a few heads from the staff loitering outside. Inside, he barely paused to exchange a few words with Ming, confirming the match schedule, confirming what he already knew: this afternoon's game, and than they were in the clear with no other match in sight for about a month or so. But there was one more thing he needed to do before he could move. He climbed the stairs two at a time, shutting himself into his office with a soft but final click of the door. The sunlight bleeding through the windows caught the hard lines of his face, the cold set of his jaw. Without hesitation, he pulled his phone from his jacket and dialed a number he rarely used.
It rang once.
Twice.
And then a familiar, low, rough voice answered on the third ring.
"Sicheng."
"Grandfather," he said, his voice calm, sharper than it had been in years. "I need you to watch my mother closely for the next few days."
There was a short pause, weighted, knowing.
"And why is that?" his grandfather asked, tone mild but laced with something harder underneath.
Sicheng leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming once against the armrest before he stopped himself. "Because," he said simply, "as of this morning, she no longer has any authority over ZGDX. And I won't risk her trying to undermine it while I'm gone."
Silence stretched for a breath on the other end of the line.
Then his grandfather chuckled—low, gravelly, a sound that rumbled like distant thunder.
"Finally," the old man muttered, almost fondly. "Took you long enough to pull your head out of your ass."
Sicheng smiled faintly, humorless but real. "Better late than never."
Another gruff sound of approval from the other end.
"Where are you going?"
"I have a match this afternoon," Sicheng said crisply. "After that, I'm taking the Lu jet. I'll be out of the country for a few days." He paused, letting the words settle. "And while I'm gone," he continued, voice hardening, "you're in charge of ZGDX. Don't let her near it."
His grandfather's answer came without hesitation. "Consider it done."
There was no need for flowery promises between them. It was understood. The weight of a legacy shifting hands.
Sicheng exhaled a slow breath, some of the tightness in his chest easing, not all of it, not while she was still half a world away but enough. "I'll call when I'm back," he said.
"You'd better," his grandfather growled. "And if you need anything while you're gone?"
Sicheng smiled grimly. "I'll handle it." He ended the call and set the phone down slowly, his movements deliberate, precise. For the first time in years, the path ahead was clear. Nothing was standing between him and her anymore. Not his family. Not their expectations. Not even the oceans between them. He had wasted enough time. Now? He was going to get her back and he wasn't leaving without her.
The hours between the phone call and the match passed like ghosts.
Sicheng moved through them on muscle memory alone—putting on his jacket, checking his gear, sitting through the last strategy review with Ming and the others—but he was not really there.
His mind was already a thousand miles away. It showed in the game. Cold. Precise. Lethal. He dismantled the opposing ADC with terrifying efficiency, his movements sharp enough to draw blood. Every decision, every rotation, every kill came without hesitation, without mercy. The others kept pace, but even Pang, who usually thrived on chaos, kept glancing over at him warily between rounds, sensing something simmering low under the surface. When the final Nexus shattered and their victory was sealed, the team barely managed to get through the customary bows and handshakes before Sicheng was already moving.
No lingering. No post-game breakdown. No celebrations. By the time they were filing out of the arena's back entrance, Sicheng was already sliding into the sleek black car waiting to take him to the Lu private hangar.
The door slammed shut behind him, sealing the rest of the world out. As the driver pulled onto the main road, Sicheng pulled out his phone again, jaw tightening. He scrolled through his contacts, found Jinyang's name, and hit dial.
She picked up almost immediately, laughter in her voice like she had been in the middle of teasing someone. "Yo, Chessman! Congrats on the win—"
"Send me Yao's address," he cut in, voice flat, brooking no argument.
The laughter died instantly.
On the other end, there was a small, sharp breath.
"Sicheng," Jinyang said carefully, her voice sobering, "what's going on?"
"I don't have time," he snapped, the impatience finally bleeding through the cold armor he usually wore. "I'm already on the way to the jet. I'm leaving tonight. Send it."
Another pause, heavier this time.
And then—
"You're going after her," she said quietly. Not a question. A statement.
"Should have done it weeks ago," Sicheng said, the words biting out of him like shrapnel.
There was another beat of silence, but then he heard Jinyang sigh—soft, a little shaky.
"I'll send it," she said. "You'll hurt her worse if you screw this up, Lu Sicheng and I will not hesitate to end you for doing so, she's my baby sister and best friend."
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the familiar stab of guilt settle, sharp and deserved. "I know," he said, his voice low, stripped bare. "I'm not leaving without her." The line went dead. Seconds later, a message popped up. An address. Cambridge. A neat, clean street tucked not far from the university. He stared at it for a beat longer than necessary, feeling something old and cold and terrifying crack open inside him. Not fear. Not hesitation. Something older. Something that had waited a long, long time for this. The car turned sharply into the hangar's side entrance, the towering frame of the Lu family's private jet gleaming under the harsh floodlights.
The driver pulled to a smooth stop. Without waiting for the door to be opened for him, Sicheng pushed out into the cool night air, the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders with every step he took toward the stairs. His phone buzzed again just as he reached the top. Another message. From Jinyang.
Chen Jinyang: Bring her home, idiot.
Sicheng smiled faintly—sharp, grim, determined—and slid the phone into his jacket pocket. "I will," he muttered under his breath. Then he stepped onto the plane without looking back, the hatch closing with a final, echoing thud behind him.
Next stop: Cambridge.
Next stop: Her.
The soft, muted hum of the engines filled the cabin, a low steady roar that seemed to vibrate through the very air.
Sicheng sat alone near the back, slouched in one of the oversized leather seats, one ankle hooked over his knee, the window beside him showing nothing but endless darkness streaked with faint stars. He did not sleep. He didn't even try. The small table beside him was littered with unopened water bottles and untouched food the flight attendant had set out at takeoff. He had barely noticed. Instead, his phone sat loose in his hand, the screen dark, but his thumb tapped restlessly against the side of it, over and over again. Memory after memory replayed themselves without mercy across the inside of his mind.
The first time she had smiled at him across the ZGDX lounge, tired but stubbornly bright, after ordering Pang and Yue around like they were toddlers.
The first time she had sent him a sharp, dry quip through Messenger, catching him off guard enough to make him smirk alone in his office like an idiot.
The small, simple way she had checked in on him during scrims without asking for anything back.
The way her sarcasm always had an edge, but never enough to cut deep—only enough to keep him awake. Honest.
The way she had laughed once—rare, real, unguarded—when Pang accidentally set a practice dummy on fire.
The way she had looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention, her defenses slipping away, just for a second.
God, he had been blind.
He had let her drift out of his reach without even realizing how far she had fallen into him. How far he had fallen into her. And now? Now he knew. Now he understood exactly how badly he had failed her. Because while he had been standing still, too careful, too cautious, she had been trying to build a place for herself in his world. And when she saw that damn picture. When she saw that stupid, empty lie of a life his mother wanted to shove him into. She must have thought it confirmed everything she had been afraid of. That no matter how much he reached for her, there were walls she could never scale. That she would never be enough. That he would choose them over her.
Sicheng's fingers tightened around the phone, his teeth grinding together until his jaw ached. Not anymore. He would tear down every single wall brick by goddamn brick if he had to. Because she didn't just belong with them. She belonged with him. Always had. Always would. The engines hummed on, the city lights beginning to bleed into view through the windows far below. London first. Then the drive to Cambridge. He rolled his shoulders back, shoving down the exhaustion dragging at his bones. There would be time for sleep later. After he saw her. After he looked her in the eyes and said everything he should have said weeks ago. After he pulled her back into his orbit where she belonged.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, calm and professional.
"Beginning descent."
Sicheng straightened, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket, his heart beating slow and hard against his ribs. Soon. Soon she would know. No more games. No more distance. No more doubts. He had come for her and he wasn't leaving without her.
The wheels touched down with a soft thud, the private jet rolling to a smooth, practiced stop under the heavy veil of London's early morning mist. By the time the hatch opened and the stairs lowered, Lu Sicheng was already moving. No entourage. No assistants. No luggage, save for the duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.
He didn't bother with pleasantries at the hangar. He barely acknowledged the waiting staff with a curt nod before sliding behind the wheel of the black rental car already arranged for him, the keys left in the ignition exactly as he had requested.
The engine roared to life under his hand, low and powerful, and he pulled out of the private lot without hesitation, tires whispering over the slick pavement. The city blurred past him—rows of gray stone buildings, the smudge of fog hanging over the River Thames, red buses and black taxis slicing through the streets like blood and bone. He drove with single-minded focus, the address Jinyang had sent burned into the front of his mind.
Cambridge wasn't far.
The countryside slipped into view, green and damp and achingly quiet, so different from the pulsing, restless noise of Shanghai. He barely noticed. All he could think about was her. The way she had gone silent. The way she must have curled up somewhere behind thick walls and heavy doors, convincing herself she didn't belong, that she wasn't wanted. That she was alone. The muscles in his jaw tightened painfully. Not for long.
The GPS chimed softly, announcing his final turn, but he was already slowing, already scanning the street. Narrow lanes. Small brick townhouses lined neatly in a row, ivy clinging to old stone walls. He pulled up in front of one—modest, neat, with a small iron gate leading to a set of worn stone steps. Her door. Her world. The car ticked softly as it cooled, but he didn't move for a long moment. For the first time since he had boarded the jet, hesitation flickered in his chest, brief but sharp.
Because what he was about to do? It wasn't safe. It wasn't cautious. It wasn't the kind of thing you could undo with an apology if it went wrong. It was real. It was everything. And if she slammed the door in his face. If she looked at him with all that pain he had caused burning in her beautiful, furious eyes. He would deserve it. But he still had to try. Because this wasn't about pride anymore. This wasn't about what was easy. This was about her. About them.
With a slow breath, he shoved the door open and stepped out into the cold, damp air. The gravel crunched softly under his boots as he walked up the narrow path, one hand slipping into his pocket, fingers curling loosely around the small slip of paper he had been carrying since takeoff—the stupid note she had once left tucked inside a box of London snacks, teasing him about kings needing something to come home to.
He tightened his grip, feeling the paper crumple slightly and then he raised his hand.
And knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The sound echoed off the small courtyard, sharp and final.
Sicheng stood there, the cold mist soaking slowly into his jacket, the early morning silence pressing heavy against his skin, waiting. Waiting for her to open the door. Waiting for her to look at him. Waiting to finally, finally bring her home.