Daniel Tang once stood at the very peak of the professional league.
In Peak Era, a 5v5 competitive online game with no lock-on skills and no god's-eye view, only the truly skilled could survive at the highest level. And among those players, Daniel Tang—known throughout the scene by his in-game ID Shadow Blade—was one of the oldest and most respected names.
Four seasons.Four years.
He had been there since the league's early days, when strategies were still crude and raw mechanics decided everything. Team Dawn had grown alongside him, rising from obscurity into a championship contender. Shadow Blade was never the loudest voice in interviews, nor the flashiest highlight player—but he was always the one who stabilized the team when everything went wrong.
Until the day he was no longer needed.
The meeting room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Across the table sat the team manager and two executives Daniel had worked with for years. Their expressions were calm, professional, carefully neutral. A contract lay neatly in front of him, aligned with the edge of the table as if it had been waiting there all along.
"The club has decided to let you go," the manager said.
His tone was steady, rehearsed. There was no hesitation in his voice.
Daniel didn't ask why.
He already knew.
A week earlier, during an important league match, the club had made a private request. Not an order—just a suggestion. They wanted him to deliberately underperform. Not enough to lose outright, but just enough to influence the outcome.
He had refused.
Refused to betray the game.Refused to betray his teammates.Refused to betray himself.
That single refusal had sealed everything.
The title of the contract was printed in clean, formal letters:
Voluntary Resignation.
Polite wording. Perfect phrasing. No accusations, no explanations. Once he signed it, Daniel Tang would officially leave Team Dawn of his own free will. And in the professional scene, that label carried weight. Other teams would hesitate to touch a player who had "voluntarily" quit mid-career—especially one with a reputation as big as Shadow Blade's.
Daniel picked up the pen.
For a brief moment, his fingers paused above the paper.
Then he signed.
No argument.No bargaining.No final speech.
The manager let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The executives exchanged glances. The meeting ended in less than five minutes.
Just like that, Daniel Tang walked out of the Team Dawn training base.
Outside, the afternoon sun felt unfamiliar, almost harsh. Four years of routine—scrims, reviews, matches, travel—were gone in a single signature. His phone buzzed nonstop in his pocket, messages piling up from teammates, staff, and fans alike.
He didn't check any of them.
That night, the official announcement went live.
Team Dawn announces that Shadow Blade has voluntarily withdrawn from the roster.The club respects his decision and wishes him the best in his future endeavors.
The news spread quickly.
And just as quickly, Shadow Blade disappeared from the professional league.
Daniel turned off his phone.
He didn't feel anger.
Only a quiet, stubborn clarity.
If the professional stage no longer had a place for him, then he would carve one out himself.
Much later that night, far from polished arenas and sponsor lights, Daniel sat down in front of a worn-out monitor in a small internet café. The air smelled faintly of instant noodles and overheated electronics. Keyboards clattered nonstop around him.
He logged into Peak Era.
The familiar login screen appeared.
Then the character creation interface.
Daniel rested his right hand on the mouse, fingers moving in a slow, practiced arc. The motion was instinctive—smooth, precise. Even after years of professional play, his body remembered before his mind needed to think.
He glanced over the list of available classes.
Assassin.Berserker.Sharpshooter.Elemental Mage.
The usual favorites. The ones that dominated highlight reels and ranked ladders.
Daniel skipped past all of them.
His cursor stopped on a class most high-ranked players ignored.
Holy Crusader.
A so-called jack-of-all-trades.
Decent defense.Average damage.Basic crowd control.Reliable—but never explosive.
In high-level play, that meant one thing: replaceable.
A Holy Crusader could fill almost any role, but excel at none. Pro teams wanted specialists, not compromises. That was why this class almost never appeared on the professional stage.
Daniel clicked.
Class confirmed.
A few seats away, someone glanced over and scoffed.
"Holy Crusader?""Who even plays that anymore?"
Daniel didn't react.
He adjusted his mouse sensitivity, rolled his wrist once, and entered the game.
Bronze Tier.
The lowest starting point. The place where new players learned controls, forgot skill hotkeys, and chased kills instead of objectives.
The match loaded.
Voice chat crackled to life immediately.
"Anyone know how to tank?""I'm new, don't flame.""Let's just try our best."
Daniel said nothing.
He moved.
Not aggressively.Not recklessly.
Just enough to observe.
The first minute told him everything he needed to know.
The enemy jungler took a predictable route. The mid laner overextended without vision. The bottom lane pushed blindly.
Messy decisions—but still decisions.
Patterns.
The first fight broke out near the river.
Three enemies collapsed on one of Daniel's teammates.
Too late to save—by normal standards.
Daniel stepped in.
Shield slam.
A half-second stun. Just enough.
He body-blocked the escape path, forced the enemy carry to reposition, then turned—not to attack, but to deny space.
The carry panicked.
Skills missed.Cooldowns wasted.
Daniel's teammate escaped with a sliver of health.
No kill.No highlight.
But the fight was over.
"Wait—how did we win that?" someone asked in voice chat.
Daniel didn't answer.
He was already rotating to the next position.
By the ten-minute mark, the difference was obvious.
Objectives were taken cleanly.Fights happened on his terms.Enemies walked into bad terrain without realizing why.
When the final push came, it was almost anticlimactic.
The enemy base collapsed.
VICTORY
Daniel exited the match.
No celebration.No satisfaction.
Only confirmation.
Holy Crusader wasn't weak.
It was just honest.
It demanded awareness instead of greed. Timing instead of impulse. Control instead of ego.
For someone who had spent years reading the entire battlefield instead of just his own screen—
It was perfect.
Daniel created a new ID.
Nightwalker.
Bronze Tier.Zero losses.
He queued up again.
If the league thought he was finished—
Then this was where he would begin again.
From the very bottom.