Chapter 2 — Guess, MVP Heiress Has Returned

The morning sun shined through the curtains, Yen Chi sat at the team dormitory's breakfast table, holding chopsticks but not bothering to eat. In her head, the memories of her past life kept appearing one after another like a slow-motion movie, so clearly that she felt like she was reliving each moment rather than just remembering it.

She remembers when she was twelve years old, Y Nhi was born two months premature and had to lie in an incubator for nearly a month. Her parents, after panicking at the thought of losing their child, swore to each other that from now on they would not let their youngest daughter suffer any more disadvantages. That vow, over the years, turned into an unwritten rule in the house: everything good, Y Nhi has priority; All difficulties, Yen Chi must bear first.

When Yen Chi was fifteen years old, both sisters took the exam to enter the city's academy to train young esports players. Yen Chi went straight into the first team thanks to impressive scores, while Y Nhi struggled until she made it to the reserve team. That night, her mother cried, not because she was happy for Yen Chi, but because she was worried that Y Nhi would feel sorry for herself. Yen Chi, then only fifteen, personally wrote a request to the academy to reduce her number of practice sessions so she could have time to accompany her sister to practice more - no one asked her to do so, she volunteered, because she believed that sisters must rely on each other.

Four years later, both were promoted to the professional team Bach Ung Gaming, but only had one main player position in the mid lane position. Yen Chi won that spot with absolute strength — no one on the coaching staff can deny that. But as soon as the official list was announced, her mother called, her voice trembling: "I'm the older sister, can I give in to you just once? Y Nhi has tried so hard, she just needs one chance."

Yen Chi in her previous life asked again, very softly: "But I also tried, mother. Why do I always have to give in?"

Her mother's answer, Yen Chi still remembers every word: "Because you are stronger than me. The strong must know how to give way to the weak, that is common sense."

Common sense. Those two words became invisible chains that bound Yen Chi for many years. She signed the concession form, telling herself that it was the action of a responsible sister, a noble sacrifice. The coaching staff strongly objected - the head coach at that time frankly said that allowing a player with much worse performance to join the main squad just because of family pressure was unreasonable and dangerous for the team's performance - but the team manager at that time, Dinh Quoc Vuong, wanted to maintain a peaceful relationship with the family of a key player, came to an arrangement, convincing the coach to give in for a "one-season trial".

That season was a disaster. Y Nhi, although hard-working, is not mature enough to shoulder the pressure of an official player in the highest tournament. She constantly made positioning errors and slow reflexes in decisive fights, causing the team that lost consecutive support from the top position in the rankings to fall into the group at risk of relegation. Fans began to criticize fiercely on social networks. The main sponsor put pressure on changing the lineup.

And that was when Y Nhi, instead of admitting she was not capable enough, chose another path.

Yen Chi clearly remembers the night she accidentally read an anonymous post on a fan forum, recounting the story of "a main player who was forced by his sister to give up his role and then silently sabotage his spirit" - no name was given, but everyone could guess who he was talking about. What followed was a series of anonymous interviews and text messages cut out of context, until the story spread into a wave of attacks aimed directly at Yen Chi: that she, out of jealousy of the attention given to her younger sister, had deliberately revealed the team's tactics to her opponents before important matches.

Yen Chi stood up to clarify. She showed her activity schedule, proving that she had no opportunity to come into contact with anyone from the opposing team. But the words of a "suspected sister" cannot be compared with the image of a "weak, oppressed sister" that public opinion has believed for many years. Her parents, instead of standing on the side of the truth, chose to believe in their child who was always more merciful.

"You're my sister, why would you do that to me?" Her father asked that question, his eyes full of disappointment, while Yen Chi stood dumbfounded in the middle of the living room, unable to believe that her biological father could believe such a blatant slander without evidence.

A few weeks later, that "evidence" appeared - an edited recording, a few sophisticated fake messages, enough for the disciplinary council to decide to suspend Yen Chi from all professional competition activities for two years for "violating professional ethics and damaging the honor of teammates". Those two years became forever when no organization dared to sign a contract with a name that had been exposed to negative suspicions, even though no court had ever officially concluded her guilt.

Yen Chi clearly remembers the day she moved out of the team dormitory, carrying a few bags of belongings, but not a single teammate saw her out the door. Trinh Gia Linh — her best friend on the team — sent a text message to apologize, saying that she believed Yen Chi was innocent but did not dare to speak out publicly for fear of being implicated. Yen Chi does not blame Gia Linh. She just felt so empty in her heart that she no longer felt anything to be angry about.

The following months were a series of days when she lived in a small rented room, doing all kinds of jobs to make ends meet, from teaching online games to earn some spare change to working as a night shift cafe waiter. She still kept the habit of practicing every night, even though no one was watching or any tournaments welcome her. She told herself that one day the truth would be revealed, that justice would come. But justice did not come. Only pneumonia silently eroded a body exhausted by constant insomnia and a spirit that had long been broken.

Yen Chi remembers the last night, she lay on the cold floor, a high fever made her whole body tremble, and the only thing she thought about was not resentment, but a question that kept repeating in her head: Why did I choose to give in in the first place? Why do I believe that unconditional sacrifice is the only thing that proves love?

She had no answer at that time. But now, sitting here in the morning of her second life, still holding her chopsticks and not touching her rice bowl, Yen Chi knows the answer very clearly: sacrifice without boundaries is not love, it is self-destruction disguised with a beautiful name.

She put down her chopsticks, stood up, looked at the clock. A few more hours until family meeting time. She needs to prepare - not mentally prepare to give in, but prepare arguments, prepare evidence, prepare an unshakable stance.

Trinh Gia Linh walked into the dining room, saw Yen Chi standing absentmindedly and asked, "Are you okay? You look like you've been up all night."

"I'm fine," Yen Chi replied, her voice unusually calm. "I just thought through something that I should have thought through a long time ago."

Gia Linh frowned, about to ask more, but Yen Chi smiled, a cold and hard smile completely different from her usual gentleness.

"This afternoon," Yen Chi said, "if my family calls the team looking for me, don't be surprised if you hear me arguing with them. I won't give this position to anyone else, not even my own sister."

Gia Linh was silent for a moment, then nodded firmly. "You deserve that position. You've never had to give in to anyone."

Yen Chi looked at her friend, feeling a rare warm feeling in her heart. At least, in this life, she will not let herself enter the battle to protect herself alone like before.

She returned to her room, sat in front of her old desk, took out a new notebook, and started writing. Not an emotional diary like what she wrote in her previous life - words full of confusion, self-blame and trying to find ways to justify her concession - but a clear list: the matches she had won in the last three months, her average performance index compared to Y Nhi, the head coach's evaluations saved in the team's internal mailbox. She wrote down each number like a lawyer preparing a defense case, not to convince her parents with emotion, but to put an irrefutable truth on the table.

She also wrote, on the last page, a short line for herself: "Loving does not mean having to suffer silently. If love can only exist on the condition that we have to sacrifice infinitely, then it is not love, it is a price covered up in the name of blood." After writing, she closed the notebook, feeling relieved as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders for two lifetimes.

Outside the window, the sun was high, shining down on the training ground where several young players were jogging to warm up in the morning. Yen Chi looked there and saw the image of herself four years ago - a girl who always ran faster than everyone else, not to prove to anyone, but simply because she loved this subject, loved the feeling of winning with her own ability. That feeling, which had been crushed by baseless accusations in her previous life, was now slowly resurfacing within her, stronger than ever.