That evening, Wang Chao received another call from Luo Jiu.
"Junior Brother, I'm dying here, sob sob sob. That bastard Hook has gone completely berserk. Is this even Hook? Don't tell me he's been possessed by aliens?"
Luo Jiu rambled incoherently on the other end of the line, venting his frustration. Wang Chao did not find him annoying and simply listened quietly.
"You watched today's match, right? His form is way too stable. He played six games against Lin Zijun without falling apart once. He was steady as hell. I dare say his current form is even scarier than at last year's Oman Open. I, Luo Jiu, have clearly mastered divine arts—so why did a bastard like this suddenly pop up in the world? Am I about to capsize in a gutter? If he plays me the way he played Brother Long, I'm telling you, Junior Brother, I definitely won't be able to withstand it."
Luo Jiu was still self-aware. His resilience was not particularly strong; indeed, it was the weakest among the five main players. Before last year, he had truly lost too many matches, enough to lose his confidence. If not for the shot in the arm that the rubber change had given him, he might even have retired early.
Now his technique had reached the required level, but his opponent had stopped playing with technique and started playing with his body. That left him rather dissatisfied.
"Why was Brother Long allowed to dominate for seven years while all of you played technique with him? Now that it's finally my turn to dominate, you're changing the rules?"
He babbled on for a long time before finally saying, "Junior Brother, don't just listen. Give me some advice."
He was a chatterbox, and he said it without really thinking much