Chapter 42: Ms. Zhao’s Crisis Management

“Let us congratulate Zhao Jie from Group F, who has successfully advanced to the quarterfinals.” With these words, and after confirming the director had cut away from his feed, Zhao Zhe seemed utterly drained, collapsing weakly into his chair.

It was over.

He could already foresee the oncoming storm that would sweep over him.

How did he end up winning?

Staring at the young man on the screen, Zhao Zhe admitted to himself that he had underestimated that boy before. But it was only natural, after all, that he would look down on someone from Wuling City, a place not known for its development.

And besides, his opponent had been a seeded player—showing a little favoritism didn’t seem like much of a problem to him.

Who could have predicted that this boy would actually make it into the quarterfinals?

“This is unbelievable!”

Pacing back and forth in his office, Zhao Zhe was at a loss. That Agumon had actually defeated the Shadowcatmon. Wasn’t Shadowcatmon supposed to be a rare Digimon? How could it lose to a mere Agumon?

“Teacher Zhao, what do we do now?” Xiao Ming asked, eyes wide as he watched his senior pace like an ant on a hot pan, the ceaseless movement making his head spin.

He’d said all along, “Don’t fear the worst, but always be prepared for it.” And now, the worst had happened.

What to do? What else could they do?

Nothing, really.

Zhao Zhe stopped pacing. How could this have happened? Even without checking social media, he knew he must be the target of scorn online, his once brilliant move now turned rotten. Wasn’t Shadowcatmon supposed to be rare?

Turns out, that was all it amounted to. And to think, it was considered a hot favorite to win.

Pathetic.

“It’s fine, I have a plan.” At this point, he could only press on along this path. Tomorrow’s semifinals weren’t out of reach; as long as Agumon lost, he could still use internet trolls to salvage his reputation.

Meanwhile, online, Zhao Jie’s victory over Feng Xiao brought his earlier interview into the spotlight.

“First of all, congratulations on making the top sixteen. I’d like to ask, what do you think about Teacher Zhao’s comment that you only made it due to luck?”

“Teacher Zhao? Who’s that? I’ve never heard of him. As for luck, we’ll see soon enough, won’t we?”

The video shot up the trending charts.

Beneath it, the comments poured in—most mocking Teacher Zhao, some criticizing Zhao Jie for his arrogance and lack of respect for his seniors.

Of course, those critics were quickly drowned out, for with Teacher Zhao’s previous “gems” on record, Zhao Jie’s brash response was all the more satisfying for viewers.

Naturally, Zhao Zhe saw this video too. Outwardly, he maintained his composure, but inwardly, he was irked.

He was, after all, a professional commentator, a minor celebrity even. And now someone claimed not to know who he was? That was blatant provocation.

Still, he couldn’t really blame the boy; his own actions hadn’t exactly been above reproach.

But so what? He was a public figure, and the boy was just a novice Digimon Tamer from an obscure city hardly anyone had heard of.

What was wrong with criticizing him? And yet, the boy had the nerve to talk back?

Of course, he wouldn’t openly confront a Digimon Tamer, but he was determined to make his views known. What could they do about it?

Soon, an apology post appeared on his Weibo.

Having been a commentator for so long, he considered his understanding of the competition to be professional and steadfast, but he acknowledged that everyone has their own perspective.

He would not retract his previous comments; in his view, Agumon’s advance to the top sixteen was pure luck. However, its performance in the quarterfinals had surprised him, and he congratulated Agumon.

But he still believed the quarterfinals were Agumon’s limit. Though it had exceeded his expectations, advancing to the semifinals would be difficult. He hoped the upcoming matches would be even more exciting.

The core message of the apology: he might have underestimated Agumon, but he wasn’t wrong—he still believed it was all down to luck.

“Teacher Zhao really is stubborn. Even now, he insists it’s just luck. If that kid actually wins the championship, will he say it was luck then, too?”

Soon after, Teacher Zhao himself replied to a comment.

“If he actually wins the championship, I’ll stand on my head and have diarrhea!”

A deft shift of attention, drawing even more eyes to the wager.

“You said it yourself, Teacher Zhao. You won’t go back on your word, will you?”

“Teacher Zhao, you’re amazing. I trust you won’t go back on your promise.”

...

“Teacher Zhao, are you sure this is okay?” In the office, Xiao Ming scrolled through the comments on his phone. Just as Teacher Zhao predicted, all eyes online were now on the bet, yet he couldn’t help feeling anxious.

What if Agumon really did win...?

“What could go wrong? I don’t believe it—there’s no way Agumon could actually win!” Zhao Zhe replied coldly, eyes fixed on his phone, not turning his head.

In truth, this was the best strategy he could think of: use the wager to draw all the keyboard warriors’ attention, and to be safe, he’d raised the stakes all the way to the championship.

He truly didn’t believe Agumon could win the Newcomer’s Cup.

You said that before.

Xiao Ming glanced at Teacher Zhao, grumbling inwardly. He’d said the boy would never reach the quarterfinals, too.

“But what if…?”

“There are no ‘what ifs.’ If Agumon wins, I’ll stand on my head and have diarrhea! Now, I need to work. You can leave.”

Once Xiao Ming left, Zhao Zhe fell into deep thought.

Hadn’t he said all this before?

Forget it. It didn’t matter.

As Xiao Ming walked out, Zhao Zhe grew increasingly pleased with his own crisis management—what a flawless plan. If he hadn’t gone into commentary, he could have made a name for himself in crisis PR.

“I truly am a genius.”

As for the consequences of losing? Impossible. There was no way he’d lose. Even if Agumon made it to the semifinals by some fluke, so what?

The championship was not so easily won.

“Hello? Old Zhao, you’ve really come through for us. Thanks to you, the attention on the Newcomer’s Cup here in Shashi has skyrocketed.”

At these words, Zhao Zhe’s face darkened, and he nearly threw his phone.

Did he want this? Was this his choice? He was well and truly on the tiger’s back now.

“Haha, of course, of course,” he forced out a smile, though he felt anything but happy as he replied cheerfully into the phone.

“I’ve managed to get you approved for commentary for the rest of the tournament—and your pay will be doubled.”

“Really? Thank you so much, Mr. Wang.”

Zhao Zhe perked up at once. Double pay was an offer he simply couldn’t refuse.

“There is just one small condition: try to stir up the atmosphere a bit during your commentary, you know what I mean?”

He paused for a moment, then replied coolly, “I understand.”

“Then it’s settled.”

After hanging up, Zhao Zhe wiped the smile from his face, his expression turning so dark it seemed to drip.

“A bunch of bastards.”