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Claimed By The Ruthless Esports Boss Novel Cover

Claimed By The Ruthless Esports Boss

I am the best esports jungler in the league, but I've been hiding a severe wrist injury just to keep my team alive in the semifinals. Right in the middle of the crucial tie-breaker game, our mid-laner deliberately walked into the enemy team and died without casting a single defensive spell. He was match-fixing for offshore betting sites, throwing away our entire season for a massive payout. Because of his betrayal, we had to sub in two terrified rookies, and we were absolutely slaughtered. The stadium crowd booed us out of the arena. The internet exploded with pure vitriol, trending hashtags calling me a washed-up fraud who hid on the bench to save my own stats. The media demanded I retire immediately. My physical therapist gave me a grim ultimatum: my shredded nerves only allow me four hours of playtime a day before my right hand completely locks up. I destroyed my own body for this team, only to be sold out by a coward and crucified by the very fans I bled for. Why should my legacy end in total disgrace because of someone else's greed? I refuse to step down. I forced the traitor out, ignored management's safe roster choices, and locked my eyes on the most toxic, universally hated streamer on the platform. "He's a walking PR nightmare," my coach warned. I don't care. He is an arrogant, unhinged killer in the game, and I am going to make him mine.
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Chapter 4

Game three reached its boiling point. Both teams were dancing around the Baron pit, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Suddenly, Harlon's champion dashed over the wall. A perfectly timed Smite. He stole the Baron. The live crowd audio peaked into a deafening scream.

In his apartment, Jess threw a fist into the air. "Road is a god!" he yelled, his face flushed with adrenaline.

But on screen, the celebration lasted exactly one second.

As TTC grouped up to retreat with the buff, Chester suddenly turned around and walked directly into the center of the enemy formation.

He didn't cast a single defensive spell. He evaporated in half a second.

The enemy team surged forward, using the 5v4 advantage to slaughter the rest of TTC. Ace.

In the player cam, Harlon squeezed his eyes shut. His right hand clamped down over his mouse so hard his forearm trembled.

Jess's chat was a nuclear wasteland of rage.

Jess didn't look at the chat. He was staring at the replay of Chester's final movement path. The pathing was so unnatural it made Jess's stomach churn.

He grabbed his microphone stand and pulled it so close it brushed his lips. His voice was freezing cold.

"That was not a mistake," Jess said to sixty thousand people.

He pulled up the digital drawing tool. He drew a thick red line showing the three obvious escape routes Chester had ignored, and the one suicidal path he took.

"He is acting," Jess said, dropping the bomb. "He is match-fixing."

The viewer count violently spiked, breaking one hundred thousand.

Someone donated fifty dollars just to highlight their message: Careful Soft, you can get sued for defamation without proof.

Jess let out a harsh, barking laugh. "I don't care if they ban my Twitch account forever. I'm putting this on the record right now."

Within seconds, clips of Jess's accusation were being ripped and uploaded to Twitter.

Back at the Los Angeles Esports Center, TTC lost the game. The players stood up and walked off the stage.

Harlon walked at the very back of the line. His right arm hung awkwardly at his side, a visible tremor shaking his fingers.

The second the heavy door of the green room clicked shut, the silence shattered.

Harlon didn't lunge. He didn't raise his hands. Instead, he simply walked forward, his tall frame cutting across the room with slow, deliberate steps until he cornered Chester against the tactical whiteboard. Harlon's shadow fell completely over the mid-laner. He didn't touch him, but the sheer cold fury radiating from him made Chester physically recoil, slamming his own back against the whiteboard as if he'd been struck. The metal frame rattled violently.

"What the hell are you doing out there?" Harlon demanded. His voice wasn't a yell; it was a low, guttural growl that promised violence.

Chester's face drained of all color. He shook uncontrollably, his eyes darting everywhere except Harlon's face.

Coach Miles sprinted across the room. "Harlon! Back off! Calm down!" He grabbed Harlon's shoulders, trying to pry him away.

Miles's phone buzzed aggressively in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a text from the PR manager: Soft just accused Chester of match-fixing. It's trending 1.

Miles stared at the screen, all the blood leaving his face. He slowly looked up and stared at Chester.

Harlon finally took a step back, breaking the suffocating proximity. The sudden, tense shift in his posture sent a sickening, phantom tear of pain radiating through his right wrist, a sharp reminder of the injury he was suppressing. Harlon let out a muffled groan, cold sweat instantly breaking out across his forehead.

Miles looked at Harlon's violently shaking right hand. Then he looked at Chester, who was sliding down the whiteboard in a panic.

Miles made the only choice he could.

On the official broadcast, the play-by-play caster suddenly pressed a finger to his earpiece. His eyes went wide.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the caster said, his voice shifting into a professional, yet somber tone. "As the players for game four are taking their seats, we're getting official confirmation from the referees. And this is a massive change coming from the TTC side. They will be substituting out both Chester and their captain, Road. A shocking decision from Coach Miles in an elimination game, let's see how these rookies will fare under this immense pressure."

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