Chapter 7: Chicago Showdown

I immediately contacted Big Dandelion, saying I was down for an offline verification.

I fired off a DM, cutting straight to the chase: “Name the time and place. I’m in.” The reply came minutes later—an address downtown, a time, and a cold warning: "No-shows are cowards."

He shot me a DM with a downtown Chicago address—no greeting, just a location and a curt, "Text when you get here."

I bought a ticket overnight and went to meet him in person.

It was my first time in Chicago. The El rattled beneath me as skyscrapers flashed by, the city feeling both huge and strangely small. The city skyline glimmered as I rode the train in, duffel bag slung over my shoulder, nerves jangling with every mile. My mom texted to ask if I was eating enough; I lied and said yes.

As soon as he saw me, Big Dandelion started streaming.

He barely shook my hand before turning to the camera, putting on his showman voice. The production crew set up lights, and a small crowd gathered behind us, phones out and recording.

His verification rules were simple:

He read from a notepad, laying it out like a courtroom drama: three custom matches, my squad vs his. No macros, no overlays, everything monitored.

I had to lead four of his viewers in three custom 5v5 matches against him.

He picked my team from chat volunteers, none of whom had played with me before. We shook hands awkwardly, making nervous small talk while setting up.

If I could win two games and average at least three kills per round, I’d be cleared.

That was a tall order—no carry, no clear name. My heart pounded in my chest as he read the rules aloud for the chat.

The teammates he picked for me were mostly B+ rank, only one barely A.

They were nice enough, but clearly nervous. One kid said he usually only played casual. I gave him a reassuring nod, masking my own nerves.

But Big Dandelion’s squad were all Demon King S rank, and one ID looked like a recently retired pro.

Demon King S was the stuff of legends—guys who made a living off prize money and sponsors. I recognized the username from tournament streams. My mouth went dry. This was no friendly showmatch—it was a setup.

Viewers flooded the chat:

[Wait, isn’t this rank gap a bit much?]

[This is the most "real" viewer challenge ever.]

[If 269 wins, that’s actually insane.]

[It’s not just winning, he has to average three kills per round!]

[At this level, even the best pros can’t do that, right?]

Some chatters started a poll: “Will Marcus clear his name?” Odds weren’t in my favor.

But Big Dandelion ignored the doubts, smirking at me:

He leaned in, voice dripping with sarcasm: "So, Mr. 269, got those superpowers with you today?"

"You can get four or five kills a round online. Don’t tell me you can’t even get three now that it’s offline? If it’s too hard, we can just call it off."

He raised his eyebrows, daring me to walk away. The cameras zoomed in on my face.

The message was clear—if I backed out, it’d basically prove I was cheating.

A hush fell over the room, all eyes on me. It was now or never.

I calmly sat down at the PC, nodded to Big Dandelion, and told him to start whenever. My hands shook a little as I plugged in my mouse—was it nerves, or just too much caffeine?

My hands were steady, my mind sharp. I glanced at the camera, gave a little wave, and settled in for the challenge of my life.

The countdown ticked. Win, and I’d clear my name. Lose, and I’d be a meme forever.