Chapter Fifty-Eight: An Eyesore

Rousseau said to Tian Shiwei,
“Old Tian, you need to pay attention to your posture. Haven’t you noticed you have a flaw? You put too much force into each step when your foot strikes the ground. The issue is, when your hips reach the landing point for the next step, they’re a bit slower than your legs, which lets your hips move ahead of your thighs. You lose the optimal forward-leaning posture, and each stride costs you more energy. Zhang Zhen does this especially well—his angle and posture are perfect, always tilting forward like a spinning top, propelling himself rapidly. Every step takes less effort than yours, so his stride frequency is faster…”

Before today, Rousseau hadn’t closely observed Tian Shiwei’s running technique. They were either competitors or training alone; in almost three months together, he’d never had such a chance to watch him as he did this morning.

“Huh?” Tian Shiwei was taken aback.
He almost thought he was standing in front of a coach—not Lu Jinrong, but Coach Li Yan of the national team.

Back in Pengcheng, Lu Jinrong rarely criticized Tian Shiwei’s running posture. He attributed Tian Shiwei’s occasional bursts of brilliance, and his usual mediocre performances, to training, age, and mentality, believing that in a few years, Tian Shiwei would mature and his results would stabilize.

“What’s interesting is, whenever you have a target ahead of you, you unconsciously adjust your posture, leaning forward just enough to reach your ideal angle, with your hips not overtaking your legs, every step powered just right. That’s the real reason your performance improves against strong opponents,” Rousseau continued. He’d just seen the analysis in the status bar and suddenly understood Tian Shiwei’s situation: he wasn’t some big-game specialist who only performed well in official competitions; it was simply a matter of flawed running posture.

“Coach Li Yan said the same, but not as detailed as you. He just told me my posture was off, I needed to lean forward more, minimize foot contact with the ground, pay attention to how I lift my legs…” Tian Shiwei said in surprise.

“He could see it, huh… Must’ve seen it right away. That’s why after watching you run twice, he accepted you into the team,” Rousseau realized.

Li Yan had skill.
Or rather, remarkable skill.
Lu Jinrong hadn’t noticed in five years what Li Yan saw in a single day.

So, when Li Yan made a bet with Rousseau, was it because he truly didn’t believe in him?
Thinking this way, Rousseau felt a surge of anger—if you don’t believe in me, then I’ll run and prove you wrong!

…

Evening.
In the cafeteria of the General Administration.

Rousseau was reflecting on today’s gains. Watching others run had its own rewards, giving him new ideas for his 200-meter technique.

Suddenly, a tray was placed on Rousseau’s table.
He thought it was Tian Shiwei—after all, in this youth national team, Tian Shiwei was the only one who often kept him company.

But when he looked up, he saw a handsome face.

Red lips, white teeth, big eyes, and especially smooth skin—his face was unforgettable. Rousseau recognized him: this handsome young man was Zhang Zhen, sixteen years old, Li Yan’s favorite pupil, and the strongest contender for the 100-meter championship at this East Youth Games.

“Do you need something?” Rousseau looked at Zhang Zhen.

“If you’re going to withdraw, why not leave now? Your presence here is affecting everyone’s mood,” Zhang Zhen said, his expression and tone showing a hint of disdain.

“I… am going to withdraw?” Rousseau replied, stuffing beef into his mouth as he dealt with this obviously arrogant boy. “Who said that?”

“You told the coach yourself. If you want to train alone, go back to your provincial team. You’re here, using the national team’s resources but not integrating with the group. What’s the point?” Zhang Zhen pressed on.

Rousseau studied the boy before him.
Sixteen years old, 1.70 meters tall, best 100-meter time is 10.40 seconds, weaker in the 200 meters, over 22 seconds—probably a stamina issue, since 200 meters is entirely anaerobic and demands more physical endurance, and this kid’s muscle mass seemed insufficient.

These numbers also showed his extraordinary talent. Running 10.40 seconds at sixteen, his future potential was limitless.

“What are you staring at?” Zhang Zhen frowned. “I’m talking to you.”

Just too temperamental, like a little Nezha.

“I’m training my way—how does that bother you?” Rousseau asked calmly.

“It just bothers me, so what?” Zhang Zhen responded, unfriendly. “You annoy me!”

No other reason, really—Zhang Zhen simply disliked Rousseau, who always practiced alone, muttering to himself like a lunatic. He clearly didn’t meet national team standards, yet he lingered here, perhaps just to brag later that he’d been on the national team?

Especially today—he wasn’t even training anymore, just loafing around watching the team all day. It drove Zhang Zhen crazy with annoyance.

Like a spoiled child… Rousseau looked at Zhang Zhen. With the best results in the team and Li Yan’s favoritism, he’d clearly developed a temper.

“Well, you’ll have to keep being annoyed. At least two more days. You know about my bet with Coach Li—if I don’t run the 200 meters in under 21 seconds in two days, I’ll pack up and leave,” Rousseau replied patiently.

He wasn’t angry—there was nothing to be angry about. As fellow athletes, Zhang Zhen’s dislike didn’t affect him at all.

“A 200-meter time under 21 seconds? You?” Zhang Zhen scoffed.

Breaking 21 seconds in the 200 meters is an exceptional achievement for domestic sprinters, enough to contend for a National Games gold medal. But at the East Youth Games, the 200-meter record is 20.65 seconds, showing the gap between domestic and international levels.

Seeing Zhang Zhen’s disdainful expression, Rousseau felt both irritated and bored. To end the conversation quickly, and to prevent further trouble from this kid, he said, “Want to make a bet?”

“A bet? What kind?” Zhang Zhen asked.

“A bet on results. You run the 100 meters, I run the 200 meters at the East Youth Games. Whoever posts the better time wins,” Rousseau said.

“You might not even run the 200 meters, right?” Zhang Zhen countered.

“If I don’t, I lose,” Rousseau replied.

“What’s the wager?” Zhang Zhen asked.

“Anything,” Rousseau said.

“Then the loser calls the winner ‘big brother’! And whenever we train together, the loser has to obey the winner!” Zhang Zhen declared.

Such childish stakes… Rousseau sighed, realizing he had to humor the kid.

“Alright.” Rousseau nodded.

The two sealed the deal with a handshake.

Afterwards, Rousseau looked at Zhang Zhen. “Alright, you can leave now.”

“Huh?” Zhang Zhen was momentarily stunned. Leave? Had he finished what he wanted to say? Was his goal achieved?

“You’re interrupting my meal, disturbing my training. Are you trying to beat me by making me lose focus?” Rousseau asked.

“I’m not!” Zhang Zhen’s handsome face flushed red. He grabbed his tray and stormed off, throwing back, “See you on the track!”

Huh?

After saying that, Zhang Zhen was puzzled. Why did it feel like Rousseau would make it to the East Youth Games track after all?

How did that happen?