Chapter Sixty-Four: The Glass Crown

Late at night.

Rousseau suddenly awoke.

He had pushed himself too hard.

Now, instead of rest, he found only unrest.

His head throbbed as if splitting apart, his limbs felt limp and powerless, his mouth parched, and his throat burned with a pain as sharp as if filled with razor blades.

Am I ill?

Rousseau posed the question to himself.

Have I reached my limits?

He asked himself again.

Even if he refused to admit it, his body was reminding him all too clearly.

Though he had his status panel, he was no chosen one; only three months of professional training behind him, and already his age was too advanced... If only he had started five years earlier, like Tian Shiwei, or even three, or two years sooner, things might have been different.

Then, Rousseau would have had an entirely different future.

These dispiriting thoughts flitted through his aching mind, bringing waves of dizziness and despair.

To escape the pain and sense of loss, Rousseau began to study his status panel. Although it could not tell him how to combine his two skills, it did offer real-time feedback on his running condition—precise and valuable information.

But this time, he found a new and unusual message among his status entries:

‘You have pushed yourself to the edge of extreme danger by training to your absolute limit for three consecutive days. While the spirit of athletics encourages reaching the limits of the human body, it does not advocate achieving your goals through self-destruction. History is littered with dazzling talents who, by burning through their health and future, achieved breathtaking feats, only to vanish like meteors streaking across the sky. May you not repeat their fate. Thus, you have earned the title “Bearer of the Fragile Glass Crown.”

“Bearer of the Fragile Glass Crown”—do you wish to equip this title?

With this title, you will possess unparalleled insight, perception, and expressive ability in all athletic pursuits. Genius-level inspiration, extraordinary balance, uncanny reaction speed... All this, yet you become a supremely fragile prodigy, suffering injury nearly every time you compete. This is your peak—soon you will slip from the summit, and all you can do is cherish the memories of your former glory as you descend.’

...

October 27th.

Head Coach’s Office.

When the news came—“Rousseau is ill”—Li Yan was momentarily taken aback.

“What’s wrong with him?” Li Yan asked.

“An immune system issue caused by overexertion; he’s running a fever. The infirmary says he’ll recover in two or three days, but he probably won’t be able to perform at his best,” Dong Zijian replied.

Indeed, to fall ill right before a major competition was highly unusual for an athlete whose livelihood depended on their body. It meant he was not in optimal condition, exhausted, and unlikely to achieve good results—in effect, a death sentence.

Hearing this, Li Yan shook his head and crossed out a name on the document before him.

Dong Zijian saw it clearly.

The document was the list of participants for the Eastern Youth Games sprint team.

Only two days remained until the opening ceremony.

Many teams training at the national center had already departed for Macau, eager to arrive early and acclimatize to the competition venue.

The reason the sprint team’s roster had not yet been announced—drawing even the attention of the central leadership—boiled down to Rousseau.

Li Yan had been using the list as leverage, pressuring Rousseau to deliver better results.

Now, upon hearing Rousseau was ill, Li Yan’s only response was to simply cross out his name from the roster?

Dong Zijian could hardly contain himself!

“Coach! Aren’t you going to check on Rousseau?” Dong Zijian’s voice rose. “Shouldn’t you assess his condition before deciding on the lineup?”

“If I were the legendary miracle doctor of your country, able to raise the dead, I certainly would,” Li Yan replied. “But I am only a coach—I cannot heal him. What value would my visit bring him?”

“Coach, the truth is, such a visit would bring no value—to you,” Dong Zijian could not help retorting.

“I gave him an opportunity and he failed to seize it,” Li Yan spread his hands. “That’s the reality. I have no personal feelings, positive or negative, toward Rousseau. So your objections are meaningless.”

Dong Zijian was nearly speechless. Couldn’t this man show a shred of humanity? I see none in you, Coach!

“If I feel anything, it’s disappointment,” Li Yan sighed. “I invested considerable effort in Rousseau…”

“If by ‘invested effort’ you mean giving him no training and keeping him off the main roster, that really must have taken a lot of energy,” Dong Zijian’s sarcasm was unmistakable.

“Coach Dong, you know very well the coaching staff supports every athlete equally—we simply use different methods to help them improve. Zhang Zhen needs encouragement, Tian Shiwei needs supervision, and Rousseau, driven as he is, only needs to be left alone under pressure and his results will rise naturally. Why meddle unnecessarily?” Li Yan replied.

“Why does Zhang Zhen need encouragement? Because he’s still young and has great potential? Rousseau, because he’s older and has had less training, you think he has no future—so you use him up and discard him like trash, am I right?” Dong Zijian was truly angry now.

Li Yan’s approach insulted everything Dong Zijian believed in: coaches exist to serve, guide, and support athletes—not to oppress them with bullying and discrimination. That was no better than the slave drivers of ancient Rome’s arenas!

Li Yan and Dong Zijian locked eyes for several seconds.

“OK, OK, I’m sorry,” Li Yan finally apologized—he was nothing if not a pragmatist, and harmony within the team was essential. After all, Dong Zijian was an indispensable lifestyle coach, rare in both competence and willingness to support others in a subordinate role.

“But we really have done quite a bit for Rousseau. We stayed up late gathering materials and videos to improve his running form. Even if he leaves the national team, his 200-meter time has improved greatly,” Li Yan shrugged.

“…I’m sorry, I was out of line,” Dong Zijian apologized too. Indeed, the materials and suggestions to help Rousseau improve had been created under Li Yan’s direction and in collaboration with Dong Zijian.

Dong Zijian had to admit: in terms of sprinting expertise, Li Yan was the most capable coach he’d ever met. The man’s only real flaw was a lack of humanity.

“Let’s go,” Li Yan stood up.

“Go where?” Dong Zijian was momentarily confused.

“To see Rousseau,” Li Yan replied, pulling on his suit jacket. “To comfort his wounded, innocent soul.”

...

Rousseau lay on the hospital bed.

He felt like a boiled apple, radiating heat from the inside out.

The doctor had told him it was nothing serious—just exhaustion. His body had gone on strike. A glucose drip and a few days’ rest would set him right, but he could not continue to train so recklessly. Who was their coach anyway, why weren’t they keeping an eye on them?

The doctor’s nagging faded into the background as Rousseau lay quietly, watching the IV drip trickle its contents into his veins, as if restoring a measure of strength and making him less feeble.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been ill.

Though life had been harsh, Rousseau had always been robust, rarely falling sick—not even a headache or cold in years. Perhaps it was precisely this iron constitution that had allowed him to endure the months of grueling training since gaining the status panel.

Now, Rousseau found himself missing Lu Xiaoyu acutely.

What would Lu Xiaoyu do if she knew he was sick?

She would certainly cry, hugging him with her nose red, saying, “Brother, let’s stop training and go home!”

The thought filled him with warmth. Every wanderer in a strange land needs the comfort of home to keep going, and for Rousseau, Lu Xiaoyu was the very embodiment of home.

He wanted to call her.

But it was morning; she would be in class.

Once he had enough money, he really should buy a phone for each of them...

Just then, the door opened.

Li Yan, ever impeccably dressed, entered first, a mask of feigned concern on his face.

Dong Zijian followed, his expression far more genuine.

Rousseau said nothing, only watched them.

“Rousseau, are you feeling any better?” Li Yan asked.

Rousseau shook his head, still weak.

“Just rest now. At a time like this, there’s no need to worry about anything else,” Dong Zijian added.

Indeed, at a moment like this, everything else faded away.

Yet Rousseau’s next words caught both coaches by surprise: “Coach, I’ll be fine by tomorrow. Let me run the 200 meters.”