Chapter 72: Double Champion

Preparing for the second start.

As the nine athletes on the track slowly walked back to their starting positions, Lu Suo’s attention was drawn to the runner in lane six, the one with the Japanese flag on his bib. That was Masafumi Fujiwara, Japan’s representative, and the main rival the coaching staff had warned Lu Suo about. There were also formidable opponents in lane five from Kazakhstan and lane four from Korea.

Given the domestic standard for the 200-meter dash, formidable adversaries abound on the international stage. Chen Tianfu’s time of around 21.10 seconds would barely get him through the preliminary round.

Masafumi Fujiwara noticed Lu Suo’s gaze.

This Japanese athlete, standing at 1.78 meters, had rather ordinary features—one could even say homely: small eyes, a large nose, thick lips, and a face marked by the habitual seriousness and focus typical of the Japanese.

Worldwide, only the three East Asian nations can easily distinguish one another’s facial features and temperament.

He was a prodigy in Japanese sprinting—a 16-year-old who had swept the 100-meter and 200-meter titles at the World Youth Athletics Championships. Commonly known as the Youth World Championships, this biennial event is open to those under 17, and Lu Suo was now too old to participate.

Lu Suo knew that last year, when Masafumi Fujiwara claimed both youth world titles, his 100-meter time was 10.35 seconds and his 200-meter time was 20.75 seconds.

Just yesterday, he had taken gold in the East Asian Youth Games 100 meters, improving his time to 10.31 seconds, and his 200-meter must have improved as well—likely to around 20.70 or even 20.65 seconds.

That would break the East Asian Youth Games record for 200 meters.

Impressive, indeed.

But just how strong was he?

Lu Suo looked at Masafumi Fujiwara and said, “Anata wa mada mada da ne.”

What?

A look of deep confusion flickered in Masafumi Fujiwara’s small eyes.

Meanwhile, Lu Suo’s status bar prompted: “Because you are not familiar with the opponent, your taunt had no effect.”

So be it.

Lu Suo had only been testing the waters.

After all, this was just the preliminary round; he was curious to see how fast Masafumi Fujiwara really was.

As for that phrase in Japanese, Lu Suo had no idea what it meant—he had simply recited it according to the phonetic transcription in the status bar. Clearly, the status bar was not omnipotent; taunting foreign athletes was not always effective.

After this brief interlude, Lu Suo returned to the starting line.

The starter called out “Ready” once again.

Bang!

This time, no one jumped the gun.

Neither did Lu Suo; his status bar’s simulated “gun-jumping” strategy hadn’t worked, and another attempt would result in disqualification.

From the stands, the nine athletes’ start looked like a perfectly straight diagonal line, which soon began to tear and surge forward at various points.

In lane six, Masafumi Fujiwara surged ahead, rapidly closing in on the runners in lanes five, four, and three. Almost all eyes in the stadium, however, were fixed on lane eight, on the home athlete.

During the athlete introductions earlier, everyone had learned that lane eight belonged to a domestic competitor—a compatriot. The name Lu Suo was unfamiliar, but he nonetheless commanded their support.

Now, the spectators could see they were not to be disappointed: the runner in lane eight was matching the Japanese athlete’s speed, trailing only by a few strides. Keeping pace with Fujiwara, he overtook lane seven, caught up with lanes five, four, and three…

“Lane eight! Lane eight! Lane eight!” shouted those who hadn’t memorized Lu Suo’s name.

“Lu Suo! Lu Suo! Lu Suo!” cheered those who had.

…

Dong Zijian watched Lu Suo’s powerful figure on the track with mounting excitement; he could see that Lu Suo was running very well today, his form was excellent.

Li Yan, by contrast, remained calm—so calm, in fact, that he had time to wave to the Japanese coach next door, Hiroshi Tsuchie—an old friend.

…

Hiroshi Tsuchie gave Li Yan a slight bow, then refocused his attention on the ongoing race. Masafumi Fujiwara was strong enough to easily claim gold—no question about it. Yet Li Yan’s composure made Hiroshi Tsuchie uneasy.

In Tsuchie’s experience, Li Yan’s calm always meant he had something up his sleeve; this champion coach was known for his pragmatism and ruthlessness.

That mainland athlete… doesn’t seem that fast, though…

While the runner in lane eight, Lu Suo, was chasing Fujiwara’s stride, it was clear he couldn’t quite keep up. There was a gap in their abilities—Fujiwara ran with ease, while Lu Suo was at his limit.

…

Before reaching the finish, Masafumi Fujiwara even glanced back.

…

Lu Suo crossed the line second.

…

Soon, the results appeared on the stadium’s big screen.

“1681, Masafumi Fujiwara, 20.75 seconds
0815, Lu Suo, 20.85 seconds
…”

Applause erupted throughout the venue.

Clearly, this was a result to celebrate—second in the heats, only one spot behind first place. There was hope.

…

The 200-meter heats were being broadcast live on Ao City Television.

Ao City TV had invited a renowned domestic sports commentator to cover the event.

The expert’s analysis was sharp and insightful.

“First, congratulations to Lu Suo from Southern Guangdong Province for his impressive 20.85 seconds—a surprising result, since previously, only Chen Tianfu from Hubei was known for the 200 meters on the national team, and his best was 21.10 seconds.”

“20.85 and 21.10—is that 0.25 second gap significant in the 200 meters?” the host asked.

“That’s the difference between a world-class contender and a national-level athlete,” the expert replied. “As everyone knows, our country’s athletics, especially in sprinting, still has a considerable gap with the world’s elite.

“Our domestic standards are set with most local athletes in mind. The national standard for 200-meter ‘Elite’ is 21.35 seconds, but the ‘International Elite’ benchmark is 20.62. By that measure, Lu Suo’s 200-meter performance is world-class.”

The expert continued, “From what I see, Lu Suo officially joined the Pengcheng Provincial Team as an athlete only this July—meaning he’s had less than four months of professional training. That’s truly remarkable.”

The host was genuinely amazed after reading his notes.

The expert nodded, “Yes, and he didn’t even have an official 200-meter time with the Pengcheng team, so perhaps the national team saw his potential and gave him targeted training.”

“What kind of result do you think Lu Suo can ultimately achieve in the 200 meters?” the host inquired.

“I think… a bronze medal is within reach.”

“Why not gold?” the host pressed.

The expert asked for a replay of the race—especially the final dash to the line:

“Notice the Japanese runner in lane six, Masafumi Fujiwara, during the sprint to the finish. He turned his head to look back—a completely unnecessary and rather risky move.

“It also suggests that he wasn’t at his limit. The 20.75 seconds wasn’t his best. Meanwhile, for Lu Suo, 20.85 might already be his ceiling…”