Chapter Seventy-Nine: An Unexpected Incident at the Press Conference

More than thirty reporters sat below the stage, facing Rousseau.

As Rousseau accepted the microphone from the bureau leader, a ripple of excitement passed through the crowd. Reporters, after all, are accustomed to endless official jargon and formulaic speeches; by nature, they don't care for such bland pronouncements, though sometimes there’s no avoiding them.

But Rousseau—an eighteen-year-old who seemed a bit reserved—had just won gold in the 200-meter event at the East Asian Youth Games. This was a groundbreaking achievement for domestic athletics; how many years had it been since the nation captured a sprint gold? Only a few months ago, Pan Kai had brought home a 100-meter title at the University Games, and now Rousseau had claimed glory in the 200 meters at the East Asian Youth Games. These two were already being hailed as leading figures in the country’s track and field scene. In this moment, the reporters were witnessing the rise of another “Flying Man.”

“Hello, Rousseau. Although we have your profile in hand, could you introduce yourself to readers across the country? Your name is about to become the focus for all sports enthusiasts, and they’ll want to know more about you,” one reporter asked.

Indeed, they already held Rousseau’s official profile. But the press—and their readers—longed for the real Rousseau, not a national hero wrapped in bureaucratic language.

“Alright. My name is Rousseau—yes, like the author of ‘The Social Contract.’ I’m eighteen, 1.82 meters tall, and weigh 78 kilograms… Anything else?” Rousseau seemed at a loss for what more to add.

“What do you like to eat?” someone asked.

“Fish, I suppose—because my sister likes it,” Rousseau replied.

“We’ve heard you only started formal training this July and became a professional athlete. What were you doing before that?” another reporter inquired.

“Delivering takeout, washing cars, sometimes working as a kitchen helper,” Rousseau answered, surprising everyone.

“So you weren’t in school? I thought you’d say you were a student,” the reporter pressed.

“I dropped out in my early teens—to support my family,” Rousseau replied.

“Who do you have at home?” came another question.

“My little sister,” Rousseau said. “Her name’s Xiaoyu.”

“And your parents?”

“They’re gone.”

A hush fell over the room for several seconds. Sympathy welled up in their hearts—human empathy at work—but soon pride took its place: here was a son of China, rising from hardship to reach the pinnacle of the world.

At that moment, the bureau leader took the microphone, urging everyone to focus more on Rousseau’s achievements.

But aren’t achievements inseparable from the person? The readers cared far more about the human story behind the results. The journalists, a little helpless, shifted to the main topic.

“Congratulations, Rousseau, on your gold in the 200 meters at the East Asian Youth Games. You’re now the undisputed number one in the country at this distance. What do you have to say about your performance, and what are your plans for the future?” a reporter asked.

It was an ordinary question. Any typical athlete would seize the cue—praising leadership, thanking coaches and teammates, and soon a flowery article would appear in every paper, with Rousseau’s name in bold headlines the next day.

Rousseau, microphone in hand, glanced to his side. The bureau leader beamed at him with kindly approval. Coach Li Yan wore a smile as well. Even Zhang Zhen, off to one side, now looked at him with newfound warmth.

Indeed, as long as you succeed, flowers and applause await you everywhere. The world seems full of spring.

But Rousseau did not wish to follow that path.

As Rousseau hesitated, the reporter thought him unprepared and tried to nudge him along: “Don’t be nervous, Rousseau, it’s just a chat—maybe start with who you want to thank most, who gave you indispensable help in reaching this point.”

Rousseau cleared his throat.

Turning to the reporter, he began, “First, I want to thank the bureau leaders. Without their strategic planning and wise direction in athletics, I wouldn’t be on this stage today, enjoying this success…”

The bureau leader’s smile grew even more benevolent as he listened. “He’s got the hang of it…” he thought.

The reporters, slightly disappointed, assumed Rousseau’s speech had been rehearsed in advance.

Rousseau continued: “Next, I want to thank my coach in the provincial team, Lu Jinrong, who recommended me for the national team and gave me this chance to bring honor to my country. I also want to thank my teammate, Tian Shiwei, who trained with me late into the night. Half of this gold medal belongs to him. Finally, I want to thank…”

As he spoke, Rousseau gestured toward Li Yan, the head coach.

The reporters continued to take notes, expecting the next words to be a tribute to the lead coach.

But to everyone’s astonishment, Rousseau’s hand landed lightly on his own chest.

“…and finally, I want to thank myself. I was the one who pushed myself to break my limits, improving my 200-meter time from 21.25 seconds when I joined the team to 20.58 in official competition. In this journey, assistant national coach Dong Zijian gave me tremendous help, but most of all, it was my own effort.”

He patted his chest again.

Li Yan’s expression froze. Rousseau’s earlier gesture had made him certain he was about to be named. Though Li Yan was well versed in Chinese culture, he’d clearly never trained in comedic cross-talk, or else he might have quipped, “Next time, if you’re not going to mention me, could you not wave in my direction?”

Even the national assistant coach had been thanked—but not Li Yan, the head coach!

Every reporter in the hall suddenly came alive. It was as if antennae had sprung from their heads, electricity sparking in their eyes.

This was news—real news! Like an Oscar winner forgetting to thank the director—a snub that can mean more than mere oversight; it can hint at deep animosity.

The shock left the hall silent for a moment. All eyes were on Rousseau, who looked back at them and asked, “Any more questions?”

“I have one!” declared Guan Zhaoyue, the sports editor from Southern Guangdong Daily. “Rousseau, are you saying that, after joining the national team, your head coach gave you no guidance at all? That you achieved this entirely on your own?”

“That’s right,” Rousseau nodded. “To be precise, head coach Li Yan never gave me any guidance. The advice I received came entirely from assistant coach Dong Zijian.”

As he spoke, Rousseau pointed toward Dong Zijian in the front row.

Dong Zijian, suddenly the focus of thirty pairs of eyes, turned his head. In that instant, only one thought crossed his mind: What just happened? Has the Monkey King stormed the Jade Palace? Where’s the Buddha when you need him?

“Additionally, given my experience with the national team, I believe head coach Li Yan is entirely unfit to lead the country’s sprint program. In my opinion, coach Dong Zijian would be far more suitable for the role,” Rousseau declared, his words ringing out like a thunderclap.