Chapter Ninety-Eight: Pride

The venue for the indoor track and field invitational in Rong City was the Xipu Athletics Base.

A sports field is much the same wherever you go.

The only real difference lay in the red banners draped along the railings of the second floor. One side read, “Stride forth with steps that shake mountains and rivers,” the other proclaimed, “Running on the track of the new era,” while the central banner proudly announced, “Warmly welcoming the 2004 Indoor Track and Field Invitational (Rong City Station) and the official opening of the World Athletics Indoor Tour.”

Every time Rousseau saw these red banners, he felt a certain fondness.

The competition format at the Rong City leg was nearly identical to that of the capital. But there were far fewer participants.

While the 60-meter race still had two groups and a total of twelve competitors, the 200-meter had dwindled to a single group of four—only the finals remained. The 400 meters, on the other hand, had attracted more entrants and was split into two groups.

As Rousseau studied the list of competitors, he pondered the meager turnout for the 200 meters and discussed the matter with Lu Jinrong.

“It’s because of you,” Lu Jinrong said.

Me? Rousseau was surprised. What did this have to do with him?

“Before the meet, coaches from other provinces’ sprint teams asked me if you’d be competing in every station of this indoor invitational. I said yes, and they immediately shifted their focus to the 60 and 400 meters,” Lu Jinrong explained.

Oh… Rousseau glanced around.

He quickly noticed quite a few people pointing and whispering about him. Clearly, in the domestic track and field world—especially the sprinting circle—he was no longer an unknown. He was beginning to make a name for himself.

“Your 200-meter performance is simply too strong. Everyone assumes you’ll take first place, so there’s little point in competing if they can’t win; after all, only first place gets a cash prize,” Lu Jinrong continued.

“Zhang Zhen still holds the 60-meter record, but plenty of people are willing to compete with him,” Rousseau remarked. Mentioning Zhang Zhen, he glanced around, realizing suddenly that the little Nezha hadn’t shown up.

“In the indoor 60 meters, the gap in ability isn’t as obvious—or at least it appears that way. If you’re not in top form, even a record holder can stumble. But the 200 meters are a different story: the indoor track is more complex, demands more from the athlete, and it’s much harder to challenge the top dog,” Lu Jinrong explained.

“And, more crucially, there’s a dearth of talent in the 200 meters domestically. Those who could excel at 200 have all shifted their focus to the 100,” he added.

Indeed, whether at home or abroad, the 200 meters has always been overshadowed by the 100 in terms of attention and prestige.

“Coach, did you tell them I’m running the 400 meters this time?” Rousseau asked.

Lu Jinrong chuckled. “Do you really think you’re the king of sprints? No one’s afraid of you in the 400.”

“They will be,” Rousseau replied. “Oh, and Zhang Zhen isn’t here.”

“He’s probably at training camp. Not every athlete runs every leg of the invitational,” Lu Jinrong said.

Rousseau shook his head in disappointment.

It wasn’t the same without Zhang Zhen.

…

December 10th.

11:00 AM.

60-meter preliminary heats.

Rousseau didn’t slip up.

He clocked a time of 6.68 seconds, qualifying for the finals in first place.

With Zhang Zhen absent, Rousseau didn’t don the Glass Crown, yet his combination of “momentum + acceleration + explosive power” remained invincible.

…

4:00 PM.

The 60-meter final.

Rousseau activated the “Glass Crown,” delivering his best 60-meter performance to date: 6.54 seconds. This was 0.04 seconds faster than the record Zhang Zhen had set at the capital’s meet.

Once again, the national indoor record for this event was raised by 0.04 seconds.

The number “6.54 seconds” and Rousseau’s name would now be forever etched into the annals of the Xipu Athletics Base.

…

Even though he’d set a new record,

Rousseau didn’t receive a new “skill.”

He only gained a single attribute point.

So… a record can only be broken once? Or perhaps only records held by others count—if Rousseau breaks his own record, it doesn’t register in the status panel.

It made sense, he thought. If Rousseau deliberately ran slower in one race just to beat his own record in the next, he could break records endlessly and “wholesale” skills from the status panel.

…

After the race, coaches and athletes from across the country stared at Rousseau as if he were some kind of monster. Just last round, this big, dark fellow had posted a 6.60; now he’d run 6.54. What kind of progress was that? He was approaching world-class standards!

You’ve broken the national indoor 60-meter record again and again—it’s almost indecent.

Now,

Rousseau stood beside the electronic scoreboard, asking Lu Jinrong to take his picture.

In the photo, Rousseau pointed up at the scoreboard above his head.

“6.54 seconds” and “Rousseau” gleamed brightly on the screen.

“What are you going to do with this picture?” Lu Jinrong asked curiously.

“Send it to Zhang Zhen,” Rousseau replied. “The Quancheng leg won’t be any fun without him.”

Lu Jinrong watched Rousseau’s proud expression, wanting to say something but holding his tongue. With Rousseau’s current results, he really had earned the right to be proud.

…

Back at the hotel,

Rousseau went to check on Ruan Mei.

He hadn’t seen her all day and didn’t know if her fever had gone down.

When Rousseau entered the room, he found Ruan Mei still asleep, though the eggs and milk by her bedside were gone. It seemed she’d woken up to eat, then fallen back asleep—she’d slept for an entire day. Remarkable.

He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead—no longer hot. The fever had broken.

Sleep truly was the best medicine.

Rousseau drew back the curtains in Ruan Mei’s room.

Daylight streamed in; at long last, the winter sun shone over Rong City—a rare blessing for the season.

The crimson glow of the setting sun bathed Ruan Mei’s face, illuminating the fine down of her skin, making her resemble a classic Hong Kong beauty from old photographs.

“Time to get up,” Rousseau called to her.

Mmm… Ruan Mei blinked, seeing a man silhouetted against the light in the window. Startled, she bolted upright, relaxing only when she realized it was Rousseau.

“Um… what time is it?” Ruan Mei asked.

“Six o’clock. Time for dinner,” Rousseau replied.

“Six o’clock… but you just said it was ten…” Ruan Mei was still muddled, though she remembered Rousseau’s earlier fib.

“That was yesterday evening,” Rousseau said.

“Right, I need to get up. You’ve still got a competition… I need to take photos.” Ruan Mei was a bit more awake, but still groggy.

“No rush, the competition’s tomorrow. You look much better now, so let’s eat first—watch the race tomorrow.” As he spoke, Rousseau handed her watch back to her. “Get yourself together; I’ll wait for you in the restaurant downstairs.”

Ruan Mei accepted the watch in a daze. When she rubbed her eyes and focused on the date, she let out a startled cry.

…

Five minutes later,

Rousseau spotted Ruan Mei in the hotel’s buffet restaurant.

She had almost chased him downstairs.

“How could you do that—take my watch and not wake me up…” Ruan Mei’s eyes reddened in indignation.

“You had a fever. If you’d kept working, you could have died,” Rousseau said. “If you died in Rong City, how would I explain it to your father?”

Die from a fever? Ruan Mei was almost in tears from exasperation.