After the girl left, the world fell quiet again.

A cool evening breeze brushed past as I gazed at the Traditional Chinese Medicine Hospital ahead. Long-buried memories resurfaced, lingering stubbornly in my mind.

Along with the exam questions, every memory from "my" life in this world now felt crystal clear—as if each moment had happened just yesterday.

After nearly a year of treatment at Fifth Hospital, Mom, losing hope in Western medicine, transferred here. This became where she spent her final days.

I remember her words the day before she died: "Yi Yao, I wish you’d been born a girl."

Dad said Mom had always wanted a daughter. But in our family, sons held far more value. With the one-child policy, bearing a girl meant plummeting status among relatives. A son, at least, let you hold your head high at family gatherings.

Of course, some relatives risked fines to have a second child after naming their first daughter "Zhao Di"—"Bringing a Brother."

*Yi Yao.* "The road tests a horse’s strength; time reveals the heart." That’s what my father in another world said about my name.

Here, though, Dad once told me plainly: he’d wanted another son. But Mom’s illness made pregnancy impossible. So he named me Yi Yao—"unreachable wish"—a sigh for dreams forever out of reach.

"..."

Time for class.

Beyond Dad’s allowance, I—Yi Yao—had another income source: taekwondo coaching.

Training had been brutal at first, especially for a girl like me. I’d only started because a classmate, too shy to train alone, gave me a free month’s pass as her sparring partner. She quit within two weeks. I, the quiet one, stayed. I scraped savings from my allowance for training and belt tests.

Six years straight.

From clueless white-belt newbie, I climbed through yellow, green, blue, and red belts. With my coach’s recommendation, I joined Shangjing City’s top taekwondo academy—and earned my second-degree black belt.

Now, my skills surpassed everyone there. They waived my fees and even paid *me* to train. When busy, I doubled as an instructor.

Pulling my jacket tighter, I headed home—and suddenly remembered my bike was still in Long Fei’s car trunk.

*How do I get to school tomorrow?*

I opened QQ on my phone, tapped Long Fei’s avatar, and typed:

*"My bike’s still in your trunk. If it’s not at my building by 9 PM tonight, be at my place at 6:30 AM tomorrow to drive me."*

His reply came quickly:

*"Work emergency tonight. Your school’s on my way to the airport—I’ll pick you up tomorrow."*

Good enough.

I sent the young master a smiley face, pocketed my phone, and boarded the bus home.

*Next time I need Huang Qinghao’s help, I must make sure Xiaodie isn’t around.*

A lovestruck girl with connections was terrifying. If possible, I’d avoid making her an enemy.

*Worst case, I’ll consult Ouyang Earth.*

Shangjing City’s traffic in 2016 flowed smoothly. The bus swayed gently for half an hour before reaching my neighborhood stop.

I rushed home, ate a quick meal, then pulled my taekwondo uniform from the closet and stuffed it into a bag.

"Dad, I’m heading out."

He knew I trained nightly. Seeing my gear, he just nodded, cheerful as usual, sipping liquor while watching a war drama on TV.

At the door, I swallowed the words *"Drink less"* after holding them back for a long moment.

I arrived at the dojo mid-warmup. Over fifty students jogged along the perimeter.

"Rare to see you late," said Zhai Fangning—one of the coaches. At 1.6 meters tall, with a gentle face and a first-degree black belt, he joked often but turned fiercely strict when needed. We called him Coach Da Ning behind his back.

"Sorry. Got held up."

I bowed to the national flag at the dojo’s center, then to Da Ning, before darting to the changing room.

Large, expressive eyes. A clean, youthful face. Shoulder-length hair. Skin not porcelain-pale but healthily tanned. A flat stomach with zero flab, leading to long, toned legs. This was Yi Yao’s body.

Years of training gave her legs strength over delicate slenderness—but they were perfectly proportioned. Stripping off my school pants, I saw no flaws from this angle.

*Well. I’m a girl now. No time to fawn over my own reflection.*

Slipping into the loose dobok transformed the girl in the mirror completely.

*No wonder girls who practice martial arts or dance draw attention. That aura really is forged in daily sweat.*

Outside, warmups continued. I stretched briefly and joined Da Ning in jogging.

Loosening up properly mattered. Taekwondo, like all martial arts, was a path to inner clarity—you had to *understand* the techniques to master them.

But first, you needed to find the road to that understanding.

Most students here were beginners. They’d buy a membership, grab a uniform, tie on a white belt, and quit before reaching green belt. Too busy with school. Or just too tough. This dojo had operated for decades—yet I remained its only homegrown black belt.

We taught basics: jogging, stretching, front/side/hooks kicks, basic forms. One evening vanished like that.

"Hold on! Five more laps!"

"Get up! Don’t tell yourself you can’t. If you quit now, how will you face life? Chase happiness?"

"Yes! Perfect! Keep moving!"

The dojo spanned ten basketball courts. By day, it hosted badminton and volleyball. At night, one-third became our training ground—a brutal expanse for these sedentary teens.

Twenty laps of running warmups. Daily routine. Girls and newcomers got slight leeway.

At first, I doubted Yi Yao’s body could finish twenty laps. Even with her memories, I didn’t believe it—until I ran ten laps straight and felt her iron will.

"Get up!"

"You can do it! If boys can, so can you!"

Once, at age nine, Yi Yao had been that exhausted child—dragging her feet toward the finish line under a coach’s shouts.

Five laps. Ten. Fifteen. By ten, she shed the "junior" exemption and ran all twenty like everyone else.

In some ways, Yi Yao was stronger than anyone. Yet she’d ultimately surrendered to her own despair.

"Two laps left! Don’t stop—up!"

"I can’t... Coach... can I skip this?"

As I neared fifteen laps, a flicker of fatigue hit me. Da Ning stood over a student collapsed on the floor, sternly urging the teen forward.

"Gonna die if I keep running..." The boy panted, face flushed, his belt tied crookedly.

*You’re more likely to collapse if you stop suddenly.* After intense exercise, you must walk while regulating breath—only rest once the adrenaline fades.

I jogged over. "What’s wrong?"

"Reporting, Coach! I’m done!"

I smiled faintly. "Real men don’t say ‘I can’t.’ How old are you?"

"Huh?" He blinked. "Seventeen. Why?"

"I’m sixteen. Started later than you. I’ll pass you in two laps. Sure you want to quit?"

"I—"

His face flushed crimson. He stared at my black belt, then at my smiling face. Finally, he gritted his teeth and stood. "I don’t believe you’re sixteen."

"Calling a girl old kills your charm, you know?" Seeing my point made, I sped up. "Fail to prove yourself, and you’ll regret it later."

"No—wait! I’ll run, okay?"

The kid’s helpless expression made me cover my mouth to hide a laugh as I quickened my pace.

"Hey! No fair, Coach!"

With high turnover, coaches rarely memorized every student’s name. Years ago, newcomers introduced themselves—but the rule faded. Quiet girls like Yi Yao still knew almost no one beyond the instructors.

"One lap left. Remember: fall behind me, and you’ll pay for it."

"Don’t—ah! Help!"

"..."