Zou Yameng splashed cool water on her face and instantly felt refreshed and clear-headed.

Coach Dan stood nearby. “Snap to it! Your next match is against He Ping. Win this, and you’re in the semifinals—that’s your ticket to the provincial team!”

“I understand!” She opened her phone, glanced at a photo of herself and her younger brother. Like spiritual fuel, it steadied her. She took a deep breath. “I’m ready!”

How much confidence did she really have? Maybe ten percent. But even ten percent was worth fighting for with everything she had.

She was the only women’s singles player from Chuanhai Women’s Sports to advance—the last pride of the school’s table tennis team. Pressure weighed on her not just personally, but from the institution itself. Chuanhai City Women’s Sports School had once been hailed as “the national team’s youth training camp,” yet not one student from her cohort had received a national team invitation. The Sports Bureau’s pressure trickled down to coaches and athletes alike.

Coach Dan and her teammates all desperately needed this trophy.

*Stay steady, Zou Yameng. Stay steady.* Hold on—this was her only shot to change fate. Don’t fall here. Ahead lay her dreams, Lu Li, and everything yet to come.

She repeated the mantra until the announcer called her name. She froze, casting a helpless glance at Coach Dan. Then—she shed the weakness. Her eyes sharpened. She strode toward the court, purposeful. No turning back now.

Arena lights stabbed her vision. Cheers crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her mind trembled in the noise; her soul felt untethered, fingertips nearly brushing the distant heavens.

Her legs wanted to shake—but dared not. Her throat tightened—no sound escaped.

Yesterday’s match hadn’t felt this suffocating.

Through the blinding glare, He Ping emerged—an unscalable mountain. Slender, almost frail. Hair roughly cut. Calling her “unkempt” was generous. Her signature deadpan face, lit by white light, carried solemn, almost sacred dignity. She gripped the paddle, fingers locked tight around the wooden handle, knuckles stark and unyielding.

Beside her, the graceful, lovely Zou Yameng looked less like an athlete and more like a model on a runway. Society often mistakes genius for eccentricity—freaks, madmen, bookworms. True genius thrives in its field *and* beyond.

Most of Zou Yameng’s fans were there for her looks, split evenly male and female. They praised her beauty, never her skill. He Ping? Everyone spoke of her terrifying prowess. In two years, He Ping might conquer the world stage. Zou Yameng? Unthinkable.

Zou Yameng forced deep breaths. When she opened her eyes again, she was the fearless fighter once more—though He Ping saw right through the act. Bluffing was instinct. The emptier you felt, the louder you performed. They were both just obeying nature.

Silence fell as players took position. Pin-drop quiet.

He Ping accepted the ball from the referee, gave Zou Yameng a silent nod. Then—the war horn sounded.

Her serves flew three shades faster. If training He Ping was a drowsy lion, match He Ping was a provoked dragon.

Within exchanges, Zou Yameng fell behind. Point lost.

She didn’t falter. Wiped her paddle. Spirit unbroken. Pressure forged razor focus: the world shrank to this table, this silent deity across the net.

Second serve—He Ping’s motion effortless, like a scholar strolling a garden. Zou Yameng’s muscles coiled tight; thighs tensed beneath shorts. Somehow, she held the rally. For a moment, they stood evenly matched.

But fundamentals betrayed her. Her backhand was predictable. He Ping’s spin shifted—sharp angle, brutal smash. Rhythm shattered. Another point gone.

Momentum crumbled like sand. Five straight losses. 7-0.

Not a single point scored. He Ping stood immovable—a stone lion granting no opening.

The first set ended swiftly. 11-0. Zou Yameng, shut out.

Her calm fractured. She scanned unfamiliar faces in the stands. Felt Coach Dan’s gaze. Imagined a hollow future. *What are they whispering?* Probably how badly she’s failing. Their cheers only tightened the knot in her chest.

She hated the spotlight. Hated forced comfort in defeat. Hated feeling like a helpless creature begging for pity.

Best of seven. Still a chance. Don’t break.

Second set: Zou Yameng served. Tried to set her rhythm—but nerves betrayed her. Fault.

She nodded apologetically, lifted the white ball again… and froze.

He Ping waited, gaze distant, as if nothing deserved her attention.

“Player Zou Yameng, you may serve when ready,” the referee prompted.

“Mm.”

From the bench, Coach Dan watched, seeing her younger self. “Yameng’s afraid. He Ping is too strong. This match… has no hope.” Every era has geniuses who eclipse all others. Before them, ordinary people feel utterly powerless—almost inhuman.

That was fear.

Fear could drive you. Endless fear crushed you.

Zou Yameng wasn’t refusing to move—her body was too terrified. Afraid they’d see her trembling hands. Afraid of truly losing.

Another chance? Graduation loomed next June. None left.

Then—a gentle smile flashed in her mind. Courage surged. She served.

*This time, all in.* She had nothing. No room for error. Only everything to bet.

*

The second set ended fast. 11-0.

Zou Yameng, shut out again.