Smash!

With a sharp, lightning-fast smash, Zou Yameng sent the ball whizzing past He Ping’s armpit—another point scored.

He Ping froze for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Zou Yameng’s style.

This wasn’t a shonen manga. No sudden power-ups. Hoarse shouting brought no strength. He Ping didn’t believe the outcome could change.

It should have been sealed twelve years ago—the moment she began relentless, sweat-drenched training. She was meant to be champion. Only she.

Yet when Zou Yameng first took the lead, He Ping had to look closer at “Chuanhai’s Tiger.”

Sweat drenched Zou Yameng. Stray strands clung to her forehead. The “Chuanhai” logo on her jersey looked plain, ordinary—no different from past opponents. Maybe Zou Yameng was the most beautiful. Maybe the most tenacious.

For the first time, He Ping checked the scoreboard: 7–8. Seven for her. Eight for Zou Yameng. She rarely looked. It never mattered.

Zou Yameng’s greatest weakness was her mind. Beneath that all-out, fiercely focused exterior lay surprising softness. She’d drift at trivial things, grow melancholy watching petals fall or water flow. Behind the dashing facade hid a girl not yet grown.

Lu Li was her remedy. With Lu Li’s support, she had no mental cracks—only flawless resolve.

He Ping had seen Zou Yameng at her peak. Now she saw it: no hesitation. Serves steadier. Responses calmer. Even trailing briefly, she stayed composed. Technique unchanged—but her strength had transformed.

Wolves were misunderstood. People called them cunning, vicious, greedy. Truth? Wolf packs were pragmatic, even cowardly. Ferocity was just survival’s disguise. Like Zou Yameng.

She’d shed the wolf. Facing He Ping now—upright, honest.

Momentum ruled matches. Call it aura. Call it flow. In positive rhythm, everything felt effortless. In doubt, every step turned heavy.

He Ping’s “invincible” aura finally wavered under Zou Yameng’s relentless counters. Even she felt it:

*“Zou Yameng is strong… Could I lose?”*

The thought alone pulled her into Zou Yameng’s rhythm. Worry bred hesitation. Hesitation slowed the hand. Slowness meant defeat.

The whistle blew. Players switched sides. Every eye locked on the scoreboard—shock etched deep.

9–11. Against all odds, Zou Yameng had snatched the game back!

“He Ping actually lost a set?”

“Winning and losing are part of the game…”

He Ping listened, poker face unmoved. She admitted it: she’d underestimated Zou Yameng. Her skills weren’t broader, but her offense was monstrous. And that body—showing zero fatigue, like a beast’s.

Stamina was He Ping’s real leak. Trading blows with Zou Yameng drained mind and muscle. One slip, and Zou Yameng struck.

A numb haze crept into He Ping’s thoughts. Years of overtraining left her body far from invincible.

She glanced at Zou Yameng catching her breath. Her eyes flicked downward—*How does she move like that? Doesn’t it hurt?*

He Ping shook her head, clearing the distraction.

Game Five began. Keen eyes saw He Ping’s reaction speed surge. Her unfocused gaze now locked tight on Zou Yameng’s racket hand. Full power unleashed.

Yet Zou Yameng held her ground. Faster reactions. Harder serves. Her vibrant body seemed limitless. Rally after rally—score tied 5–5.

Coach Dan’s eyes dropped to Zou Yameng’s left heel. “Yameng’s foot’s failing. Movements are slowing.”

“Oh no—Little Meng’s ankle twisted before! Is it flaring up?”

“Pfft, pfft, pfft! Don’t jinx it!”

“Waaah, pfft pfft pfft!”

Coach Dan was right. Direction changes lagged. But Zou Yameng ignored the dull ache, pushing 120 percent. Only sheer will could match He Ping. Her lower lip bled from biting down. Not once did she glance at her foot. Eyes locked on He Ping—missing nothing.

Then—the unexpected.

He Ping faulted her serve.

The referee shot her a silent, surprised look.

He Ping subtly adjusted her waist. In table tennis, waist power was everything. Weak waist meant weak serve, broken form. Her waist was injured. For athletes like them, competing without nagging pains was almost shameful.

Her next serve was slow, flat, wrist-pushed—lackluster.

Against ordinary players, He Ping held back—not arrogance, but preservation. But against Zou Yameng? Every shot demanded equal force. A heavy toll on her back.

Zou Yameng seized the opening. Counter after counter. Point after point.

Game Five ended 5–11. The once unshakable He Ping trailed by six.

Coach Jin called timeout.

He Ping sank onto the bench, gritting her teeth as she lifted her shirt—revealing the pain-relief patch on her lower back.

Patches should’ve been foreign to someone so young. *Should have been.*

“Ice?”

Coach’s face was grim. “Use this water bottle. Can you continue?”

“Yes.” One word. No more.

Suddenly, He Ping looked up at the stands. “Are they here?”

“…They didn’t call.”

A rare flicker of disappointment crossed her face. She pressed the bottle hard against her waist, silent.

Coach clenched his jaw. “Hold on. This match matters—the ministry has officials watching.”

“Mm.” She hated repetition. Everyone did it—saying the same thing three times, as if words needed echoes.

She preferred clarity. Decisiveness. Quick cuts.

Like her play: direct, efficient.

Like her life: simple, colorless.