Lu Li sat in the security room, watching the live broadcast on TV. He accepted a bottle of iced tea from the security guard and murmured, “Thanks.” As a minor, he wasn’t hassled—just registered his name, address, and number, then allowed to wait there until the match ended. Not a bad deal: AC, a plush sofa… a hundred times better than the sweltering stands.
“Is that your sister?” Despite his burly, stern-faced appearance, the guard was actually a gentle middle-aged dad of three daughters. “She’s incredible. Watching her play really stirs something in you.”
Zou Yameng had always radiated charisma—maybe from her confidence, her grit, or her relentless effort. Wave after wave of fans rallied behind her.
“She’s always been the best,” Lu Li said proudly. No exaggeration. In his previous life, his sister’s achievements ultimately surpassed He Ping’s. For some reason, the once-smooth-sailing He Ping retired just a year later, never securing a world ranking.
“You two siblings share such a warm bond,” the guard sighed, sinking into the sofa. “Not like my three girls. Home from college break? Nonstop bickering. Never tidy up—their rooms are absolute pigstys.”
*Pigsty…* Lu Li didn’t know many messy girls, but Chen Jianing counted. In his past life, they’d been classic rivals-turned-acquaintances: indie game devs locked in competition, flaming each other online, trolling under fake IDs. Lu Li had assumed he was arguing with some rough dude. Truth was, Chen Jianing *was* that rough dude—she never saw herself as “just a woman.”
*Getting carried away. This life might not even cross paths with her.*
The broadcast replayed the last game’s highlights: Zou Yameng and He Ping locked in fierce mid-to-long rallies, dozens of exchanges culminating in Zou Yameng’s explosive smash. The commentator gushed without restraint, calling her *“graceful as a startled swan, elegant as a swimming dragon.”* Lu Li knew his sister wouldn’t like that description.
He never believed her comeback was his doing. Zou Yameng stood on that court. Zou Yameng poured out the sweat. He’d only given her a gentle nudge when she wavered. Watching the spirited woman on screen, pride and warmth filled his eyes—just like elementary school, proudly reading his essay *“My Sister”* for *“My Family.”* Look. That’s Zou Yameng. My invincible sister.
*
Game Six began. He Ping was already drenched. She licked her parched lips, stepped onto the court, and faced Zou Yameng again. Ten minutes of rest was far too short. Her lungs felt scorched; a metallic, rusty taste rose in her throat—blood. She watched Zou Yameng emerge, surrounded by cheering Chuanhai teammates. A flicker crossed He Ping’s eyes. A trace of bitterness welled up. She was Jindong’s sole representative—no one here to cheer. No… there *should* have been. *Should have been.* Unbidden jealousy tightened her grip, veins standing out on her hand.
One word described Game Six: brutal.
Like an ancient battlefield’s final melee—every soldier spent, even the fallen dragged as shields. The score stayed razor-close. He Ping’s shots weakened; Zou Yameng’s movements slowed. The commentator fell silent. No one could predict this. Every spectator held their breath, eyes locked on the tiny white ball.
At the whistle, Zou Yameng threw her hands up—12-14. She’d taken the third set by a hair. The legendary comeback—from three sets down to win four straight—was *right there*. Cheers buzzed around her. *I’m doing it. I’m succeeding!* If this was a dream, let her never wake.
He Ping’s face stayed blank, but sweat beaded relentlessly on her brow. A fear she’d never known clutched her heart—shallow breaths, oxygen fleeing. Fear of failure. She’d never imagined losing to a peer. Others always chased *her* shadow… but now, Zou Yameng had pulled a full stride ahead.
Three sets all! Match point. Final set!
Amid the tension, He Ping’s mind drifted to her parents. Resentment flared—why weren’t they here? Why fight alone? Her vision blurred. Childhood flashed back: Why ping pong? School required a club. Others chose art, music… she had nothing. Her father said she shamed their intellectual family. To avoid disappointing him, she picked ping pong—just because the PE teacher said, *“Not bad. Keep practicing.”*
Year two: expensive camps. Year three: no free time. Year five: Mom boasting about her “talent.” Year six: Dad’s red envelope—*“Wishing little Huan Olympic gold!”* No one ever asked if she liked this tedious, back-and-forth sport. She didn’t. Not one bit. She played for *their* pride. But… why weren’t they here? Didn’t they promise?
“You okay?” Zou Yameng’s voice cut through.
He Ping’s lips were pale, gaze unfocused. *Something’s wrong. Back numb. Heart aching. Can’t breathe.*
“I’m fine,” she replied.
Stubbornness cost her fast. Within five minutes, four straight points lost. Even the clueless saw it: He Ping was spent. In this war of attrition, the tireless, almost monstrous Zou Yameng would win.
*
In the rest area, Jindong’s coach hung up, face ashen, throat tight. She stared at the exhausted He Ping. *Something happened.* He Ping’s parents—highway crash. Hospital. Critical. How to tell her? *Now?*
She saw He Ping scanning the stands, searching for them. Yearning. Everyone has a pillar. Belief makes you strong… and fragile. Shattered faith breaks you. Nihilists would call this freedom.
Zou Yameng surged to 0-10. The once-demon He Ping—shut out in the final set. One point left. One point to climb over He Ping and reach the peak.
Zou Yameng looked at He Ping’s deathly pale face. No pity. No anger. No joy. No sorrow. Calm before the storm. A simmering volcano. Only her heartbeat thumped. Only He Ping’s serving hand mattered. Only the boy’s shadow echoed. Technique? Gone. This was pure, blazing passion.
He Ping barely returned the ball. To Zou Yameng, it was perfect—angle, power, speed. *The moment.* She roared, losing herself—a final spark from dying flames.
Legend says Zhang Fei’s roar once felled Xiahou Jie. Roaring was a man’s weapon… yet who imagined a beautiful woman’s roar could shake souls this deeply? On court, she became a tigress. That roar—a summer-night firework—igniting life’s flame in every heart.
The crowd rose. All eyes on Zou Yameng’s hand drawing back like Genghis Khan’s bow—*snap!*—racket striking the ball like thunder.
The ball landed, shot forward like an arrow, brushed past He Ping’s shoulder, stirring her short hair. She stared blankly. The white ball was gone. Only the roar echoed. A quiet thought surfaced: *How wonderful. I don’t have to pretend anymore.*
Final whistle. He Ping shut out in the deciding set.
Thunderous applause—for Zou Yameng, for He Ping. For sport’s soul. For life’s fire. Zou Yameng walked over, embraced her. No words. Silent parting.
He Ping returned to the rest area, oblivious to her coach’s strained face.
“Sorry. I’ll train twice as hard,” she murmured, gaze hollow. She slung her bag, turned to leave—stopped. “They still haven’t come?”
The coach choked out, “They… said something urgent came up…”
“Tell them… I hate them.”
No more words. He Ping walked calmly out into the world.
