Chapter 45
The National Wushu Competition is in full swing, and the intensity of the group round-robin competition is like a tightening noose.
Every collision in the ring was accompanied by a dull thud, the trembling of muscles and bones. Sweat dripped onto the polished floor, instantly leaving dark marks. I was like a sword that had been unsheathed, forcing every block and every attack with my will.
The moment my opponent fell, the referee's whistle blew, announcing my advancement. The audience applauded, but all I could hear was my own pounding heartbeat and my rapid breathing.
We won, but it was an embarrassing victory.
When he walked off the stage, his steps seemed a little unsteady.
Physical fatigue was secondary; the feeling of losing control of his strength was what truly gnawed at his heart. With each move, the once effortless fluidity vanished, replaced by a sense of sluggishness and a subtle imbalance.
This is not like me.
After practicing martial arts for many years, my mind is as calm as water, and my body becomes the most sophisticated weapon.
But now, my mind is confused, my weapon has become dull, and even backfired on me.
I locked myself in the empty players' lounge.
The cold metal bench pressed against my sweaty back, sending shivers down my spine. I lowered my head, my hands resting on my knees, my fingertips turning white from the strain, and uncontrollable, subtle tremors emanated from deep within my body.
It's not coldness, it's a physiological reaction after overdrawn, and it's also the anger and powerlessness caused by the loss of control over one's own condition.
The glaring lights of the street tennis court that night, him holding the hand of a strange girl, that frivolous invitation, and even before that, the cold doubts about the "investigation" that lingered in his heart...
These images collided in my mind like fragments, stirring up my blood and making it impossible to concentrate and calm down.
If your mind is not stable, how can you talk about martial arts?
I hate this feeling of being controlled by emotions and even having my body betray me!
The door of the lounge was pushed open silently, and a tall shadow fell on the floor, extending to my feet.
You don't need to look up to know who it is.
The faint, crisp and familiar cedar amber base note in the air has long been imprinted on the senses.
Atobe Keigo walked in.
He watched the entire match and noticed it from the very first move. He was so familiar with my rhythm and power that the subtle delays, the unnatural tension in my arms when blocking, and the obviously weak footwork that ultimately won the match were like needles piercing his eyes.
It wasn't that the opponent was too strong, it was her own problem.
He stopped a few steps away and looked at the figure on the bench, her head bowed and her body trembling slightly. The light shone down from above her head, outlining a tired and stubborn outline around her.
My heart felt like it was being twisted by something, and the pent-up anger from being blocked, ignored, and verbally hurt was instantly suppressed by a more turbulent emotion, a mixture of anxiety and heartache.
He wanted to say "you fought well", wanted to ask her "where do you feel uncomfortable", wanted her to stop trying so hard, but when the words came to his lips, looking at the cold back that kept him at a distance, he felt that everything he said would be pale and powerless, and everything he said would sound like hypocritical courtesy.
"You..." His Adam's apple rolled before he finally uttered a sound, with a dryness and caution that he himself hadn't noticed. "The point of force just now could have sunk another three inches, which would have saved a lot of effort."
He tried to approach it in the safest way possible - martial arts itself.
This was the only area he was sure he still had control over, and it was also the way he thought would be most acceptable to her.
However, this cautious technical guidance sounded like the harshest mockery to me.
He saw it!
He saw all my embarrassment and loss of control!
Are you still telling me what I am not doing well enough?
Like he was judging everything from a high position, including me?
The shame of being seen through, the grievances accumulated over the past few days, and the anger at his behavior that night, like boiling magma, burst through the last gates of rationality. I suddenly raised my head. My pale face was completely bloodless, only a pair of eyes were surprisingly bright, burning with cold fire and wounded stubbornness.
"Don't bother, Jibu-san!" My voice sounded like it was tempered with ice, and every word was sharp.
At this moment, he subconsciously reached out his hand, as if to support my shoulder, which looked like it would collapse at any moment. That bony hand, which had controlled the world on the tennis court countless times, reached out to me with a hint of hesitation and concern.
It was this action that completely ignited the powder keg!
"Don't touch me!" I almost screamed, and used all my strength to wave my hands, violently pushing away his outstretched hand. The crisp slapping sound was particularly harsh in the empty lounge.
Atobe's hand was knocked sideways, leaving a red mark on the back of his hand. He looked at me in astonishment, his eyes filled with disbelief at first, then quickly filled with ignited anger.
My chest heaved violently as I watched his face darken instantly. The words I'd suppressed deep in my heart grew like poison ivy, bursting out with destructive force.
"Atobe Keigo, stop being so hypocritical!"
"There are so many girls in Manbingdi waiting for your favor, isn't that enough for you to choose from? And you still have to go to the street tennis court to force others?!"
My voice was sharp with excitement, and every word was like a poisoned dagger, hurled at him fiercely. "I don't need you to bother commentating on my match! And I don't need you to touch my body!"
"Kiriguku!" Keigo Atobe's face turned ashen in an instant, his jawline was tense, and the anger in his eyes almost burst out.
He had never been humiliated so directly and sharply!
I never thought that such words would come out of her mouth!
He wanted to yell back, wanted to ask her why she was suddenly so cold to him, why she blocked him, he wanted to explain that the street tennis court that day was just a stupid quarrel provoked by Inuzaka's words "You don't understand girls' hearts at all"!
He wanted to say that he just wanted to prove that he was not the kind of person she imagined!
But these explanations seemed so pale and ridiculous in the face of his imperial self-esteem, and so inconsistent with his style of doing things.
Pride and anger instantly swallowed up all desire to explain.
He stared at me, his eyes so cold and sharp that they seemed to want to gouge holes in me. The air in the lounge seemed to have frozen into ice, so heavy that it was suffocating.
A barely audible sigh came from the doorway.
Oshitari Yuushi hadn't known when he stood there, his gaze from behind his glasses sweeping over the two men in the room, tense and threatening. He probably hadn't expected his "provocation" to trigger such a disastrous chain reaction.
Atobe gave me one last deep look, his eyes filled with anger of being hurt, pain of being misunderstood, and a cold determination to completely give up on communication.
"Very good." He opened his thin lips slightly, his voice frighteningly low, with a warmth that cut through everything, "Since you hate my concern and presence so much, then as you wish."
He straightened his back and resumed his arrogant imperial demeanor, but there was no warmth in his eyes anymore.
"I'll focus on my tennis game. As for you," he paused, his eyes sweeping over my still trembling body before finally settling on my cold face. He said word by word, "I don't want to see your cold face again."
As soon as he finished speaking, he turned around abruptly, his expensive custom-made sneakers making a crisp and cold echo on the floor. He strode away without looking back, slamming the door of the lounge, leaving the room in dead silence and a messy mood.
I froze in place, my body shaking even more violently.
Not from exhaustion, but from a deeper, biting cold.
The words "I don't want to see your cold face anymore" were like the final verdict, completely freezing all the remaining possibilities between us in this cold lounge.
Oshitari stood at the door, shook his head helplessly, and finally retreated quietly.
I was the only one left in the empty lounge. The strength I'd just forced myself to hold on was completely gone, and I slumped down onto the cold bench, burying my face deep in my trembling palms.
The tears finally broke through the dam, burning the skin.
I won the game, but it felt like I lost everything.
The body is screaming with fatigue, but the heart is sinking into a deeper, bottomless cold.
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