Chapter 17

*Moon-Chasing Diary*
“He won’t lose.”
— *Moon-Chasing Diary*
_
Honestly, whether before or now, Xie Yuncheng hadn’t changed much. If there was a change, it was probably that he’d become more mature than before—and better at restraint.
In high school, Xie Yuncheng wasn’t very sociable, yet he had the ability to make people truly convinced.
That year, their class and Class Seven got into it on the basketball court. The shouting escalated until they almost came to blows.
Class Seven was a regular class, grades mid-to-lower range. Class One was the experimental top class—at No.1 High, basically “Tsinghua/Peking reserve.”
The two classes had no intersection. The gap was too far. Class One’s building was on the east, Class Seven’s on the west. In high school, every second was precious. Ten-minute breaks, a half-hour lunch break—other than eating in the cafeteria and doing group exercises, the two classes basically never met.
But that day it poured. PE moved indoors. Besides Class One, two other classes were in the gym at the same time—Class Three and Class Seven. And because Class One’s PE teacher was sick and took leave, Class One had PE together with Class Seven.
Class One students ranked at the top academically, but physically they were terrible. A little exercise and they were panting. After sit-ups and frog jumps, Class One collapsed in大片—Qin Sang included.
She’d always been bad at sports. Even the 800-meter run in the entrance exam felt like it took half her life. After entering No.1 High, because of tight schedules, normal PE classes were often taken by subject teachers for tests and explaining papers. The longest activity time was those ten-minute breaks—running from the third floor to the small shop to buy something.
By contrast, Class Seven’s physical fitness was absurdly good, their athletic ability no joke. People who did a hundred frog jumps and sit-ups—Class Seven looked like nothing happened, still energetic, even mocking: “What’s the use of good grades? Still a bunch of weak chicks.”
The one who said it was Class Seven’s troublemaker, Teng Wenbiao. He was a sports-track admit—tall and burly, looking down from the heart on Class One’s frail look.
Teenage boys were hot-blooded. A poke and they flared. Class One students were indignant. A boy with glasses stood and said, “Classmate, that’s too much. We just excel in different fields. You can’t use your strength to mock others. That’s tasteless.”
Teng Wenbiao dug his ear with a pinky, pretending he couldn’t hear. “What’d you say? Louder. Don’t be like a woman—can’t run, can’t jump, and even talking is this weak.”
As soon as he finished, a few boys around him burst into laughter.
“Look at him—are you top students all this useless? Can’t even speak clearly. I’m curious—can you even calculate your problems clearly?”
“If you can’t, you can’t—stop bullshitting.”
…
The boy with glasses flushed red from humiliation, fists clenched. “Teng Wenbiao, don’t go too far!”
“This is ‘too far’?” Teng Wenbiao mocked. “Isn’t Class One always high and mighty, looking down at people through their nostrils?”
“You like using rankings to judge strong and weak—we’re the same. Competitive sports only looks at ability. If you have the guts, compete with me. If you don’t, stop acting tough in front of me. I hate most people like you—these whiny four-eyed toads. This is in school. If you stepped out of No.1 High’s gate—”
He sneered and made a throat-cutting gesture with his thumb, eyes full of viciousness.
It was naked provocation. A blatant threat.
“Hahaha, four-eyed toad—can you take a hit? Don’t let Brother Biao knock you down with one punch so you can’t get up—that’d be embarrassing.”
“Class One is useless—bookworms. Last every sports meet, and still dare show off in front of Brother Biao? If you want to stand out, weigh your own worth first.”
“Four-eyed toad, hurry up and get lost.”
Class Seven and Class One had a long-standing grudge. Or rather—Class One’s existence was a thorn in other classes’ eyes.
Homeroom teachers loved using Class One students as examples to motivate their own classes. They ignored that at that age, kids were young and proud, every chest full of drive. They disdained comparing with others, and they disliked being used like this.
A garden full of flowers—all different. You can’t forcibly twist branches and demand every flower become a richly fragrant rose.
Class One didn’t bother competing. Class Seven couldn’t compete.
So when the two collided, it was like sparks hitting earth—friction was inevitable.
Class Seven, as a bottom regular class, was criticized into worthlessness by teachers. They couldn’t even lift their heads. But grades weren’t something you could catch up with just by trying.
Class One students were gifted. Many had done competitions since childhood. So for them, grades were just meaningless numbers—barely even “glory.”
They only cared whether their rank rose, whether they could enter top universities. Other things left them indifferent.
But that didn’t mean they were spineless or bloodless. When the boy with glasses was targeted, Class One’s cohesion suddenly became unprecedentedly strong.
Several boys stepped forward and clashed head-on with Class Seven. But Class One rarely had time to move. The school didn’t give them chances to train. Compared to a sports-track student like Teng Wenbiao, with excellent physical fitness, Class One indeed looked weak.
The initial verbal fight evolved into shoving, then bodies colliding. The conflict escalated further, and finally rose to the point of throwing punches.
Class Seven had stamina, and Teng Wenbiao was strong. No one in Class One could hold him down. Amid the yelling, no one knew who struck first. The boys tangled into a brawl. Teng Wenbiao grabbed one boy’s collar, eyes splitting, fist raised. “You fucking refuse face when it’s given, huh?”
But the next second, a black shadow flying fast slammed into Teng Wenbiao’s face—dead center. The basketball rolled to the ground, thumping, as if laughing at his incompetence.
The impact of a basketball was no joke. Hit on the bridge of the nose, blood poured instantly. Teng Wenbiao cried out, let go, covered his nose, palm full of blood. His eyes turned red with rage. He yelled, “Fuck! Which bastard dared sneak-attack me?”
“Your grandpa—me.”
The boy on the far side of the court shouted back without mercy. Behind him stood someone with clear, lean brows and superior features—looking lazy yet proud.
“Teng Wenbiao, did you get water in your brain? Looking for trouble for no reason?”
Teng Wenbiao’s fury had nowhere to go. Seeing them was like seeing sworn enemies. He spewed curses. “Jiang Mingyi—don’t think I don’t dare beat you. Sneak attacks? If you’ve got the guts, face me head-on.”
“Compete in what?”
The person behind Jiang Mingyi spoke, expression calm, eyes looking straight at him.
Teng Wenbiao didn’t react at first, frowning. “What do you mean ‘what’? I’ll go to the end with you.”
“Whatever you want.”
The boy stood with one hand in his pocket, posture casual and cold—like he didn’t even place them in his eyes.
Teng Wenbiao’s temper was ignited instantly. He wiped away his nosebleed. “Fine. Don’t say Class Seven bullies Class One because you have no one. Let’s play basketball. You can play basketball, right? Loser kneels and kowtows to beg for mercy.”
Class Seven exchanged looks and snickered again.
“Fine,” Xie Yuncheng said as if nothing.
Teng Wenbiao stared at him and gave a sinister laugh. “Alright. When you lose, don’t cry and embarrass yourself. I can’t wait to taste what it’s like to have the grade’s No.1 kneel and kowtow to me.”
Jiang Mingyi snorted. “Play then. Why fart so much? Wait for you to kowtow to grandpa.”
Teng Wenbiao snorted. Someone handed him the ball. He weighed it twice in his hands, then abruptly hurled it at them.
Getting his nose smashed—he had to repay that debt.
But the next second, the ball flying like a spark was intercepted in midair. The boy’s long fingers lazily controlled the rushing ball. His thin eyelids lifted slightly. His gaze turned cold and sharp.
“So—do you want to play ball, or do you want to hit people?”
Teng Wenbiao’s smile froze. Around them, hidden gasps rose.
Teng Wenbiao’s face darkened. He gritted out two words. “Play ball.”
That basketball game lit Class One’s blood. They were more united than ever. Still, most of Class One were academic “gods.” In terms of athletic ability, they were far behind Class Seven. They barely found a few students who could play and hastily formed a team.
On the court, Teng Wenbiao held the ball arrogantly and flipped the middle finger at Xie Yuncheng and Jiang Mingyi.
Jiang Mingyi cursed, “Idiot.”
Xie Yuncheng wore a red-and-white jersey, number 5 circled on it. He was tall and slender—lean but not weak. His arm lines were clear, tight muscle definition visible. His right wrist wore a red sweatband, striking against his cold-white skin.
The stands were packed with spectators. Besides Classes One and Seven, Class Three also came to watch. How popular was Xie Yuncheng? So many girls—almost all came for him. Only a small number were still predicting the outcome.
Qin Sang sat in the farthest corner. Beside her were Class Three students whispering, not optimistic about this “honor battle.”
“Who’s Class One’s #5? Is it Xie God?”
“Seems like it really is. Over there is Teng Wenbiao, right? Isn’t he the school team captain? I heard he’s about to enter the provincial team. Tsk. Class Seven’s side are all school-team players. Class One… hard to say. I think Xie God might get abused.”
Anyone with eyes could see the gap. In grades, Class Seven couldn’t catch Class One. But in competitive sports, Class One was absolutely not Class Seven’s match.
Qin Sang clenched the water bottle in her hand, silent.
On the court, the clash was fierce. At first the score gap was huge. After all, Class Seven were school-team—practically pros, with great coordination. And Teng Wenbiao was indeed good—his shooting accuracy was extremely high, almost never missing.
Class One, meanwhile, were a ragtag bunch. They barely scraped together a few who could play. Not only did their stamina fail, they ran the whole time as “escorts,” barely touching the ball. Even when they did, with no teamwork, the ball was quickly stolen.
Class One trailed at halftime. During break, Xie Yuncheng sat resting. Many girls rushed to bring him water. Liu Chengcheng dragged Qin Sang over, but Qin Sang just held her bottle and watched from behind.
Those girls came back empty-handed. He always had boundaries; he wouldn’t accept others’ overtures for no reason.
Jiang Mingyi was worried. “A-Yun—can your hand still hold up?”
Xie Yuncheng answered calmly. “I’m fine.”
Jiang Mingyi spat inwardly, dissatisfied. “That bastard Teng Wenbiao—he definitely knows your hand has an old injury. He’s deliberately targeting you.”
Teng Wenbiao talked about fairness, but he played dirty, and he played hard—no pretense at all. He was strong and judged well. He likely saw Xie Yuncheng as the “alpha,” and his technique was good. All first half he targeted him. Besides Jiang Mingyi, the rest of Class One barely knew how to play and couldn’t coordinate control.
No matter how good one person was, he couldn’t reverse the tide alone. This was a team game, not one man’s stage.
Xie Yuncheng had been in a car accident; his right wrist had always had problems. Now his old injury was probably flaring. From the moment he left the court, his right hand had been subtly trembling. His finger joints couldn’t bend normally.
Yet Xie Yuncheng’s face stayed cold; you couldn’t tell anything was wrong.
He said lightly, “Stop talking. Losing means we’re not as good. Play well in the second half.”
Jiang Mingyi’s expression was grave. He gave a low “Mm.”
…
When Qin Sang finally gathered courage to step forward, break time ended. They brushed past each other, the boy’s hot heat washing over her face.
Qin Sang lowered her lashes. Condensation on the cold bottle slid down, wetting her hand. She stood meekly, like drifting duckweed, not daring to speak.
Then a shadow fell before her.
She froze and looked up, meeting the boy’s pale eyes. He only glanced down at her indifferently. His attitude was cold and calm.
“Classmate, lend me the water.”
Qin Sang nodded woodenly and passed it over. Her cool fingertips accidentally touched his warm fingertip. Her little finger curled uncontrollably.
The boy’s brows and eyes were clean. He nodded lightly, voice faint. “Thanks.”
Qin Sang just shook her head, not speaking. She watched them walk away. The bottle—almost warmed by her hands—was pressed by him against the right wristband.
The second half turned ferocious. After adjustments, Class One quickly caught rhythm. The score began to climb, biting close. The atmosphere grew tense.
Teng Wenbiao played hard, offensive fierce. Seeing the score nearly caught up, he exchanged a look with teammates. Soon they swarmed the #6 player into a corner. Body collisions piled up. Even when the referee whistled, it couldn’t ease the tension.
Xie Yuncheng’s right hand had an old injury. First half, Teng Wenbiao already targeted him. Second half, it got worse, gradually pinning him in double-teams.
When he jumped to intercept a ball, a teammate maliciously crashed into him. The blow was hard. Fortunately, Xie Yuncheng reacted fast. Before his body hit the ground, he braced with an elbow. A stabbing pain shot through the bone. He let out a muffled grunt.
Jiang Mingyi exploded instantly. “Fuck! Teng Wenbiao—are you sick? Playing this dirty!”
The referee whistled. The teammate was ejected. Teng Wenbiao only sneered, flipped his thumb downward, mocking. “You’re going to lose.”
Xie Yuncheng stood, lifting those thin lids, giving him a cold look. Rarely, he swore. “Shut the fuck up.”
…
The stands saw the accident clearly. Even Qin Sang, who didn’t understand basketball at all, knew how heavy that collision was—especially for a hand with an old injury. It was snow on frost.
The score was tied now. One more basket and Class One would win. That was probably why Teng Wenbiao was so unscrupulous—trying to completely cripple Xie Yuncheng.
Class One’s ragtag team relied entirely on Xie Yuncheng’s lead. He and Jiang Mingyi worked seamlessly. Other players were slowly finding rhythm. That was why the second half got more and more heated, and the score caught up quickly.
Now the game was at its boiling point. Off the court, people didn’t even dare breathe.
Qin Sang watched the red figure racing on the court and remembered what she’d seen. Xie Yuncheng’s red wristband had shifted, accidentally revealing reddened skin. The wrist bone was swollen high—certainly hurt badly. That must be why he’d asked for her water—to ice it.
And now, that collision—elbow slammed to the floor—he must be badly hurt.
He kept adjusting his wrist, trying to relieve discomfort. But now—his right hand couldn’t move.
Qin Sang saw his hand trembling. It looked like he couldn’t apply any strength at all.
Liu Chengcheng swallowed nervously. “Sang-sang… Xie God looks in terrible condition. Is he going to lose?”
Qin Sang pressed her lips tight. After a long time, she said with certainty:
“He won’t lose.”
…
Only five minutes remained. The tie score was broken again—Class Seven led by one point. Which meant before the final whistle, Class One had to sink a three-pointer. Only then could they turn defeat into victory.
Class Seven felt victory in hand. Smiles spread without words. Teng Wenbiao and two nearby players slapped hands as if celebrating the coming win.
When he brushed past Xie Yuncheng, Teng Wenbiao mocked, “I’m just waiting for you to kneel and beg me, Mr. Top Student.”
Xie Yuncheng glanced at him with contempt. “Don’t celebrate too early.”
He dribbled again, feinting. Teng Wenbiao jumped instinctively to block. But the next second, Xie Yuncheng shifted deftly. The ball transferred from right hand to left. With a push, the ball shot out like an arrow.
Jiang Mingyi caught it and jumped outside the three-point line. The ball arced from his hands.
It hit the rim edge and spun—clanking. The entire crowd held its breath, eyes locked on the ball.
Then—spinning—it dropped into the hoop.
Teng Wenbiao was stunned, frozen.
He’d guarded Xie Yuncheng the whole time, assuming Xie Yuncheng wouldn’t cooperate with teammates. He loved showing off too much. And Xie Yuncheng’s shooting accuracy was the best in Class One—far beyond even Teng Wenbiao’s. Someone like that wouldn’t trust teammates at the critical moment.
But he’d never expected that at the final turning point, Xie Yuncheng would trick him, coordinating with Jiang Mingyi. The ball left Xie Yuncheng’s hands, but the final shot was Jiang Mingyi’s.
Someone screamed.
The court erupted with thunderous applause. Cheers, sobs rose and fell.
Class One students were especially excited. A crowd rushed up, surrounding them.
“Sang-sang, did you see? Xie God won!”
Liu Chengcheng grabbed Qin Sang’s arm tightly, ecstatic.
Qin Sang was excited too.
He won.
She knew it—he would win.
…
“I lost?” Teng Wenbiao muttered. “I… lost? How is that possible?”
Jiang Mingyi snorted. “Pah. You play that dirty and still think you can win—who gave you confidence? What, you ready to kowtow and beg your grandpa now, you little bastard?”
That was the bet they set at the start—and the stakes were proposed by Teng Wenbiao himself. Now he’d lifted a rock and smashed his own foot.
His face turned pale; his arrogant fire was gone. Head lowered, like a stray dog, he could only tuck his tail.
He shut his eyes and bit his molars. “Lose is lose. I bet, I pay. It’s just kneeling. A real man can bend and stretch. What can’t I do?”
Teng Wenbiao clenched his fists. His body went rigid. His knees bent stiffly. As he prepared to kneel in humiliation, a tired, cold voice sounded above.
“Enough. The bet is canceled.”
Teng Wenbiao froze and looked up.
Xie Yuncheng looked down at him indifferently. “You fought for Class Seven; I fought for Class One. Losing isn’t shameful. Competitive sports decides win and loss by strength. Speak with ability. Respecting your opponent is respecting yourself.”
Xie Yuncheng beat him in the field he was best at—with cleaner methods. He won beautifully. He won honorably.
Teng Wenbiao’s face shifted again and again. He suddenly felt shorter—as if two mountains named conscience and professional integrity pressed him down, making him unable to lift his head.
“Sorry.”
Head down, Teng Wenbiao finally apologized for his behavior.
He shouted loudly, sincerely admitting fault to Class One. “Sorry” echoed again and again over the court.
…
On that day after the rain cleared, across a sea of people, she watched that spirited boy on the court being surrounded, like stars around the moon, lifted and thrown into the air.
They cheered. They jumped.
They celebrated a hard-won victory with wild joy.
And now, ten years had passed.
Twenty-six-year-old Xie Yuncheng sat beside her. His clear brows and eyes were unchanged. His phoenix eyes were slightly hooked, looking lazy and irresistibly alluring.
Zhou Yihong and Shen Yi chatted on and off. Xie Yuncheng only answered lazily once or twice.
Qin Sang listened absentmindedly. That faint mint scent lingered around her. She couldn’t help stealing a glance at him—only to be caught red-handed.
He curled his lips casually, voice low. “Classmate Qin—listen carefully.”