Chapter 3: Losing for a Living

Chen Ling stood at the edge of the service zone, his gaze cutting through the drifting dust to lock onto Li Mo’s face—a face that screamed indifference.

The gym was a relic from the nineties. The steel rafters overhead were rusted, and half the fluorescent tubes were dead; the remaining ones cast slanted beams of light that illuminated the floating dust motes in the air. Outside, the AC units roared, but the air they pumped in was hot, a thick, stifling blend of rubber, sweat, and floor cleaner that pooled in the center of the court. The stands were filled with faded plastic seats and a crowd that was unnervingly quiet, broken only by the occasional cough or the crisp snap of a plastic bottle being crushed.

In the resting area, Li Mo was slowly unscrewing a water bottle. The sound of the water pouring seemed jarringly loud in the silence of the gym. He took a sip, then casually poured the remaining half over his wrist. Droplets slid down his forearm, soaking into the rubber flooring in a small, dark smudge. Deep inside the grip of his racket, the Chip emitted a faint vibration—like a cold sigh—notifying him that the current opponent was only C-rank, far below the threshold required to trigger high-level analysis.

Chen Ling’s thumb silently brushed against the grip. C-rank. Back when he was with the Provincial Team, that was the rating for the very bottom of the Spare list.

"If you want to beat me, start by getting rid of that pathetic look on your face." Li Mo didn't look up, his tone dripping with a condescending boredom. "An old relic kicked out of the Provincial Team, actually dreaming of making a name for himself in a community tournament?"

Chen Ling’s Adam's apple bobbed; his knuckles turned white as he gripped the racket. He didn't argue. He simply lowered his eyes, grinding every ounce of humiliation and longing between his teeth. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, streaming in from the high windows and hitting the blue rubber of the racket with a cruel, blinding white glare. He took a deep breath, suppressing the dull ache in his chest, and walked toward the center of the table with heavy, determined steps.

"Too soft." Luo Tieshan’s voice came from behind him, as coarse as sandpaper on sheet metal. The old coach’s brow was furrowed, and the smell of dry tobacco mixed with sour sweat stung Chen Ling’s eyes. "You're here to compete, not to be executed. Remember, it's okay to lose the game, but don't you dare bend your spine."

Chen Ling didn't look back. He just slightly adjusted his stance, dropping his center of gravity and grinding his toes into the floor to find that familiar pivot point. He knew Tieshan was right, but in this moment, he knew better than anyone that he didn't need a dignified victory. He needed a precise failure. Only a more brutal defeat could crack the thick protective shell of the Chip and give those dormant Muscle Memories a chance to wake up.

Li Mo tossed the ball up. It spun on his fingertips before snapping forward with a crisp crack, like a bullet being fired.

*Smack!*

On the first return, Chen Ling felt the speed was absurd—like a bolt of lightning striking his racket. The moment the rubber gripped the ball, he dropped his wrist, feeling the raw power of the spin tearing across the face of the racket. His side-step was lagging, his feet a half-beat slow. The return barely cleared the net, the arc high and soft, only for Li Mo to kill it instantly with a backhand fast-attack. The ball slammed into Chen Ling's backhand corner, flying off the edge of the line.

7-11. The first game collapsed in an instant.

Chen Ling walked back to the resting area, draping a towel over his head to hide his eyes. Sweat dripped from his jawline onto his shoes, one drop at a time.

Scattered whispers drifted from the stands, cutting into Chen Ling’s eardrums like small knives. "I heard he left because he was framed for match-fixing?" "Number three on the Provincial Team? With this level of play? What a joke." Those voices blended with Li Mo’s lazy laughter, echoing through the empty gym, hitting the rusted steel beams, and shattering.

Qi Xiaoman sat in the corner of the highest stand, her fingers flying across a laptop keyboard. Behind thick glasses, her eyes were locked onto the silent man on the court. The Data Stream on her screen refreshed constantly, the heat map of the ball's landing points showing an eerie regularity. The red dots representing the returns were densely packed into a few fixed zones, while the edges remained starkly empty.

"Landing deviation controlled within 3%, but footwork latency increased by 0.5 seconds," Qi Xiaoman muttered to herself. Her finger paused on the trackpad, a cold smile curling her lips. "Is he slowing down on purpose? Or is there something seriously wrong with his body?"

In the second game, Chen Ling changed his strategy. He stopped trying to match Li Mo's speed and instead deliberately lowered his center of gravity, becoming a heavy shield absorbing Li Mo's continuous assaults. His knees stayed bent, weight pressed into the balls of his feet, every movement hugging the floor, his soles making short, sharp screeches on the rubber.

Li Mo was getting irritated. Three consecutive violent Loop Drives were blocked back into the defensive zone, and the score ground to a stalemate at 5-all. Sweat dripped from Chen Ling’s temples, hitting the blue rubber and instantly evaporating into a puff of white mist.

Li Mo narrowed his eyes, his racket tilting slightly. A hint of hesitation appeared in his otherwise aggressive offense. He switched his serve, dropping a short ball tight to the net to force Chen Ling to step in.

"Are you playing the victim here?" Li Mo panted, a flicker of alertness finally appearing in his eyes. "Save your strength. Don't just collapse in the next game."

Chen Ling didn't speak. He silently wiped the sweat from his forehead and reset his stance. He felt the Chip in the grip vibrate again—this time three times faster than before, accompanied by a fine electric sting in his fingertips. It was the precursor to data being written into Muscle Memory; it was the clearest signal of pain.

*Chip: Defeat Analysis initiated. Target: Li Mo · Forehand Fast-Attack. Decomposition Dimensions: Rotation Axis, Landing Heat Map, Footwork Latency.*

Chen Ling’s mind went blank. All tactical thought was washed away by the cold Data Stream. His vision narrowed down to the white lines of the table, the angle of his opponent's wind-up, and the numbers dancing in the depths of his consciousness. He could only rely on instinct to decode those jumping lines of code.

Li Mo sensed the change, and his offense suddenly intensified.

"Die!" Li Mo roared, pivoting and swinging. A yellow arc sliced through the air.

Chen Ling couldn't reach it. The ball grazed the back of his hand, and a searing pain instantly spread. 9-11. The second game was lost.

The room went dead silent. The only sound was the ball hitting the floor, bouncing toward the barrier, each bounce softer than the last.

Luo Tieshan didn't leave. He had pulled up a small stool at the top of the stands, squinting down at Chen Ling. The old man's gaze was like a rusty, blunt knife, yet it pierced straight through to the ambiguous flicker of fire in the depths of Chen Ling's eyes.

"Your eyes have changed," Tieshan whispered, low enough that only Chen Ling could hear. "Before, there was only hate. Now, there's greed. That kind of greed is more dangerous than hate."

In the third game, Chen Ling stopped rushing for the win. He treated every shot as an opportunity to collect data, proactively offering high-quality defense with returns that were low and heavy with spin. Li Mo’s rhythm was disrupted. Thinking Chen Ling was about to pull an upset, Li Mo became hesitant, allowing Chen Ling to catch a tiny opening—an unnecessary step after a serve that shifted his center of gravity by half an inch.

"Watch out!" Li Mo shouted, his pupils shrinking.

Chen Ling’s backhand Twist Loop grazed the edge of the line, the speed far exceeding Li Mo's predictive limit. As Li Mo lunged for the save, his shoes screeched against the floor, and he crashed clumsily, his palm leaving a long skid mark on the ground.

11-9. Chen Ling clawed back a game.

Despite the win, Chen Ling’s form broke in the fourth game due to extreme physical exhaustion, eventually losing 13-15. He was knocked out in the second round. By the time the final ball landed, his legs were shaking so violently he had to lean on the table to keep from collapsing.

The moment the match ended, Chen Ling slumped into his chair, gasping for air. He felt as if the strength had been sucked out of his bones, leaving only his muscles twitching violently. The Chip in the grip went completely silent, like a sated beast.

"You lost," a crisp, cold voice sounded in his ear.

Chen Ling looked up to see Qi Xiaoman standing before him. She closed her laptop, her gaze as sharp as a blade, piercing straight into his eyes.

"Every game you lost, the landing points changed," Qi Xiaoman pointed to her laptop, her tone devoid of mockery, filled only with curiosity. "When others lose, they collapse. When you lose, you're practicing. What are you practicing?"

Chen Ling remained silent for a moment, looking at this strange yet familiar woman. Her eyes didn't hold the usual gossip or contempt of the media; they held a pure, raw hunger for an unknown power.

"I don't know," Chen Ling stood up, brushing the dust off his trousers. "But I need a reason to prove I'm not a piece of trash."

Qi Xiaoman pulled a business card from her pocket and held it out to him.

"Take it," her voice remained cold and hard. "Municipal Table Tennis Association, Data Group. I need your match footage."

Chen Ling took the card. The moment his fingertips touched the paper, it felt like touching a piece of ice.

"You sure I don't need to lose to you one more time first?" Chen Ling raised an eyebrow, a self-deprecating smile touching his lips.

"No need." Qi Xiaoman turned to leave, her silhouette thin and resolute. "Looking at your data is like watching a meticulously planned murder. You're the killer; I'm the forensic pathologist."

Chen Ling held the card and flipped it over.

On the back, a line of small text had been handwritten in black ink, the strokes sharp and forceful.

*I need your match footage.*

The sunlight was still blinding, hitting those words with a jarring intensity. Chen Ling narrowed his eyes, carving that sentence into his mind. He knew that from this moment on, his world was no longer just about winning or losing—it was about the cold truths hidden behind the spin and the landing points.