Chapter 1: Written Off at Retirement
“Bang!”
A sharp crack echoed through the air, accompanied by a frantic screech as the ping-pong ball bounced wildly against the table's edge before slingshooting off into nowhere.
Instantly, the training hall went dead silent. Then, a wave of stifled sighs and low, venomous curses erupted from the sidelines.
Chen An stood in the shadows of the corner, his fingers tapping a steady, cold rhythm against his knee.
He watched the center of the floor, where the star main player Lin Xiao was locked in a death stare at the white ball that had rolled into the distance. Lin Xiao’s brow was knotted tight, the blue vein at his temple visibly bulging.
That had been the crucial point of the deciding round.
Lin Xiao could have handled the return with ease, but he’d somehow botched the wide-angle strike in a way that was practically absurd.
The sparring partners around him exchanged glances that felt sharper than needles, all of them aimed squarely at the outsider standing on the periphery: Chen An.
They all knew that Lin Xiao’s recent form had been abysmal, and Chen An—a retired sparring partner publicly dismissed by the team as having “sharp ears but a dull head”—was the only person who had pushed Lin Xiao through high-intensity sessions over the past month.
Rumors grew like weeds.
Someone muttered loudly enough for neighbors to hear, blaming Chen An for his devious sparring style, claiming it had disrupted Lin Xiao’s focus.
Others pointed at Chen An’s back, hissing that he was a slacking-off waste of space who was dragging down the entire training tier.
Chen An didn’t turn around. He didn’t offer a defense.
His breathing remained steady, as if the surrounding storm was nothing more than background noise that had zero personal relevance to him.
He was waiting. Waiting for the moment of truth to break through the surface. Waiting for the facts to emerge.
Dust motes danced in the spotlight, looking like a silent trial in progress.
Lin Xiao picked up the ball, crushing it in his palm until his knuckles turned white.
He turned his head, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade before finally locking onto Chen An.
There was no anger in those eyes. Only a bottomless contempt and a chill that seeped into the bones.
The hall was so quiet you could hear the faint squeak of sneakers against the floor.
Lin Xiao took a step toward Chen An, each footfall heavy with pressure.
“Chen An.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried to every ear in the room with crystalline clarity.
“Are you deliberately messing with the spin rhythm during our sparring sessions? Is that it?”
Chen An stayed standing, hands in his pockets. He wore his usual expression of timidity, his head bowed slightly.
“Captain Lin, I... I just followed the drill protocol. I wouldn’t dare deviate a millimeter.”
His voice trembled, sounding remarkably humble.
Lin Xiao let out a cold snort. He leaned in close to Chen An’s ear, lowering his voice to a whisper only the two of them could hear.
“Stop playing dumb. On that last shot, your return landing point was off by three centimeters. That directly threw my center of gravity off balance.”
“Is that a mistake, or is it a tactic?”
The looks from the crowd grew even more vicious.
Lin Xiao straightened up, facing everyone, and announced in a voice that boomed across the gym:
“Starting today, Chen An is removed from the main team’s sparring roster.”
“You’re dismissed. Get out of my training floor.”
The declaration hit the onlookers like a bomb, detonating a new wave of whispering gossip.
Lin Xiao looked down at Chen An’s slightly hunched posture, a mocking curve of disdain appearing at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t blame me for being cruel. A waste like you belongs where you belong.”
Chen An didn’t lift his head. He just murmured, “Understood, Captain Lin.”
Then, he slowly turned and walked toward the gymnasium exit.
His back was straight, yet it radiated a suffocating loneliness.
No one noticed that his departing steps were precise, carefully avoiding the cracks in the floorboards. They were, after all, within the blind spots of his hearing range.
He walked with such stability that it looked like he was walking directly on their sore spots.
Zhao Tiezhu sat in the highest row of the bleachers, a sealed bottle of mineral water crushed in his grip, the plastic creaking under the pressure of his knuckles.
He squinted, watching the drama unfold below, a flicker of hard-to-detect disappointment crossing his eyes.
He was the owner of this gymnasium. Formerly a doubles main for the Chinese Table Tennis Team, he had since morphed into a businessman who coasted on old connections and resources.
“Chen An, Chen An... why did things come to this?”
He muttered to himself, his voice hoarse.
Lin Xiao’s departure left the floor instantly empty.
Zhao Tiezhu stood up and strode down the bleachers, his leather shoes making a dull thud against the wooden planks.
He intercepted Chen An, who was zipping up his backpack.
“Hey, kid.”
Zhao Tiezhu’s voice was rough, carrying that signature, boisterous swagger.
Chen An stopped what he was doing and looked up, his eyes as calm as still water.
“President Zhao.”
Zhao Tiezhu sized him up, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s.
“Did you drink the ocean today? Is that it?”
“Lin Xiao is arrogant, sure, but his form has actually been shaky lately.”
“Did you notice anything weird while you were sparring with him?”
Chen An fell silent for a moment, seemingly calculating how to answer.
Zhao Tiezhu tapped his temple impatiently, an old habit left over from his playing days.
“I don’t have time for your vague, useless chatter.”
“I just want to know: did you actually catch the sound of those balls?”
“If you can’t hear the difference, pack it up and get out. This place doesn’t need another waste who just plays dead.”
The corner of Chen An’s mouth twitched, as if he wanted to laugh, but the expression never fully formed.
He set his backpack down; the sound of the zipper snapping shut was painfully loud in the quiet gym.
“President Zhao, I’m leaving.”
His tone was flat. No defense. No anger.
Zhao Tiezua stared at him for three seconds, the suspicion in his eyes thickening like ink.
He whirled around and waved at Old Liu, the old coach who was packing up equipment nearby.
“Old Liu, settle Chen An’s wages for next month and let him go.”
The old coach sighed, nodded, and said nothing more.
Chen An dragged his backpack, walking through the long corridor.
The accusations from the gym faded behind him, leaving only the sound of his footsteps—thud, thud—striking the floor.
Every step felt like it was landing squarely on Zhao Tiezhu’s heart.
He didn’t know that this storm was only just beginning.
Stepping out of the gym, the night wind howled past, sweeping up fallen leaves from the pavement.
Chen An stood under a streetlamp, the shadows swallowing most of his face.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The air was thick with the scent of rubber, sweat, and cleaning chemicals. But to him, beneath those familiar scents lay a deeper layer of information.
He activated Spirit Sound: Ball Soul Resonance.
The world instantly went quiet.
All the chaos was stripped away, leaving only a string of jumping frequencies.
He replayed the moment Lin Xiao had missed that crucial shot.
The instant the racket struck the ball, the shockwave in the air unfurled in his mind like a visual map.
It should have been a stable topspin. Yet, 0.1 seconds before the contact, there was an incredibly tiny lateral shift.
It was a spin pattern that shouldn’t have existed.
In his auditory analysis, it was like a tightly strung violin string that had just snapped.
Chen An opened his eyes, a cold light flashing in the depths of his pupils.
A faint, barely perceptible curve appeared on his lips—a mix of cold detachment and mockery, born from having just seen through the truth.
“So that’s how it is.”
He murmured to himself.
The divine hand that Lin Xiao claimed to possess in those eyes? It was just random elasticity caused by the old, worn-out rubber on his racket.
Those complex, high-level line variations that looked so mysterious? To absolute data, they were nothing more than a pile of chaotic noise.
He adjusted his backpack and turned back toward the gym entrance.
His steps were firmer than before. The mask of timidity on his face had shattered completely.
What remained was only extreme coldness.
He knew. The rules of this game had changed.
When Chen An re-entered the training hall, Lin Xiao was just about to leave.
They ran head-on at the door.
Lin Xiao stopped, a final streak of pity and contempt in his gaze.
“Heard you’re leaving?”
“Pity. I haven’t had a chance to teach you some manners.”
Chen An didn’t look at him. He simply walked around him.
“Captain Lin.”
Chen An suddenly spoke. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut cleanly through the air.
“That miss you just made? It was because your rubber is aged. The elasticity coefficient is down by fifteen percent.”
Lin Xiao’s foot paused mid-step. His body went rigid.
“What are you saying?”
His voice dropped to ice, broadcasting a clear danger signal.
Chen An turned to face him, his gaze terrifyingly calm.
“Your rubber is past its optimal usage cycle. The lateral bounce rate is fluctuating uncontrollably.”
“You think it’s intuition. It’s actually luck.”
“If you keep using that racket, you’ll lose the key points in the next international match because of the exact same issue.”
Lin Xiao’s face darkened instantly, the gloom heavy enough to make it rain.
He glared at Chen An, the vein on his temple bulging again.
“You dare question my judgment?”
“Who do you think you are?”
He raised his hand, clearly aiming for a slap.
But the hand stopped in mid-air, pinned by a thick arm.
“Lin Xiao, shut the fuck up!”
Zhao Tiezhu had appeared behind the two of them without warning, shoving Lin Xiao away.
“This is a gym, not your back porch.”
Zhao Tiezhu’s voice boomed like thunder, silencing everyone in the vicinity.
Lin Xiao ground his teeth in fury, but looking at Zhao Tiezhu’s calloused hand, he finally held back.
He shot Chen An a vicious look, turned, and left, his back radiating suppressed rage.
Chen An stood still where he was.
His breathing remained steady, as if the conflict that had just happened was nothing but passing smoke.
Zhao Tiezhu turned to look at Chen An, his expression complex.
“What did you just say?”
“You claimed you could hear the sounds inside the gym?”
Chen An bowed his head slightly.
“President Zhao, when Lin Xiao is exerting power lately, his right shoulder drops two millimeters further than before.”
“That makes his forehand contact point lower, causing his returns to be shorter in length.”
“This isn’t a detail your eyes can catch. It’s a secret hidden in the sound.”
Zhao Tiezhu froze.
He looked at Chen An, and the suspicion in his eyes was slowly being replaced by shock.
“How... how did you know that?”
Chen An didn’t answer. He just stared at him, silent.
In that moment, Zhao Tiezhu felt like he had just realized he’d been sleeping next to a beast that had only now woken up.
He suddenly dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it at Chen An’s feet.
“Pick it up.”
Zhao Tiezhu roared, his voice hoarse and urgent.
“Sign it.”
“Stay here and be my unpaid security guard. Or get the hell out.”
Chen An bent down and picked up the paper.
He didn’t read the contents. He just looked up at Zhao Tiezhu and offered a calm, impenetrable smile.
The night wind blew, and the lights swayed.
The real game had just begun.