The arena was a sea of red.
Flags rippled like flames across the stands, thousands of voices chanting her name in unison—"Jun Xīng! Jun Xīng!"—until the sound pressed against her chest like a physical weight. The scoreboard glowed overhead, numbers frozen in place as if even time itself had decided to hold its breath.
"15.933."
First place.
Gold.
Again.
Jun Xīng stood at the edge of the mat, hands braced on her knees, lungs burning as she dragged air into her chest. Sweat slid down her temples and into her eyes, blurring the world into streaks of color and light. Her calves trembled from the landing she had forced her body to hold—an inhuman, impossible dismount that would be replayed for years.
Her final routine.
Her final Olympics.
At thirty-two years old, she had just done what no other Chinese female gymnast in history had ever done: won yet another gold medal, extending her record as the most decorated woman in her nation's gymnastics history.
The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers.
"Gold medalist—China! Jun Xīng!"
The crowd erupted.
She straightened slowly, spine screaming in protest, and lifted her head toward the scoreboard. For a heartbeat, she didn't move. Didn't smile. Didn't cry.
She just stared.
Grandfather… I did it again.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
You should've been here to see this one.
The medal ceremony passed like a dream. She marched onto the podium, shoulders squared, posture perfect out of habit drilled into her bones over two decades. The anthem played. The flag rose.
When the gold medal was draped around her neck, its familiar weight felt heavier than ever.
Not because it was new.
But because she knew this was the last one.
She raised it for the cameras, lips curving into a polite, practiced smile. Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks. Commentators shouted about legacy, about immortality, about how Jun Xīng had redefined women's gymnastics.
They weren't wrong.
But none of them knew the truth behind that smile.
---
Her hotel room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioner.
Jun Xīng sat on the edge of the bed in her team jacket, the gold medal resting in her palm like a small sun. Her muscles ached in places she didn't even have names for anymore. Her wrists were wrapped. Her ankles were taped. Her shoulders throbbed with the dull, familiar pain of a body that had been pushed far beyond what it was ever meant to endure.
She didn't care.
She stood and crossed the room barefoot, stopping in front of the small shrine she always set up wherever she traveled.
A framed photograph rested at the center.
An old man with kind eyes and a weathered smile.
Her grandfather.
She knelt.
"Grandfather," she said softly, voice rough from hours of cheering crowds and restrained tears. "This one makes twenty-three."
Her fingers tightened around the medal ribbon.
"I kept my promise. Every routine, every landing, every time I thought my body would finally break… I didn't stop."
A slow breath left her chest.
"I'm tired. But I didn't let myself be weak."
She bowed her head, pressing her forehead to the cool floor.
"You said honor was heavier than gold. So I kept piling it up for you. For our name. For China."
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass of the photo frame: sharp eyes, high cheekbones, hair pulled into a severe bun threaded with gray that she refused to dye.
A champion's face.
A lonely woman's eyes.
She sat back on her heels, staring at the medal again.
"I think this was my last one," she murmured. "I don't have anything left to give after this."
Her lips twitched into a humorless smile.
"I never learned how to be anything else."
---
Later that night, Jun Xīng stood alone on the hotel balcony, city lights stretching endlessly below like a galaxy turned upside down.
She leaned her forearms on the railing and closed her eyes.
Her body felt hollow.
Not weak.
Not broken.
Just… finished.
She thought about all the things she had never done.
Never dated.
Never kissed anyone.
Never held a hand that wasn't wrapped in athletic tape or chalk dust.
She had rejected proposals from sponsors, admirers, even fellow athletes. There had always been another competition. Another routine to perfect. Another medal to chase.
Honor first, she had always told herself.
Love could wait.
But now—
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
Coach Liu.
Her brows knit together. It was past 11:30 p.m.
She answered. "Coach?"
His voice was strained, urgent. "Xīng. Where are you right now?"
"In my hotel room," she said. "Why?"
"There's been a situation," he said quickly. "Another international exhibition meet just got approved in Shanghai. Emergency invite. They want you there."
Her grip tightened on the phone.
"Coach, I just finished the Olympics," she said quietly. "My body—"
"I know," he cut in. "I know what this means. But it's… political. Symbolic. They're calling it a 'Legacy Showcase.' You're the centerpiece."
She stared out over the city, jaw tightening.
Silence stretched between them.
"…When?" she finally asked.
"Tonight. They're rushing the arrangements. You need to leave within the hour."
Her chest ached.
Another meet.
Another routine.
Another medal-shaped expectation.
Her reflection stared back at her from the dark glass of the balcony door—older than she should have been. Tired beyond words.
And yet—
Her grandfather's voice echoed faintly in her memory.
If you can still stand, you can still fight.
Jun Xīng closed her eyes.
"…I'll go," she said.
Relief flooded Coach Liu's voice. "I knew I could count on you. A car is on the way."
She ended the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
Her fingers brushed the gold medal still hanging around her neck.
"Just one more," she whispered to the night. "For you."
She turned back into the room, grabbed her jacket, and headed for the door.
Unaware…
That she would never make it to that competition.
And that this would be the last choice she would ever make as Jun Xīng.
---
Next: Chapter 2 – Training Like Death Was Waiting