King of Sprint

2004.
Peng City Sports Institute.

Bang!

The starter's gun fired.

Russo shot out like an arrow.

The scene before him compressed instantly, leaving only a narrow lane.

The reddish-brown rubber track.

The white lines.

All his energy and spirit poured out in these fleeting hundred meters.

The heart in his chest boiled to its limit in an instant.

A hundred meters—a distance both close and far.

Ten seconds or so—brief, yet endless.

Russo crossed the finish line, where there was no ribbon.

Click!

Someone pressed the stopwatch as he crossed.

“Twelve point three seconds.”

The voice called out.

Russo slowed to a stop, shaking his head in disappointment.

Upon hearing the result, the provincial track team members on the field exchanged surprised looks. Although they could all run twelve point three, for an outsider to achieve that was impressive—but not enough, not up to team standard.

“Coach, is this the so-called star you said could crush us? Even with a crutch, I could outrun him!”

A tall boy shouted.

“I’ll deal with you later! If you can’t run twelve point three with a crutch, your whole month’s holiday is cancelled!”

The grey-haired coach barked at the noisy boys.

At once, the boys hunched their necks like quails.

The coach eyed Russo, who was walking over, and asked, puzzled, “Why are you slower than last time?”

“Maybe I’m just a bit tired lately.” Russo rubbed his head, gazing at the ‘status bar’ only he could see.

It