Chapter 144: The Bounty Hunter on the Runway

“Ha ha ha~” Rousseau laughed heartily as he walked past Pete Gig.

Though they didn’t share a language, their emotions were clear. Pete Gig’s glare at Rousseau practically burned with fury; failing to reach the finals was a crushing blow for him.

…

“What’s going on?” Lu Jinrong approached Rousseau quietly. “Your rhythm is off.”

“I did it on purpose,” Rousseau replied. “I wanted to mess with that damn Glass in lane four!”

Rousseau and Pete Gig were in adjacent lanes. Rousseau’s start was designed to disrupt Pete’s rhythm—by combining a deliberate buildup with an explosive launch, he put immense pressure on Pete, especially since Pete was fixated on watching Rousseau.

Sure enough, Pete matched Rousseau’s tempo and got played.

Rousseau suspected it was the provocation that triggered Pete’s impulsiveness—otherwise, it was hard to explain why a sprinter in his thirties would act so rashly.

So that’s the real use of provocation.

…

“Why are you chasing after LU all the time?” Lee stared at Pete Gig. “I told you to disrupt him, not to get played by him!”

“Sorry, coach,” Pete lowered his head in apology.

“If you don’t make the finals, you won’t get the prize money. How are you going to pay for your expenses? Sell your ass?” Lee sneered, “You bastard, you’re going to cost me a fortune!”

Pete kept his head down, silent.

His two teammates looked on with mocking smiles—clearly no camaraderie there.

“You two, get ready! If you don’t make the finals like him, you might as well jump into the sea!” Lee scolded them.

…

Tian Shiwei was in the same heat as Japan’s sprinting god, Koji Kamino, and he was quite looking forward to it.

Once on the track, he shook hands with Koji Kamino. Through gaming, Tian Shiwei had learned some Japanese but wasn’t fluent, yet they managed a few words, though neither really understood what the other was saying.

—

Lu Jinrong kept a close watch on the race.

As a coach, he had to pay attention to this former “fastest man in Asia over 100 meters.”

Rousseau, meanwhile, was preparing to return to the hotel to rest. The final was in the afternoon, leaving him a few hours to relax and eat.

Before he left the stadium, someone approached him.

“Hello, my name is Morishige Fumi. I’m the assistant coach to Coach Tsuchie Hiroshi. May I have a moment to talk with you?”

Rousseau looked at the man in front of him—something about him seemed familiar, and his Chinese was quite good.

“At the East Asian Youth Games, I was part of the coaching staff for Fujimitsu Masafumi,” Morishige explained.

“Oh,” Rousseau recalled. “Your Chinese is excellent. Why isn’t Fujimitsu here?”

“He didn’t participate in this year’s Intercontinental Tour. He still needs more preparation before stepping onto the world stage,” Morishige said. “Our coaching team was also commissioned by Hiroshima Prefecture to assist Mr. Koji Kamino, whose hometown is Hiroshima.”

“That’s a pity. I wanted to compete against him in the 100 meters,” Rousseau said.

“He’s not faster than you now. You achieved the sprint grand slam at the National Games with an astonishing 10.10 seconds,” Morishige said.

“You even know about the National Games? The news travels fast,” Rousseau was surprised. The Games had just ended recently, and Japan already knew.

“We monitor sprinters worldwide with both strength and potential,” Morishige said. “Today, I mainly wanted to meet you and hope for future cooperation.”

“Cooperation… probably won’t happen,” Rousseau replied. “We’re only ever going to be rivals.”

“There’s a Japanese saying: fortunes rise and fall unpredictably. We will find opportunities to collaborate,” Morishige said. “For example, in this race, could you run a little slower?”

Run… slower? Rousseau was not surprised by the proposition. “Slower than whom?”

“Just a little slower than Koji Kamino,” Morishige said. “The winner’s prize is only $28,000. I can pay you $30,000 for that.”

“How fast can Koji Kamino run?” Rousseau asked.

Morishige hesitated, as if it were a secret.

“I need to know how fast he can run before considering your offer,” Rousseau said.

“10.18 seconds,” Morishige whispered.

“Ten flat seven years ago, now only 10.18, huh,” Rousseau sighed suddenly. No matter how fast a man once was, time and endless trials wear you down until you slow inevitably.

“So sorry, I can’t do it. That’s too fake,” he said.

Indeed, Coach Lu Jinrong would never allow it. Rousseau could easily run 10.20 seconds nowadays.

“I understand. Thank you, Lu-kun,” Morishige bowed. Rousseau’s calm and rational response seemed to earn his gratitude.

Rousseau was empathetic in this matter. After all, for a sprint god to still compete in his twilight years, the only way to win was to bribe opponents. That was a tragedy to Rousseau—not anger, but sadness.

“By the way, Lu-kun, if it’s unnecessary, don’t provoke those ‘bounty hunters,’” Morishige added.

“Bounty hunters?” Rousseau frowned.

“Lee and his disciples,” Morishige nodded toward them. “They roam the lower-tier events of the World Athletics Tour, living off prize money. They’ll do anything to win. Their races aren’t exactly clean.”

“Doing anything just to win first place,” Rousseau laughed, “There’s nothing wrong with taking the prize for running first.”

Seeing Rousseau’s indifference, Morishige said no more and prepared to leave.

“Do they dope?” Rousseau suddenly asked.

Morishige hesitated, saying nothing. Clearly, he did not want to answer. The matter was sensitive.

But Morishige’s silence spoke volumes. After arriving in Hiroshima, Rousseau had undergone a urine test conducted by World Athletics officials. Still, Rousseau suspected the test was superficial—could a urine test detect all doping substances?

He didn’t understand the science but felt from experience that cheating always found ways around rules—no theoretical basis, just a worldly judgment.

“Have you paid them money, too?” Rousseau pressed.

Morishige hurried away, as if fleeing.

The answer was probably yes.