Greenwood had one physical education class every week.
The boys played soccer in the southern half of the playground, while the girls did gymnastics and walking in the northern half.
The two fields were separated only by a line drawn in white chalk, about two fingers wide. A gust of wind blew the powder away, making it practically nonexistent.
Richard's usual routine during gym class was to move as little as possible.
His previous physique had him panting like a wheezing bellows after two laps, and the physical education teacher's expectations of him had dropped to a sort of unspoken mutual understanding:
You sit on the sidelines, don't get heatstroke, don't faint, and don't make me write an accident report, and we'll call it even.
Richard was quite happy to cooperate.
Every gym class, he found a shady spot on the sidelines to sit, read a few pages of a book, and occasionally look up to watch his classmates running on the field.
Today was supposed to be no different.
He had tucked From Temple to Podium into his bag, and planned to use the class time to read a few pages.
But his plan was interrupted.
About ten minutes into the start, Hugh was dribbling down the right flank when a sturdy boy from the opposing team slid in from the side and tackled him.
It wasn't a malicious foul, purely a late retraction of the leg.
Hugh rolled half a circle and squatted on the sidelines, clutching his left knee with both hands, his face twisted in expression.
"You alright?" Richard raised his head from the pile of books.
"Hit my knee on the ground... hurts like hell." Hugh gritted his teeth. "Help me ask Mr. Thompson for a leave."
Before he could even ask for leave, Warren had already run over from the soccer field.
His hair was pasted to his forehead by sweat, his face bearing the stubborn determination of someone who would not stop until he achieved his goal.
"Fenton's down? Then we're a man short."
His gaze fell on Richard.
Richard shook his head.
"Come on." Warren bent down, grabbed his arm, and hoisted him up:
"Just stand in the back, kick the ball back when it comes, and don't worry about anything else."
"I don't play soccer."
"Play just this once today, consider it a favor."
"I..."
"Please, the other side has an extra man, and our defense is leaking like a sieve."
Warren had already half-dragged, half-hauled him up from the ground.
Hugh gave him a thumbs-up from behind while clutching his knee, meaning go ahead, bro, avenge me.
Richard was pushed into the soccer field.
Thompson, the physical education teacher, glanced at him from the sidelines and frowned, likely calculating in his mind whether this kid would simply faint directly on the turf.
But he didn't stop him, merely blowing his whistle for the game to continue.
Richard stood in the right-flank corner position of his own half.
Warren marked out a small area for him, about five paces long and three paces wide, much like a parking space.
"Just guard here. Kick the ball away if it comes, and stand still if it doesn't. Don't run around."
Richard accepted his positioning as a "human roadblock."
Nothing much happened in the first few minutes.
The ball bounced back and forth in midfield, and occasionally flew to his side as a high ball, sweeping past overhead only to be intercepted by someone else.
He was even a bit bored, and began to notice the scenery around him.
The white chalk line at the edge of the playground had been repeatedly trampled and worn into a broken, intermittent trace, and the girls on the other side of the line were lining up to do calisthenics.
The female instructor leading the exercises had a loud voice, and her calling of the beats could be heard all the way down the street.
The second group of girls who finished their exercises began to walk in twos and threes along the edge of the field, circling to digest their food.
Lillian and two female classmates walked side by side on the outermost circle, close to the side of the boys' field.
She wore a sports skirt, revealing a strip of pearly-white calves beneath the hem. Her steps were small but rhythmically steady.
The three girls chatted in low voices, occasionally bursting into laughter.
Things happened around the fifteenth minute of the match.
Warren received the ball from midfield and dribbled past two people in a row.
With his momentum up, he raised his foot about thirty paces away from the goal and unleashed a long-range shot.
He exerted too much force, and the angle was also skewed.
The soccer ball flew out of the goal area with fierce rotation, heading straight for the girls' field on the other side of the white chalk line.
In that direction, Lillian was walking with her back to the soccer field.
The soccer ball was about chest-high, spinning rapidly and cutting through the air with a buzzing sound.
It was probably still five or six paces away from Lillian's back.
Warren was already shouting, "Watch out—!"
Mr. Thompson was at the other end of the field with his whistle in his mouth, but it was too late to blow it.
The two girls beside Lillian saw the trajectory of the ball and scattered to both sides with shrieks.
Lillian herself hadn't reacted yet; her pace had only just begun to slow down upon hearing the shout.
Richard's body reacted faster than his brain.
His past self had weak legs and slow reactions, requiring a dull half-second delay for his body to execute after his brain issued the "move" command.
The improvement in coordination after breaking through to the "Novice" stage was manifested at this moment.
He didn't hesitate; Aether concentrated to reinforce his legs, and his feet cut horizontally outward.
The angle of his first step was very precise, directly cutting into the ball's flight path.
As his second step landed, his center of gravity had already shifted, and his right foot lifted smoothly.
Just before the ball was about to crash into the girl's back, he gently tapped the surface of the ball with the outside of his instep.
There was no large leg swing, nor any technical content to speak of; it was purely a matter of catching the exact angle and timing.
The flight path of the soccer ball was redirected, combining the original rotation with the new torque generated by the tap.
The ball carved an arc and spun back toward the soccer field, landing right at Warren's feet.
Warren stood frozen in place, the soccer ball bouncing twice on the top of his foot.
"...My ball?"
Lillian was startled by the shouting and turned around.
The two female classmates retreated to the left and right respectively, their faces still carrying the lingering aftershocks of fright.
The girl then followed her classmates' gazes to look behind her.
Richard stood two paces away behind her, his left shoelace untied.
A faint flush sat on the youth's cheeks, and the wind blew his brown hair somewhat messily.
"...What happened?" Lillian asked.
"Warren kicked it crookedly." Richard squatted down to tie his shoelace.
"Did it hit me?"
"No."
Warren waved his arms frantically over there, shouting "Sorry, sorry, sorry," his face a fifty-fifty split of guilt and relief.
She lowered her head again to look at Richard, who was squatting on the ground tying his shoelace.
"Thank you."
Richard finished tying his shoelace, stood up, and patted the grass clippings off his trouser legs.
"It's nothing."
Lillian turned and walked back to the girls' field, her pace a bit faster than usual.
The two female classmates beside her quickly crowded around, saying something to her, one on her left and one on her right.
One of them kept turning back to look at the soccer field, while the other covered her mouth and smiled.
The young girl's earlobes turned red, and she fiercely elbowed the one who was smiling.
News traveled faster than a flying soccer ball.
Thirty or forty people had witnessed it on the field, and once everyone dispersed into different small circles, the story began its first round of fermentation.
The initial version remained quite faithful to the facts: "Richard ran over and blocked a ball for Lillian."
By the second circle, it had transformed into: "Richard rushed out and kicked the ball back, landing it precisely at Warren's feet."
The third circle: "Richard made a flying dive and tapped the ball back with a mid-air bicycle kick."
The fourth circle had completely broken free from the gravity of reality:
"Richard ran from half a field away and stopped the ball with his chest the moment it touched Lillian."
By lunchtime, the cafeteria was livelier than usual, and people at several tables were discussing the matter.
Warren dumped his tray on the table and started defending himself before his butt even hit the seat:
"First of all, I want to clarify that the ball wasn't kicked crookedly; my foot slipped because there was mud on the ground."
"Oh, come on, it's already happened." Mason, on the contrary, was more interested in the person who received the ball:
"Speaking of which, Richard's kick actually looked like something out of Stanfield."
Warren shoved a potato into his mouth.
"You used to sit on the sidelines and read books during gym class; when did your reactions get so fast?"
"My health has gotten a bit better lately."
"Better so you can run that fast? You couldn't even walk a single lap around the playground before."
"I couldn't even read the Latin conjugation table before either." Richard took a sip of hot tea.
Warren was left momentarily speechless by the counter.
Mason, however, wouldn't let the topic go, slamming the table and saying:
"Seriously, if you came to play soccer, I think you could play fullback.
Fast reactions, accurate positioning—even though your stamina's a bit poor, but..."
"Not playing." Richard refused cleanly and decisively.
"Why?"
"Playing matches is easy to get injured. My body has only just started to improve, it's not worth it."
"...True, too."
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