Human-Shaped Roadblock

Greenwood has one physical education class every week.

The boys play soccer in the southern half of the field, while the girls practice gymnastics and Walking in the northern half.

The two areas are separated only by a line drawn in white chalk, about two fingers wide; it kicks up dust with every breeze, making it as good as non-existent.

Richard's usual routine during physical education is to move as little as possible.

His previous Physique would wheeze like a bellows after just two laps, so the physical education teacher's expectations for him had reached a tacit 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 more than happy to comply.

Every physical education class, he finds a shady spot on the sidelines to sit, flips through a few pages of a book, and occasionally looks up to watch his classmates running on the field.

Today was supposed to be the same.

He had From Temple to Podium tucked in his bag, perfect for reading a few pages during this class.

But his plans were interrupted.

About ten minutes into the game, Hugh was dribbling down the right flank when a sturdy boy from the opposing team slid into him from the side.

It wasn't a malicious foul, just a case of pulling his foot back half a beat too late.

Hugh rolled half a turn and crouched on the sidelines, clutching his left knee with both hands, his face twisted in pain.

"Are you okay?" Richard looked up from his pile of books.

"My knee hit the ground... it hurts like hell." Hugh bared 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 plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his face wore the stubborn look of someone who wouldn't stop until his goal was reached.

"Fenton is out? Then we're one man short."

His gaze landed on Richard.

Richard shook his head.

"Come on." Warren bent down, grabbed his arm, and pulled him up:

"Just stand in the back, kick the ball back if it comes your way, you don't need to do anything else."

"I don't play soccer."

"Just play once today, consider it a favor."

"I..."

"Please, the other side has an extra man, our defense is leaking like a sieve."

Warren had already half-dragged and half-pulled him up from the ground.

Hugh gave him a thumbs-up from behind while clutching his knee, meaning: go for it, brother, avenge me.

Richard was pushed onto the field.

The physical education teacher, Thompson, glanced at him from the sidelines and frowned, likely calculating in his mind whether this kid would collapse directly onto the turf once he started playing.

But he didn't stop him; he just blew his whistle to let the game continue.

Richard stood in the corner of his team's half on the right side.

Warren marked out a small area for him, about five steps long and three steps wide, roughly the size of a parking space.

"Just guard this spot. If the ball comes over, kick it away. If it doesn't, just stand there. Don't run around."

Richard accepted his role as a "human roadblock."

The first few minutes were indeed uneventful.

The ball went back and forth in midfield, and occasionally, when it flew toward his side, it was a high ball that sailed over his head and was intercepted by someone else.

He was even getting a bit bored and started noticing the scenery around him.

The white chalk line at the edge of the field had been trampled repeatedly until it was broken and intermittent, and the girls on the other side of the line were lining up to do calisthenics.

The female teacher leading the exercises had a loud voice, and the rhythm could be heard all the way down the street.

The girls who had finished the second set of exercises started walking in twos and threes along the edge of the field, circling to digest their lunch.

Lillian and two other female classmates were walking side-by-side on the outermost circle, near the side of the boys' soccer field.

She was wearing a sports skirt, revealing a section of fair, slender calves beneath the hem, her steps small but rhythmic.

The three girls were chatting in low voices, occasionally bursting into laughter.

The incident happened when the game reached the fifteen-minute mark.

Warren received the ball in midfield and dribbled past two people in a row.

With his momentum building, he lifted his foot and took a long shot from about thirty steps away from the goal.

He put too much force into it, and the angle was off.

The ball flew out of the goal area with a violent spin, 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 pitch.

The ball was at about chest height, spinning rapidly and humming as it sliced through the air.

It was about 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, his whistle held to his lips, but he was too late to blow it.

Two girls near Lillian saw the ball's trajectory and shrieked as they scattered to either side.

Lillian herself hadn't reacted yet; her pace had only just begun to slow down after hearing the shout.

Richard's body reacted before his brain could.

In the past, his legs would have been weak and his reactions slow; after his brain sent the command to "move," his body would take a sluggish half-second to execute it.

The improvement in coordination after breaking through to Novice was fully reflected in this moment.

He didn't hesitate, concentrating Aether to strengthen his legs as he cut laterally across the grass.

His first step was angled with precision, cutting directly into the ball's flight path.

As his second step landed, his center of gravity had already shifted, and his right foot rose instinctively.

Just before the ball could strike the girl's back, he tapped the surface of the ball lightly with the outside of his instep.

There was no wide swing of the leg, nor was there any technical complexity to speak of; it was purely a matter of perfect angle and timing.

The ball's flight path was altered, the original spin and the new torque from the tap combining together.

The ball curved back toward the pitch, landing right at Warren's feet.

Warren stood frozen in place as the ball bounced twice off his instep.

"...My ball?"

Lillian was startled by the shouting and turned around.

The two female classmates had retreated to the left and right, their faces still carrying the lingering shock of the moment.

The girl followed her classmates' gazes and looked behind her.

Richard was standing two paces away, his left shoelace undone.

The boy's cheeks were faintly flushed, and the wind had ruffled his brown hair.

"...What happened?" Lillian asked.

"Warren kicked it off course." Richard crouched down to tie his shoelace.

"Did it hit me?"

"No."

Over on the other side, Warren was waving his hands frantically, shouting "Sorry, sorry, sorry," his face a mix of guilt and relief.

She looked down again at Richard, who was crouching on the ground tying his lace.

"Thank you."

Richard finished tying his lace and stood up, brushing the grass clippings off his trousers.

"It's nothing."

Lillian turned and walked back to the girls' field, her pace a little faster than usual.

The two girls beside her quickly crowded around, whispering something to her from either side.

One of them kept looking back toward the pitch, while the other covered her mouth and giggled.

The young girl's ears turned red, and she gave the one who was laughing a sharp elbow.

The speed at which the news spread was faster than the ball had flown.

There were thirty or forty people who had seen it with their own eyes, and as they scattered into their various small circles, the story began its first round of fermentation.

The initial version remained fairly faithful to the facts: "Richard ran over and blocked a ball for Lillian."

By the second circle, it had become: "Richard sprinted out and kicked the ball back, landing it precisely at Warren's feet."

Third circle: "Richard dove through the air and used a mid-air bicycle kick to knock the ball back."

The fourth circle had completely detached itself from the gravity of reality:

"Richard ran over from half a field away and stopped the ball with his chest the exact moment it was about to hit Lillian."

By lunchtime, the cafeteria was livelier than usual, with people at several tables discussing the incident.

Warren set his tray down on the table, and before he had even settled into his seat, he began to defend himself:

"First of all, I need to clarify, the ball didn't go off course because I kicked it wrong; my foot slipped, there was mud on the ground."

"Give it a rest, it's already happened." Mason, on the other hand, was more interested in the person who had caught the ball:

"Come to think of it, that kick Richard pulled off was just like Stanfield."

Warren shoved a piece of potato into his mouth.

"You used to just sit on the sidelines reading books during gym class; when did your reflexes get so fast?"

"My Physique has improved a bit lately."

"A bit of improvement and you can run that fast? You couldn't even finish a single lap around the track before."

"I also couldn't understand Latin conjugation tables before." Richard took a sip of hot tea.

Warren was rendered speechless for a moment.

Mason, however, wouldn't let the topic go, slapping the table as he said:

"Seriously, if you came to play soccer, I think you could play as a fullback.

Your reflexes are fast, your positioning is precise, and even though your stamina is a bit lacking, but..."

"Not playing." Richard refused flatly and decisively.

"Why?"

"Matches are prone to injuries. My health has only just started to improve, it's not worth it."

"...Fair point."