Picking a Fight on Purpose

Hot! Exhausted!

That was how Ning Rongrong felt. It was already afternoon, and she and Oscar had just finished eighteen laps. Only two remained, but her steps were no longer as light as they had been at the start. Her legs felt filled with lead, and every stride took all her strength.

She gasped for air. Her throat felt as though needles were stabbing it, and sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead. The Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda floated beside her shoulder, its light somewhat dim. She bit her lip hard, her blue-green eyes faintly red.

Ning Rongrong felt wronged. Back at the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Sect, when had she ever suffered like this? Forget being in such a sorry state—if even a speck of dust had landed on her clothes, a maid would already have stepped forward to brush it off.

"Rongrong, are you all right?" Oscar called from beside her, worry plain in his voice. He was doing considerably better; after all, this was hardly his first time training like this.

Ning Rongrong opened her mouth to say she was fine, but before the words came out, the hurt she had bottled up broke free. A sob escaped her throat, and tears spilled from her eyes like pearls from a broken string.

Seeing her cry, Oscar was at a loss. He hurriedly made a Recovery Sausage and held it out. "Rongrong, why don't you stop? You've already run so many laps. Lasting this long is impressive enough. When I finish, come in with me. If the dean asks, I'll say we both completed it."

Hearing Oscar urge her to give up, Ning Rongrong remembered how she had urged Zhu Zhuqing to do the same yesterday. Zhu Zhuqing had been in even worse shape than she was