Liu Qingge treated match days like any other training cycle—methodical, controlled, familiar. Warm-up, stretch, tape, breathe. Nothing out of the ordinary. He told himself that repeatedly, even as something restless coiled beneath his ribs.

It was just another bout.

Except it wasn’t.

Shen Yuan was in the stands today.

The thought surfaced unbidden while he wrapped his hands, fingers steady, movements precise. He dismissed it at once. Wanting to perform well wasn’t arrogance; it was professionalism. He was in peak condition—sharp, focused, uninjured. There was no reason to overthink it.

Liu Mingyan, however, watched him from the edge of the prep area with narrowed eyes. She’d asked if he was nervous. He’d answered honestly: no. And that was true. His body was calm, his breathing even. If anything, he felt… lighter. Alert in a way that bordered on anticipation.

When he stepped into the arena, the noise washed over him in a familiar wave—cheers, chants, the low thunder of expectation. Lights glared down from above, bleaching the ring stark white. Across from him stood his opponent, younger, shoulders tense, jaw set too tightly. Nerves. Liu Qingge inclined his head in a brief, respectful nod.

The bell rang.

The first round unfolded cleanly. Liu Qingge read his opponent easily—hesitation in the footwork, punches telegraphed just a fraction too long. He controlled the center of the ring, cut off angles, punished overextensions with ruthless efficiency. Between exchanges, during the break, he lifted his gaze without thinking.

He found Shen Yuan instantly.

It was impossible not to. Amid the sea of fans, Shen Yuan stood out with an absurdly bright sign held above his head, waving it enthusiastically, his expression alight with unmistakable pride. He was cheering Liu Qingge’s name, unabashed and loud.

The crowd roared around him, but Liu Qingge saw only that.

Something settled into place.

The second round was faster. Harder. Liu Qingge pushed the pace—not recklessly, but decisively. He wanted this win to be undeniable. Clean strikes, sharp combinations, controlled aggression. His opponent faltered under the pressure, guard slipping, breath growing ragged.

By the third round, the outcome was inevitable.

The final bell rang to thunderous applause. The referee raised Liu Qingge’s arm. Sweat slicked his skin, heart steady despite the exertion. His team crowded in immediately—hands clapping his shoulders, voices overlapping, congratulatory noise filling his ears.

He barely registered it.

His eyes went back to the stands one last time. Shen Yuan was still there, still beaming, sign lifted high as if Liu Qingge could somehow miss it now.

That was enough.

Liu Qingge disengaged smoothly, excusing himself with a brief gesture, already moving. He ducked past staff and cameras, stride long and purposeful as he headed away from the arena lights and into the quieter corridor beyond.

He needed to clean up and get to Shen Yuan.