Lunar Diary

“He won’t lose.”

—Lunar Diary

—

The truth was, Xie Yuncan hadn’t really changed much—whether in the past or now. If anything, he’d grown more mature and learned to hold back a little more.

In high school, Xie Yuncan wasn’t one to mix easily with others, but somehow, he had a way of making people genuinely respect him.

That year, their class got into a heated argument with Class 7 on the basketball court. It escalated into a full-blown shouting match, even coming close to physical blows.

Class 7 was an ordinary class—their grades hovered in the middle to lower range—while Class 1 was the elite experimental class, Tsinghua-Peking’s farm team at No.1 High.

The two classes rarely crossed paths. After all, the gap between them was huge. Class 1’s building was on the east side of campus, Class 7’s on the west. In high school, every minute and second was precious—ten minutes between classes, half an hour for lunch. Aside from meals and morning exercises, the two classes never had a chance to meet.

But that day, heavy rain forced PE class indoors. Besides Class 1, two other classes—Class 3 and Class 7—were also scheduled for gym. However, Class 1’s PE teacher was out sick, so they ended up sharing the session with Class 7.

Though Class 1 students excelled academically, their physical fitness was truly lacking. A little exercise left them breathless. After sit-ups and frog jumps, half of them collapsed. Qin Sang was no exception.

She’d never been athletic—the 800-meter run on her entrance exam had felt like it nearly killed her. At No.1 High, with the packed curriculum, regular PE classes were often taken over by subject teachers for exams and test reviews. The longest break she got was the ten minutes between classes, just enough to run from the third floor to the small convenience store.

Class 7, on the other hand, was in great shape. Their athletic ability was undeniable. After the same hundred frog jumps and sit-ups, Class 7 students were unfazed, full of energy, and had the nerve to mock them: “What good are good grades if you’re all a bunch of weaklings?”

The speaker was Class 7’s troublemaker, Teng Wenbiao. He was a PE special recruit—tall and burly—and he looked down on Class 1’s fragile appearance.

These were hot-blooded teenage boys, easily provoked. Class 1 students were indignant. One bespectacled boy stood up and said, “That’s going too far. We just have different strengths. You can’t mock others just because you’re good at something else—that’s classless.”

Teng Wenbiao picked at his ear with his pinky, pretending not to hear. “What’d you say? Speak up. Don’t be such a sissy—can’t run, can’t jump, and now you can’t even talk loud enough?”

His words sparked laughter from the boys around him.

“Look at him. You top students are this useless? Can’t even get a sentence out. I wonder—can you even do math?”

“If you can’t hack it, just admit it. Stop yapping.”

The bespectacled boy flushed with humiliation, fists clenched in anger. “Teng Wenbiao, don’t go too far!”

“This is too far? Isn’t your Class 1 always looking down your noses at everyone?”

Teng Wenbiao sneered. “You judge strength by rankings—we do the same. Sports are about ability. If you’ve got the skill, compete. If not, don’t act tough in front of me. I can’t stand whiny four-eyed twerps like you. This is school, but if we were outside No.1 High…”

He scoffed, made a fist, and drew his thumb across his neck in a cutting gesture, his expression menacing.

It was a blatant provocation—a clear threat.

“Haha, four-eyes—can you even take a punch? Don’t let Bro Biao knock you down with one hit and leave you flopping—that’d be embarrassing.”

“Class 1 is useless anyway—a bunch of bookworms. Dead last in sports every year, and you still dare to show off in front of our Biao? If you want to step up, know your place.”

“Four-eyes, get lost.”

The grudge between Class 7 and Class 1 ran deep. In fact, Class 1’s existence was like a thorn in the side of every other class.

Homeroom teachers loved using Class 1 students as examples to motivate their own classes to work harder. But they overlooked the fact that students at that age were proud and headstrong—they didn’t want to compare themselves to others and resented being taught that way.

A garden blooms in many colors—you can’t force every flower to become a fragrant rose.

Class 1 didn’t deign to compete. Class 7 simply couldn’t catch up.

So when these two classes collided, it was like Mars hitting Earth—friction was inevitable.

Class 7, being the bottom of the ordinary classes, was constantly criticized by teachers until they couldn’t hold their heads up. But grades weren’t something you could just catch up on with effort.

Class 1 students were naturally gifted—many had been competing in Olympiads since childhood. To them, grades were just meaningless numbers, not even a mark of honor.

They only cared about whether their rankings would rise and whether they’d get into top-tier universities. Everything else was beneath their notice.

But that didn’t mean they were spineless. When the bespectacled boy was targeted by Teng Wenbiao, Class 1’s solidarity suddenly surged like never before.

The lead boys stepped forward, confronting Class 7 head-on. But Class 1 hardly ever had time for physical activity, and the school never gave them opportunities to build their fitness. Compared to special recruits like Teng Wenbiao, they really did seem frail.

What started as a war of words escalated into shoving, then into all-out physical confrontation.

Class 7 had stamina, and Teng Wenbiao was strong—no one in Class 1 could hold him back. In the chaos, no one knew who struck first, and soon both classes’ boys were brawling. Teng Wenbiao grabbed one boy by the collar, eyes bloodshot, fist raised: “You asking for a beating?”

But the next second, a dark blur hurtled toward him—a basketball smacked him square in the face. It bounced off and rolled to the floor, mocking him with its rhythmic thuds.

The impact was no joke—it caught him right on the bridge of the nose, and blood started flowing instantly. Teng Wenbiao yelped in pain, let go, and clutched his nose, hands covered in red. His eyes burned with rage as he bellowed, “Fuck! Which bastard ambushed me?”

“Your grandpa.”

A boy across the basketball court fired back without mercy. And behind him stood another figure—sharp-featured, aloof, with a casual, proud bearing.

“Teng Wenbiao, you brain-dead moron! You’ve got nothing better to do than stir up trouble?”

Teng Wenbiao was seething, and when he saw those two, he looked at them like mortal enemies, cursing nonstop: “Jiang Mingyi, don’t think I won’t hit you! Sneak attacks? If you’ve got balls, fight me fair and square!”

“Fight in what?”

The person behind Jiang Mingyi spoke up, calm and composed, eyes fixed straight on him.

Teng Wenbiao was caught off guard. He frowned. “You tell me—what do you want to compete in? I’m game for anything.”

“Whatever you want.”

The young man had one hand in his pocket, relaxed and indifferent, as if he didn’t even consider them worth his attention.

Teng Wenbiao’s temper flared instantly. He wiped his bloody nose carelessly. “Fine. Don’t say Class 7 is bullying Class 1 when you’ve got no one. How about basketball? You do know how to play, right? Loser kneels and begs for mercy.”

Class 7 exchanged glances and started snickering again.

“Fine.” Xie Yuncan’s expression remained unchanged.

Teng Wenbiao glared at him, then let out a sinister laugh. “Deal. Don’t cry when you lose—that’d be pathetic. I can’t wait to see what it feels like having the grade’s top student kneeling before me.”

Jiang Mingyi snorted. “Cut the crap and play. Get ready to kowtow to your grandpa.”

Teng Wenbiao sneered. His teammate handed him the ball; he weighed it in his hands, then hurled it violently toward the two of them.

He was going to pay them back for that bloody nose!

But the next second, the ball—shooting toward them like a meteor—was intercepted mid-flight. The young man’s slender hand caught it lazily, and he looked up, his gaze sharp as a blade. “What? You trying to play ball or fight?”

Teng Wenbiao’s smirk froze. A murmur of awe rippled through the crowd.

His face darkened, and he ground out through clenched teeth: “Play ball.”

That basketball game ignited Class 1’s fighting spirit. They were more united than ever. But most of them were academic stars—when it came to sports, they were miles behind Class 7. It took some scraping to find a few who could actually play, forming a makeshift team.

On the court, Teng Wenbiao was cocky, ball in hand, flashing a middle finger at Xie Yuncan and Jiang Mingyi.

Jiang Mingyi cursed under his breath: “Asshole.”

Xie Yuncan wore a red-and-white jersey with the number 6. He was tall and lean, but not weak—his arm muscles were defined, with a slim, athletic build. A red wristband circled his right wrist, stark against his pale skin.

Quite a crowd had gathered in the stands—not just Class 1 and 7, but Class 3 had come to watch too. Just how popular was Xie Yuncan? Almost every girl there had come for him. Only a few were actually trying to predict the outcome.

Qin Sang sat in the corner, next to some Class 3 students. They whispered among themselves, not optimistic about this battle for honor.

“The number 6 player from Class 1—who’s that? Is it Xie?”

“Looks like it. And over on Class 7, that’s Teng Wenbiao, right? He’s the school basketball team captain. Heard he’s about to join the provincial team. Tsk. Class 7’s all school team players. Class 1… hard to say. I think Xie might get crushed.”

It was obvious to anyone watching that the gap was huge. In academics, Class 7 couldn’t touch Class 1—but in sports, Class 1 was no match for Class 7.

Qin Sang gripped her water bottle tightly, saying nothing.

On the court, the match was fierce. The score gap was huge at first—after all, Class 7 were all school team players, professionals with great coordination. Teng Wenbiao was especially talented, with near-perfect shooting accuracy.

Class 1, on the other hand, was a ragtag team scraped together from whoever could play. They couldn’t keep up with the pace, were always playing catch-up, could barely grab the ball, and even when they did, the lack of teamwork meant Class 7 would intercept it almost immediately.

By halftime, Class 1 was trailing. During the break, Xie Yuncan sat resting, and many girls rushed forward to offer him water. Liu Chengcheng dragged Qin Sang along, but she hung back, silently clutching her bottle.

Those who went up to offer water returned empty-handed. He always kept his distance—he never accepted uninvited favors.

Jiang Mingyi was worried: “A-Yun, can your hand hold up?”

Xie Yuncan replied calmly: “I’m fine.”

Jiang Mingyi swore under his breath, deeply annoyed. “That bastard Teng Wenbiao—he definitely knows your hand has old injuries. He’s targeting you on purpose.”

Teng Wenbiao talked about fairness, but his play was dirty—vicious, without even pretending otherwise. He was skilled and had sharp judgment. He’d probably figured out that Xie Yuncan was the key player with excellent skills, so he’d been targeting him all first half. Besides Jiang Mingyi, no one else on Class 1 really knew how to play or coordinate properly.

One person’s talent couldn’t turn the tide—this was a team sport, not a solo show.

Xie Yuncan had been in a car accident, and his right wrist had lingering issues. Now, it seemed the old injury had flared up. From the moment he sat down, his right hand had been trembling slightly, his fingers unable to bend properly.

But his expression stayed cold and detached; you’d never know something was wrong.

He said flatly: “Enough talk. A loss means we’re not good enough. Just play hard in the second half.”

Jiang Mingyi nodded grimly.

By the time Qin Sang finally mustered the courage to step forward, the break was already over. They brushed past each other, and the heat radiating from the young man swept over her face.

She looked down, her cold water bottle covered in condensation, her palms damp. She stood there, head bowed, like a rootless duckweed—too afraid to speak.

But the next second, a shadow fell over her.

She looked up and met his clear, indifferent eyes. He glanced down at her briefly, cool and composed. “Classmate, can I borrow some water?”

Qin Sang nodded numbly. As she handed over the bottle, her cool fingers accidentally brushed against his warm fingertips. Her pinky curled inward involuntarily.

The young man’s brows were clear, his jaw slightly inclined. His voice was light: “Thanks.”

Qin Sang just shook her head, saying nothing. She watched the two of them walk away, and saw him press the bottle she’d almost warmed up against his right wrist guard.

The second half was a blazing battle. After adjustments, Class 1 caught up quickly, the score narrowing and the atmosphere growing even more tense.

Teng Wenbiao played aggressively, pushing hard. As Class 1 closed in, he exchanged a look with his teammates. Soon, the number 6 player was cornered. Constant physical contact—even with the referee’s whistle—did little to ease the tension.

Xie Yuncan’s right hand was injured; Teng Wenbiao had targeted him in the first half, and in the second, he doubled down, trapping him from both sides.

When jumping to intercept the ball, Teng Wenbiao’s teammate slammed into him deliberately. It was a nasty hit. Fortunately, Xie Yuncan reacted fast—just before hitting the ground, he braced himself with his elbow. A sharp pain shot through the bone, and he let out a grunt.

Jiang Mingyi exploded: “Fuck, Teng Wenbiao! Are you sick or something? That’s dirty play!”

The referee blew the whistle and sent Teng Wenbiao’s teammate off, but Teng Wenbiao just sneered, turned his thumb down, and taunted: “You’re done for.”

Xie Yuncan got up, eyelids lifting coldly. He shot the other man a glare, rarely cursing: “Cut the shit.”

The accident on court was clear to everyone in the stands. Even Qin Sang, who barely understood basketball, could tell how heavy that collision was. For an already injured hand, it was like adding salt to the wound.

The score was now tied. One more basket, and Class 1 would win. That was probably why Teng Wenbiao had resorted to any means necessary—to take Xie Yuncan out completely.

Class 1’s scrappy team relied entirely on Xie Yuncan’s leadership. He and Jiang Mingyi worked seamlessly together, and as the others gradually found their rhythm, they’d grown more intense in the second half, catching up fast.

Now the game was at its boiling point. The audience barely dared to breathe.

Qin Sang watched the red-clad figure charging across the court. She remembered what she’d seen earlier—how the red wristband had shifted, revealing reddened skin beneath, the wrist bone swollen high. He must have been badly hurt. That was why he’d asked for her water—to ice it down.

And now, after that impact, his elbow had hit the ground. It must have been severe.

He kept adjusting his wrist, trying to ease the pain, but now his right hand was practically immobile.

She could see his hand trembling—seemingly completely drained of strength.

Liu Chengcheng swallowed nervously. “Sang Sang, Xie doesn’t look good. Is he going to lose?”

Qin Sang pressed her lips together. After a long moment, she said firmly: “He won’t lose.”

Only five minutes remained. The tie had been broken—Class 7 led by one point. That meant Class 1 had to sink a three-pointer before the final whistle to turn the game around.

Class 7 was confident, their victory all but sealed. Teng Wenbiao high-fived two nearby teammates, as if celebrating their upcoming win.

As he brushed past Xie Yuncan, Teng Wenbiao smirked contemptuously: “I’ll be waiting for you to kneel and beg, Mr. Top Student.”

Xie Yuncan glanced at him with a hint of disdain. “Don’t celebrate too early.”

Then he resumed dribbling, feinting to one side. Teng Wenbiao instinctively jumped to block—but the next second, Xie Yuncan shifted, passing the ball from right to left, then pushed it hard to the right. It shot out like an arrow.

Jiang Mingyi caught it, leaped from beyond the three-point line, and released the ball in a parabolic arc.

It hit the rim, spinning around the hoop. The entire audience held their breath, eyes locked on that ball.

Then—it swirled through the net.

Teng Wenbiao stood frozen, stunned.

He’d been on guard against Xie Yuncan the whole time, convinced Xie wouldn’t pass to his teammates. Xie was too much of a show-off, and his shooting accuracy was the best in Class 1—even better than Teng’s. Someone like that would never trust his teammates.

But in that final, crucial moment, Xie Yuncan had completely fooled him. He’d coordinated with Jiang Mingyi—the ball left Xie’s hands, but the final shot came from Jiang.

Someone screamed.

The gymnasium erupted in thunderous applause, cheers and shouts echoing from all sides.

Class 1 students were especially ecstatic—a whole crowd rushed forward, surrounding the players.

“Sang Sang, did you see that? Xie won!”

Liu Chengcheng grabbed her arm, nearly vibrating with excitement.

Qin Sang was thrilled too.

He’d won.

She knew it. He would definitely win.

“I lost?” Teng Wenbiao muttered to himself. “I actually lost? How is that possible?”

Jiang Mingyi scoffed. “Pfft. You played that dirty and still thought you’d win? Who gave you that confidence? What, you ready to kneel and beg for mercy from your grandpa?”

That was the bet from the start—and the stakes had even been Teng Wenbiao’s own idea. Now, he’d shot himself in the foot.

His face turned pale. All his arrogance had vanished. He drooped like a beaten dog, tail between his legs.

He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. “A loss is a loss. I’ll honor it. So what if I have to kneel? A real man knows when to bend. I can do it.”

Clenching his fists, body rigid, knees stiffly bending—just as he prepared to kneel in humiliation, a tired, cool voice came from above: “Forget it. The bet’s off.”

Teng Wenbiao froze and looked up.

Xie Yuncan looked down at him, eyelids hooded with indifference. “You played for Class 7. I played for Class 1. Losing isn’t shameful. In sports, strength decides the winner. Let your skill do the talking. Respecting your opponent is respecting yourself.”

Xie Yuncan had beaten him in his own field, with cleaner play. He’d won beautifully—honorably.

Teng Wenbiao’s expression flickered. He felt somehow diminished, as if crushed under two mountains named conscience and professional ethics.

“I’m sorry.”

Teng Wenbiao lowered his head and finally apologized for his actions.

He shouted it loud, sincerely admitting his fault to Class 1. “Sorry”—again and again—echoed across the court.

On that day after the rain, across the vast sea of people, she watched that spirited, triumphant young man surrounded like a star, hoisted up and tossed into the air by his teammates.

They cheered. They exulted.

They celebrated that hard-won victory with wild, jubilant abandon.

And now—ten years had passed.

Twenty-six-year-old Xie Yuncan sat beside her. His features hadn’t changed; those phoenix eyes were slightly curved, lazy and captivating.

Zhou Yihong and Shen Yi chatted on and off, while Xie Yuncan merely hummed a lazy response every now and then.

Qin Sang listened absently. That faint minty scent lingered around her. She couldn’t help sneaking a glance at him—only to have her gaze caught.

He smiled faintly, voice low: “Classmate Qin, focus on the lecture.”