Was Shan Chong determined to retire from the moment he woke up in the operating room?
Not entirely.
After all, snowboarding and big air had been a part of his life for so long. To Shan Chong, these activities had become as natural as eating and drinking…
At least, that’s what he thought before the anesthesia wore off.
Upon waking, he learned that the surgery, originally scheduled for three to four hours, had lasted over six. The attending physician responsibly informed him that upon opening his body, they found the situation slightly worse than anticipated…
There was some damage to the cauda equina nerves, which control a person’s autonomous physiological functions. As a result, the doctors spent a considerable amount of time suturing that area.
Fortunately, there shouldn’t be any major issues.
At the time, his parents and Wang Xin were by his bedside. Dai Duo had taken Shan Shan back to the hotel to rest. They had also waited outside the operating room all day, only leaving after Shan Chong was wheeled out.
He had no recollection of this.
When he regained consciousness and saw Wang Xin, his first thought was to discuss the upcoming important competitions scheduled for around March, such as the Burton U.S. Open, X Games, and several World Cup events…
He wouldn’t make it in time.
He’d likely miss them all.
When he shared this thought with Wang Xin, the coach didn’t react much. Missing the competitions wasn’t a big deal; there were still over three years until the Beijing Winter Olympics, so taking a year to recover wouldn’t be a problem.
Shan Chong was surprised that his coach wasn’t being his usual talkative self. He had expected to wake up to a lecture about safety precautions and whatnot…
But Wang Xin didn’t mention a word about it.
Instead, like a caring father, he tucked Shan Chong’s blanket and told him not to worry about anything and focus on recovery.
In the following days, Shan Chong’s teammates, juniors, and friends came to visit him. Bei Ci was the most frequent visitor, neglecting his training to sit by Shan Chong’s bedside with an expression so tragic it was as if he were attending a funeral…
This emotional state persisted even after Shan Chong was able to wear a back brace for lumbar spine recovery, get out of bed on his own, and take care of his personal needs. Bei Ci maintained the same gloomy demeanor.
Shan Chong’s feelings towards him evolved from “he’s a good brother” to “Is this guy mentally ill?”
One day, unable to tolerate Bei Ci’s mournful face as he sat peeling an apple at his bedside, Shan Chong slowly put on his turtle shell-like back brace and sat up.
“Chong-ge,” Bei Ci asked, “where are you going?”
“To hang me.”
“…”
“To the bathroom,” Shan Chong replied, putting on his slippers and giving Bei Ci a sidelong glance. “Want to come hold my dick for me?”
The other teammates sitting around Shan Chong’s bed, chatting and playing on their phones, all burst into laughter…
The man slowly stood up, steadying himself against the bed. No one dared to help him, knowing that this Scorpio—or perhaps a Leo in his rising sign or inner personality—was proud and had a bad temper.
He had sent away Wang Xin, who had been keeping him company, on the second day after waking up.
And apart from the first day when he wore the back brace and was in too much pain to refuse help, he hadn’t allowed anyone to touch him since.
Shan Chong slowly made his way to the bathroom. Since it was a shared hospital room, the bathroom was quite far. He shuffled there on his own, used the toilet, and washed his hands, treating it as a rehabilitation exercise.
Perhaps because he moved faster than everyone expected, no one noticed when he came out.
“Bei Ci, damn it, Chong-ge is right. Stop looking like you’re at a funeral, will you? He’s fine. It’s so unlucky,” a voice reached his ears.
The man leaned against the wall, not coming out yet, taking the opportunity to rest and listen to his juniors and disciples educate Bei Ci about his fragile heart.
“I don’t want to, damn it,” the senior disciple said in a hoarse voice. “I just can’t help feeling sad when I think about what Chong-ge will do in the future.”
“It’s not like his back is permanently broken. He can walk, can’t he?”
“Is being able to walk the same as being able to move normally?” Bei Ci said. “Haven’t you heard Chong-ge mention his legs going numb these past few days? Even though the doctor says it’s a normal post-operative reaction—”
Shan Chong, who had indeed been experiencing some numbness in his legs from standing too long, expressionlessly shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.
He heard his teammates in the room fall into silence. After what felt like an eternity, someone suddenly said, “Well, yeah. Even with steel pins, it’s not as good as the original.”
“I heard from Dai Duo,” another voice chimed in, “that Wang Xin caught A-Dou looking at retirement information. The two coaches had a huge argument, and it was only because Dai Duo intervened that they didn’t come to blows… A-Dou said he was just trying to consider an exit strategy for Chong-ge, but Wang Xin couldn’t even bear to hear the word ‘retire.’ He believes Chong-ge will be able to jump again once he recovers.”
“What did A-Dou say?”
“He thinks it’s not possible. After a fall like this, forget about the psychological trauma—what if he falls again?”
“What do you mean, ‘what if’? A-Dou must be crazy too. After training for so many years, to retire right before the Beijing Winter Olympics? If it were me, I’d force myself to compete even if I had to use crutches—”
“What’s the use of forcing yourself? You have to consider your condition, your condition!”
As the conversation deepened, Shan Chong grew bored of listening. He didn’t particularly want to hear more, so he opened the bathroom door again and then closed it forcefully.
The loud “bang” of the door opening and closing abruptly silenced the discussion outside. The man waited for about ten seconds before walking out, expressionless.
He took off the back brace on his own, held onto the handrail, and lay down. He then shooed everyone away, telling them to go back to the snowfield for training instead of slacking off at his bedside.
Everyone left except for Bei Ci, who wasn’t officially part of the team. The hospital room suddenly became quiet.
Bei Ci continued peeling his apple. Shan Chong picked up his phone and started browsing. As he scrolled, he felt a gaze burning into the back of his hand. He put down his phone, met his senior disciple’s eyes, and said, “What are you looking at? I’m fine.”
Bei Ci didn’t know what Shan Chong meant by “I’m fine,” but he felt a chill run down his spine.
His facial expression crumbled for about three seconds before he quickly regained his composure. Putting down the apple and knife, he placed his hands on his knees and said, “Chong-ge, which professional park rider hasn’t had an orthopedic sponsor? Don’t think about anything. Just focus on getting better.”
Shan Chong smiled slightly.
Bei Ci couldn’t smile at all.
Finally, the man waved his hand dismissively and said lazily, “Who needs your comfort?”
This was the first time Shan Chong felt uncomfortable after the surgery—
He clearly and distinctly knew that his teammates’ discussion behind his back wasn’t out of sympathy, nor was it schadenfreude. They were simply discussing the facts of the situation.
It was just that these facts were hard to accept.
…
His second bout of discomfort came just before he was discharged from the hospital.
It was close to the Chinese New Year, and he was already able to walk around wearing his turtle shell-like back brace and even begin simple rehabilitation exercises. His only range of activity and entertainment became walking from one end of the hospital corridor to the other.
The orthopedic doctor’s office was located up a flight of stairs in the middle of the ward.
Shan Chong didn’t know what possessed him that day—perhaps he had taken the wrong medication or something—but he suddenly wanted to climb the stairs. There was no one at the nurse’s station to stop him, so he went up.
Once again, he found himself eavesdropping through a door.
This time, it was his attending physician speaking with his family.
The conversation he overheard began with his mother saying, “He’s a professional athlete,” and the doctor replying, “I know”—
“His coach has already asked me about this, and my response was that, fortunately, although high-intensity, frequent training is not advisable, given that his sport doesn’t put as much pressure on spinal curvature as something like gymnastics or diving if he doesn’t want to retire due to injury, he could potentially continue. Of course, we wouldn’t say that it’s forbidden in this situation…”
The doctor’s voice was slow, muffled through the wall, carrying the responsibility expected of a medical professional, and perhaps even a touch of compassion hidden beneath a veneer of detachment.
“But let me be frank, even though perhaps I shouldn’t—I’ve looked into big air snowboarding a bit, and among all skiing events, this one is considered to have relatively high risks. Given your family’s situation—”
The doctor paused tactfully, clearly feeling he shouldn’t delve into such personal matters.
After his self-imposed pause, he continued more diplomatically: “None of us can guarantee that he won’t fall again in future competitions or training… Just because he was okay this time doesn’t mean he’ll be okay next time. And I believe that in his current condition if a similar accident were to occur, he might not be as lucky as he was this time. You know, his spine nearly punctured the dura mater—that would have been very serious. If it had gone just a millimeter further, you might not even know where you’d be spending Chinese New Year…”
Shan Chong didn’t hear what the doctor said after that.
Through the wall, he sensed that his mother, who had been able to speak calmly up to that point, also fell silent.
The phrase “your family’s situation” hung in the air like a curse.
It was enough to make every member of the Shan family pause and reconsider their established thoughts.
Who knows how much time passed? To Shan Chong, standing there felt like an eternity, to the point where he began to feel fatigued. Finally, he heard his mother say, “It depends on him.”
“Consider retiring due to injury, or perhaps switching to a different event. Isn’t there speed skiing besides big air? Of course, it’s not my place to say, but given the current situation—”
“He may be the older brother, but both my children are very stubborn,” the middle-aged woman’s voice interrupted the doctor.
“Sometimes I superstitiously wonder if his father and I unknowingly did something wrong, and that’s why our family is being punished and warned by heaven. His sister is already in that condition, and if he also…”
The voice disappeared briefly for two seconds before continuing.
“But I also know that he won’t listen to anything I say. He needs to figure it out for himself. Once children are born, they have their own lives. What parent wants to meddle, and which child is willing to listen patiently? So if he doesn’t give up, I’ll support him… But if he could give it up, I probably—”
She paused again.
“I’d probably be truly happy.”
The doctor chuckled and said, “I understand. Rather than some grand achievement, most parents would prefer their children to live a safe and ordinary life, wouldn’t they?”
After a long while, Shan Chong heard the woman laugh through the door and say, “Yes, aren’t all parents like that? If I could, I’d gladly take his place on that operating table.”
Shan Chong didn’t stay to hear how the conversation ended.
He simply turned and left.
As he descended the stairs, he encountered a young nurse at the landing. The nurse was startled by the man in hospital clothes. Seeing his cold eyes, they briefly made eye contact before he raised his index finger to his lips.
With a flushed face, the young nurse ensured that this eavesdropping incident would remain a secret forever.
…
Later on, Shan Chong brought up the topic of retirement himself. Indeed, no one had forced him.
It was on New Year’s Eve, just as the clock struck midnight to usher in the first day of the Lunar New Year. Everyone had gathered around the table to eat the first dumplings of the new year when he announced his decision.
On television, the Spring Festival Gala was wrapping up with songs and dances.
Outside the window, New Year’s fireworks were still blooming in the night sky, and the sound of firecrackers could be heard in the distance.
Driven by some unknown impulse, he announced the news.
After saying it, amidst the despair in his chest, a sense of relief arose—the feeling that “everything is finally over.”
From now on, no one would need to put on a brave face. People wouldn’t have to discuss, argue, or debate behind his back about whether he could continue competing…
Dai Duo threw the red envelope he was about to give to Shan Shan onto her lap and stormed out;
Shan Shan fumbled clumsily for the controls of her wheelchair, struggling to find buttons she could usually locate with her eyes closed;
Shan’s father put down the remote control he was using to adjust the Spring Festival Gala’s volume and turned around, bewildered;
Wang Xin calmly set down his bowl, said “Happy New Year,” and left, leaving behind the lucky-numbered dumplings unfinished…
Shan’s mother was the calmest of all. Perhaps Shan Chong’s tendency to remain emotionless in the face of adversity came from her. Amid the family’s impending chaos, she held her bowl steady, her chopsticks not trembling even slightly.
She split open a dumpling with her chopsticks, revealing a clean copper coin inside, symbolizing warding off evil and bringing good luck.
Placing this dumpling in her son’s bowl, she simply said, “Eat this dumpling. It will bring you good luck in the coming year. Forget all the bad things, look forward, and move forward. Don’t look back.”
From now on, don’t look back.
It was as if he had completely torn open a fresh wound, blood gushing forth, both painful and cathartic.
In the middle of the night, Shan Chong told himself not to blame anyone; this was his own decision.
But from that day on, he never set foot on Changbai Mountain again.
…
Now, today.
Returning to Changbai Mountain.
Shan Chong didn’t know what emotions he felt coming back here.
There wasn’t any earth-shattering catalyst. It just seemed that with the passage of time and the development of events, when the moment arrived, he suddenly found he had the courage—
Courage from an unknown source.
Wang Xin said, “Why don’t you go back to Changbai Mountain for a visit?”
He thought, “Why not take a look?”
It was as if all the things about Changbai Mountain he had been unwilling to mention before had suddenly become what Dai Duo would call “overly sentimental.”
Everything seemed to make sense now. Closing his eyes and looking back at those heart-wrenching, sleepless nights of suffering, it all seemed to have vanished into thin air…
There was nothing too painful to recall.
Every sleepless night and midnight tossing and turning had somehow become precious treasures.
The later Shan Mu Xuan athlete was stronger than the former Shan Chong athlete.
Some say that when you’re at the lowest point in your life, even if you don’t know where you’re heading, at least one thing is certain: as long as you keep moving forward, you’re definitely on an upward path.
He raised his hand.
Removed his snowboard.
The man slowly got up from the snow, as if that brief contact with the Changbai Mountain range was a farewell to the past. Everything he had always longed for, yet dared not remember, was let go in this moment.
He bent down to pick up his snowboard. Before he could turn around, he heard hurried footsteps behind him. Someone was making crunching sounds in the snow, rapidly approaching. In the blink of an eye, that person was in front of him.
The young girl’s breath formed white clouds in the air as she stumbled towards him like a clumsy duckling learning to walk. She came to an abrupt, awkward stop—
She almost lost her balance, her foot slipping on the icy surface a couple of times before she instinctively reached out to grab the front of his clothes, half-falling, half-hugging him to steady herself.
As soon as she regained her balance, she stood on her tiptoes. Her hands, covered in white fluffy gloves, reached up to cup his face.
“Shan Chong,” she looked up at him, her almond-shaped eyes sparkling, “You weren’t crying just now, were you?”
Before the man could answer, her bear-like fluffy gloves were already brushing his face, carelessly wiping away the powdery snow from his cheeks and nose.
He bent slightly at the waist.
Allowing her to cup his face, she eagerly leaned in, eyes wide open, observing the emotions on his face.
The man maintained his bent posture, his dark pupils moving slightly in his moist eye sockets. He lowered his gaze to look at her and asked, “What do you mean by ‘You weren’t crying, were you?'”
His voice was low and magnetic, with a hint of hoarseness.
She blinked.
“Wang Xin sent the entire video of your jump and kneeling on the ground, without missing a second and with the original sound, to your family.”
Wei Zhi took off her gloves and used her warm, soft hands to gently brush away the frost on his eyelashes. She then caressed his face, her voice gentle, “Wasn’t this planned between you all?”
“…” Shan Chong said, “No, it wasn’t.”
“…”
Perhaps due to shock, Wei Zhi fell silent for a moment. After a while, she almost lost her composure but managed to say diplomatically, “I thought it was scripted.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then just now, you—”
“I lost my balance.”
Wei Zhi, over these past few months, might not have seen a pig run, but she had certainly eaten pork.
If she truly believed he had just lost his balance, she would be a genuine fool.
Was she a fool?
No, she wasn’t.
So after a brief moment of stunned silence, she opened her arms and, despite their height difference, struggled to envelop the man’s shoulders in her embrace—
Forcefully pulling him down, she made him bend over completely, cradling his head in the crook of her neck. The young girl said, “Don’t cry.”
She thought for a moment, then changed her mind.
“It’s okay if you do cry,” she said. “I’m holding you. You can cry secretly, and I won’t tell anyone.”
Shan Chong remained silent.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and for a moment, there was a lump in his throat.
But his long, thick eyelashes fluttered, and no tears fell. All the bitterness reached his lips, and the corner of his mouth twitched, turning into a brief, derisive laugh.
He wrapped his arms around the young girl, straightened up, and lifted her to sit in the crook of his arm. Squinting slightly, he looked up and gently kissed her soft chin and the corner of her lips as she dangled above him.
… How could he not know where his courage came from?
He must have been confused.
His courage was right there in his arms.
The spoiled little princess, dressed in a white tulle gown, and wielding a sword, had braved thorns and snow to rush here, appearing breathless before the castle. She knocked on the silent castle door, hands on her hips, and recklessly called out—
Hello there, open up!
Here’s some snow for you to slide on!
Do you want to come?