“Ahhh, I really wanted to know what Captain Zhang’s music choice was this year. He kept it secret until now—it was driving everyone crazy!”

“Exactly. I heard that his short program choreography was done by Francis, and the free skate by Grandma Mia, but the music selection, editing, and costume design were all handled by Captain Zhang himself. Plus, it’s an Olympic year—he was definitely aiming for a classic.”

“If it’s on the same level as Bah Fire and Rain, then the men’s singles this year are going to be a bloodbath. The Prince of Goose and the Prince of the Archipelago already showcased their programs at B-level events—both were masterpieces from top choreographers. The men’s field has been insane these last few years.”

“Say what you will about our Crocodile God, his skill in creating programs had always been top-tier. When it came to quality, he never lost!”

“Am I the only one curious about what the Crocodile God’s costume looks like this year? His short program costume last year was wild—those reflective leather pants had my eyes glued to his butt…”

Right—Captain Zhang hadn’t just kept his program a secret, he hadn’t let anyone see his costume either.

Lying in bed, enjoying being waited on by Xuejun, Zhang Jue scrolled through this Weibo post, blinked, and gave Qin Xuejun a side glance before curling his finger to beckon him over.

“Brother Xuejun, come to think of it, you haven’t seen my costume for this year, right?”

Qin Xuejun picked up the empty fruit plate Zhang Jue had just finished: “Didn’t you bring a few home the other day?”

Zhang Jue replied: “Yeah, but you never saw me wear them. Don’t you want to see?”

Qin Xuejun knew Zhang Jue all too well—Master Zhang didn’t need to spell it out before Qin got the idea.

Although they hadn’t defined their relationship yet, Zhang Jue had made plenty of moves toward taking things further. The boldest one was when he sat on Qin’s bed in a kimono, opened the collar, and asked if Qin wanted a drink of “collarbone wine.”

Qin glanced at Zhang Jue and showed a “bring it on” expression.

“I want to see.”

Zhang Jue tilted his chin: “Then just watch.”

That night, Zhang Jue’s main account surprisingly updated. He posted two photos.

In the first, he wore a faux two-piece: a deep sky-blue shirt decorated with rhinestones underneath a purplish-blue tailcoat, paired with standard black trousers. The overall look was elegant and dashing—like a Mediterranean prince bathed in sea breeze.

The second outfit was much sexier.

It was a black bodysuit. The left side was modestly covered in solid fabric, while the right was made of semi-transparent black mesh, embroidered with gold thread in swirling patterns. A gold rope cinched the waist.

This design highlighted every strength and flaw in an athlete’s physique. If someone with less-than-perfect proportions and body fat in the single digits wore it, they’d be in trouble. But for Zhang Jue? Perfection.

Since the previous off-season, Zhang Jue hadn’t cut his hair. By this year, it had grown to shoulder length. He usually tied it in a ponytail for practice, but left it flowing freely for the photos.

That was peak beauty. Peak. Beauty.

Zhang Jue almost never interacted with fans online, so this rare visual treat sent the skating fandom into a frenzy. They reposted his photos nonstop.

If those really were Zhang Jue’s official competition costumes, fans would move heaven and earth to attend every one of his performances.

Unfortunately, even wearing the second costume and pulling out a pole for a spontaneous sexy dance, Zhang Jue still didn’t manage to “get on the train before buying the ticket.”

Qin Xuejun was definitely aroused, but he restrained himself. He explained that sex carried some risk, and with Zhang Jue heading into the Olympic season, he wasn’t going to risk anything—not even a gentle night.

It was a step forward, though—implying after the season ended, it would be fair game.

But then Zhang Jue looked shocked.

“W-wait, but isn’t it usually said that the top doesn’t face any risk? I swear I’d be gentle—I wouldn’t let us get hurt…”

Then both of them went silent.

They suddenly realized something: they had never agreed on who would top.

Qin Xuejun assumed that, given his age and physique, he’d top. Zhang Jue believed that, as an elite athlete with better stamina, he should top.

Years of mutual understanding kicked in—they both attacked at once. Zhang Jue poked Qin in the waist; Qin retaliated by tickling his underarms.

The tickle war began.

They wrestled until they were both out of breath, collapsed on the sofa.

Zhang Jue nudged Qin’s arm with his toe: “Hey, I have a question.”

Qin answered lazily: “What?”

Zhang Jue said: “If—and I mean if—I weren’t a figure skater, but just some failed composer who never made it, and you weren’t the famous orthopedic surgeon with golden hands, but a blind man… If we met as two nobodies, would you still like me?”

What kind of question was that?

Qin was confused, but considering Zhang Jue always had an artistic temperament and random whimsical thoughts, he didn’t overthink it. He just replied:

“I think I would. After all, I like you not because of your success. Even if you were so poor you had to eat plain buns with water, and I couldn’t even see your face, I’d still like you the moment we met.”

He smiled: “Because we just click.”

When it came to relationships, isn’t clicking all that mattered?

Zhang Jue felt deeply satisfied. He stared at the ceiling, heart full of love.

After a long silence, Zhang Jue started softly singing: “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands…”

Under the parrot’s melodious accompaniment, he said: “Xuejun, I’ve decided. Let’s wait until I retire before we deal with the top-bottom issue.”

Qin Xuejun nodded: “Very wise.”

And so, twenty-year-old Zhang Jue and twenty-four-year-old Qin Xuejun were still virgins.

At this point, the powers-that-be were happy to see figure skating gaining popularity, especially since it helped build hype for the 2022 Beijing-Zhangjiakou Winter Olympics. When Zhang Jue released the costume photos and gained even more fans, both officials and coaches were pleased.

Sun Qian even praised him for looking sharp in costume. But not even a day later, Zhang Jue caused chaos again.

In early September, the Men’s Singles Three Musketeers—Zhang Jue, Teraoka Hayato, and Ilya—hosted a livestream competition: eating burgers. By the time their coaches found out, Zhang Jue had already eaten his fifth one!

It was the most jaw-dropping event in men’s figure skating history.

Russian commentator Ekaterina screamed into her mic: “Of course it’s Tama-chan! He’s on his fourth! Teraoka’s only eaten two, Ilya just finished three—wait, why are you drinking vodka? Liquid takes up space too! If you want to win this, don’t drink!”

Behind Teraoka, Keiko wore a headband that said “Go Keiko!” and held a neon sign: “Keiko is a Beauty.”

Zhang Jue continued devouring burgers, accompanied by a cockatiel with red cheeks, straddling its legs like an old man, singing the Doraemon theme before bursting into eerie laughter.

Shen Liu spat out soy milk when he saw the stream, grabbed his phone to call Zhang Junbao, and jumped into his car. Coach Lu, cane in hand, quickly joined him.

But Beijing was too big. By the time the coaches arrived, the contest was over. Zhang Jue had won with eleven burgers. Teraoka surprisingly ate eight. Ilia collapsed at seven—he’d downed a full 800ml bottle of vodka mid-competition. Without the alcohol, he might’ve beat Teraoka.

Per their bet, the one who ate the least had to go to the French Grand Prix. That meant Ilia was headed to France.

Zhang Jue’s massive mouth became a meme online—just five bites per burger, lightning-fast chewing. It rivaled Korea’s mukbang queen Boki.

Later, both Teraoka and Ilia agreed that Zhang Jue’s burger-eating contest idea had been premeditated.

They were right.

Still, they had a blast. As skaters, they rarely got to eat that much junk food—it was heaven.

The audience loved it. But all three skaters paid the price: their coaches beat them, and they were sentenced to a month of diet meals. Their faces turned green from sadness.

Zhang Jue, triumphant, applied for the Russian and Japanese Grand Prix events—effectively booting his rivals from their home turfs.

October 20, Moscow. Zhang Jue entered the arena with his skates. Behind him were Cha Hanbuhua, Jiang Xiuling, Luo Mi, Sai Peng, and Sai Qiong.

Holding a notebook, he said: “This round’s strong local contender is Popov—he’s a veteran. There’s also Carlson and Spain’s Rojas. Hanbuhua, your stamina is your strength. If you don’t fall on the 4S, you have a shot at the podium.”

“Fatty, your main rivals are still that Russian top pair. Don’t stress. At the moment, your biggest competition is Guan Lin and Yingying. The stronger juniors won’t move up until next year—just go in with a challenger’s mindset.”

“Sai Peng, Sai Qiong—it’s your first senior Grand Prix. All I ask is you skate your best, and don’t fight before or after.”

Watching him speak, Shen Liu whispered to Coach Lu: “The kid’s more mature than before.”

Everyone in the national team had once crushed their peers as teenage prodigies. And prodigies usually had egos. But Zhang Jue always made them listen.

Seventy-six-year-old Coach Lu smiled with pride.

That day, the venue was packed. After the rhythm dance ended, the men’s short program began, finishing three groups.

A Chinese fan filming from the stands said excitedly: “Everyone, Captain Zhang is about to go on! We’re finally going to see his short program! Place your bets now—he wore the prince tailcoat during warmups, so I bet he’s going classical! Maybe piano, or maybe opera!”

During the off-season and B-level events, Teraoka and Ilya had already revealed their programs.

Teraoka’s short program was A Day Without Rain, and his free skate was Schubert’s Impromptu in G-flat major.

Ilya’s short was Beethoven’s Fate, and his free was Chopin’s Brilliant Waltz.

Only Zhang Jue had kept everything secret until now.

Suddenly, the announcer’s voice echoed: “Representing China, Jue Zhang.”

The skating fan quickly sat up straight: “Here he comes, here he comes, Captain Zhang is going on!”

Zhang Jue, with his hair tied in a ponytail, stepped onto the ice in his prince-style faux two-piece tailcoat. He high-fived Shen Liu, nodded at Coach Lu, and skated toward the center of the rink. A lock of hair fell beside his cheek as he stood on the ice with lowered eyes.

A burst of guitar music played—the familiar intro made many people widen their eyes in surprise.

It was… the famous guitar concerto Concierto de Aranjuez, composed by Spanish composer Joaquín Rodrigo.

Zhang Jue opened with a light tap on the ice, completing a 4Lo+3T combination.

Concierto de Aranjuez also had another name—The Love of Aranjuez. Rodrigo wrote it after experiencing both sweet love with his wife and the horrors of war. It was a piece born of love, a flower blooming in flames.

And Joaquín was blind.

Naturally, Zhang Jue was also one of those going all out in this Olympic year, so even though it was just the season opener, his performance was absolutely brilliant.

When the program ended, the entire venue fell silent. Zhang Jue bowed with poise and skated off the ice, only then did the applause begin to swell.

Shen Liu handed over his blade guards: “You didn’t go for the highest difficulty in jumps, but the blend of choreography and technique was seamless. I told you, Francis likes you best. The quality of this program is off the charts.”

Zhang Jue smiled as he put on his jacket and walked toward the Kiss & Cry. The applause continued even after they sat down.

A Chinese skating fan, hands trembling, exclaimed: “I—I’ll be damned, Captain Zhang is insane this year. This program is so strong, really strong! If the PCS drops below 48, I’ll swallow my phone whole!”

Everyone who watched the program gave it glowing reviews. The public’s judgment was razor-sharp—starting with the short program, Zhang Jue was already leading the men’s field at the Russian Grand Prix by a margin of 12 points.

By the time the free skate ended, his lead had grown to a jaw-dropping 39 points!

Though his short and free programs were choreographed by different people, both were structurally sound, rich in creativity, and highly artistic. With Zhang Jue’s masterful execution, both programs’ performance scores were within 2 points of perfect marks.

He claimed the gold medal of his season debut with an overwhelming lead.

At the same time, his choice of music for the free skate stunned the crowd. Less than a minute into the program, a fan posted online with a hesitant guess:

“Captain Zhang’s artistic level this season is off the charts. This man brought out two masterpieces—it’s insane. But… I don’t know if I’m remembering it wrong, but is his free skate music Spartacus and Phrygia by Khachaturian?”

“Yep, you’re spot on. It’s from the ballet Spartacus by Khachaturian. His free skate was choreographed by Grandma Mia, and ballet is her specialty—makes sense.”

“But Zhang Jue’s performance is too sensual! Even though there’s a clear ballet influence, it somehow reminds me of how this music was used in the infamous film Caligula. If that’s not just me imagining things, then this music choice is incredibly bold.”

“Wait what? Caligula? Isn’t that the erotic film by Tinto Brass?”

The thread grew to over twenty stories tall. On the 27th floor, a bombshell dropped:

“Third commenter, come back! You weren’t imagining things. Zhang Jue’s music choice really is that bold. After the awards ceremony, he said in an interview that his free skate isn’t called Spartacus—it’s called Caligula!”

No matter how heatedly the fans debated, Zhang Jue’s coaches and officials remained dead silent.

Actually, when his music choice was first revealed, some did notice something was off and tried to persuade him otherwise. But Zhang Jue just shrugged.

“The program’s already choreographed. How about watching me skate it once before saying anything?”

Though confused, the officials sat down to watch—and by the end, even those unfamiliar with figure skating were unable to find a single flaw in it, aside from the slightly risqué theme.

It is too perfect, once the world is known to be going to the Olympic gold medal, and the gold medal is certainly more important than anything else, so everyone simply defaulted.

 

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