“Takashi, that was a good skate.”

Choi Jeong-su handed skate guards to the student stepping off the ice. Chiba Takashi panted: “Thank you.”

The days of training in Canada had been tough. At first, he couldn’t understand any fast-spoken sentences, his spoken English was poor, and communication with the coaching team was not smooth. He was also alone in Canada—it was his first time being away from his homeland and family for so long. But in the end, everything had been worth it.

After enduring the hardest period of adjustment, Chiba Takashi began to improve quickly.

He had a solid foundation—his jumps were well-executed, his edge work was clean, and he had the smooth gliding typical of Japanese skaters. Coach Saren had helped him fill his biggest gap—performance skills—while Choi Jeong-su paid exceptional attention to his health and provided him with psychological support.

As the season began, Chiba Takashi felt his skating becoming more and more fluid.

According to Choi Jeong-su, he was similar to Zhang Jue in many ways. Both entered their second senior season during an Olympic year, both faced strong senior competitors, and both wanted to win against those seasoned veterans.

But among the “Three Musketeers,” the most formidable, Zhang Jue, was younger and healthier than Vassily had been. His unique landing shock-absorption technique and technical precision gave him the potential to extend his career through the Beijing-Zhangjiakou cycle.

“Vasily was already aging and plagued with injuries back then, so his encounters with Zhang Jue were limited. But you and Zhang Jue—yours is destined to be a tug-of-war.”

They didn’t mention the other two Musketeers by name, because their “health bars” clearly weren’t as thick as Zhang Jue’s. Chiba Takashi didn’t see them as unreachable.

Only Zhang Jue.

Chiba Takashi’s short program score had become a personal best, but he didn’t feel relieved. To be frank, figure skating scores were hard to push to world-record levels, but once someone broke through to a new tier, even in the name of “balance,” judges would start loosening up when scoring other athletes. This would make it appear, on paper, that more skaters had reached that level—creating a façade of fierce competition crafted by the judges.

But as the trailblazer, Zhang Jue remained the benchmark that Chiba Takashi had to look up to.

Watching Carlson error, Chiba Takashi murmured: “I still can’t truly surpass him.”

Sarena responded in his graceful, deep voice: “Not him—them.”

When Ilya stepped onto the ice, the atmosphere shifted.

Known for his motto: “Who wants to be Crown Prince forever?” the Russian prince chose violinist Edvin Marton’s version of Fate for his short program this year.

Having developed and blended a more humorous style last season, this year he successfully interpreted Beethoven’s work. Dressed in a royal blue costume, his large, sweeping movements were full of grandeur, as bold and impassioned as a bullfighter.

Coach Lu narrowed his eyes: “These moves… why do they look familar?”

Zhang Jue explained: “Some of the moves are specific to hockey. According to Ilya, this program was inspired by last year’s European Hockey Championship—Russia made a comeback in the second half after trailing behind. That spirit moved him.”

With that, Coach Lu understood: “You mean the one where the fans in the stands started brawling, and the fight was more exciting than the game?”

Zhang Jue said: “That’s the one.”

In contrast, Teraoka Hayato’s program was much more serene and calming. After all, he used music by Enya, which naturally brought peace to the heart.

This year, Hayato’s costume was made of sky-blue fabric, styled like a celestial maiden’s robe. After shaving his beard, his elegant, ethereal aura as a “fairy boy” fully emerged.

Seeing this, Yang Zhiyuan twitched the corner of his mouth: “All three of them chose blue-toned costumes for their short programs this year. Looks like the superstition about wearing blue in Olympic years has spread farther than I thought.”

Originally, this superstition was brought into Zhang’s camp by Shen Liu. Zhang Jue had complained about it, but now he had given up and accepted it.

However, as Zhang Jue stepped onto the ice, Yang Zhiyuan—who knew him well—noticed something.

Zhang Jue’s mood was good, full of his usual confidence and steadiness, the belief that he would win in the end. According to the coaching team’s training logs, he showed signs of being eager to face a strong rival. But a person’s mental energy was also tied to their body, and Zhang Jue didn’t have his usual radiance.

Thinking back, he hadn’t been very active the past couple of days. He hadn’t gone out to dine or play games with friends as he usually did. At first, they thought he hadn’t been invited—now it seemed he had declined all invitations, probably to stay in the hotel and rest.

The team doctor frowned deeply.

“Has Captain Zhang still not adapted to the changes in his conditioning training?”

Zhang Jue had sustained many leg injuries. Long-distance running caused foot pain, so most of his conditioning had been moved into the pool.

Moreover, during the offseason, his training intensity hadn’t lessened. He was always pushing toward a higher level. After mastering five different quad jumps, he began attempting even harder jumps. So it wasn’t easy for him.

Although his Olympic season strategy was to focus on stability, Zhang Jue likely wouldn’t attempt that risky jump in competition, but it had affected his axel. Even his jumping technique had changed slightly.

Zhang Junbao watched Zhang Jue’s figure seriously.

Zhang Jue’s first jump in the short program was 4Lz-3T.

The crisp sound of toe-pick echoed—he completed a very high-quality combination.

Shen Liu quietly exclaimed: “Beautiful,” and clapped at a steady pace.

Zhang Jue’s second jump was a 3A. Those who had noticed changes in his 3A included not just his coaching team, but his fans and rivals too. Everyone watched him closely.

Wearing a blue tailcoat, the young man looked like a prince. He swept his arms back, then flung them forward as his body launched into a powerful jump during high-speed skating.

Previously, Zhang Jue’s 3A relied heavily on skating speed. He was known for his ultra-long-distance technique, covering more than 3.5 meters with 55 centimeters of height.

But this time, he jumped only 2.8 meters in distance, yet reached a height of 73 centimeters!

For many male skaters, that height was more than enough for a quad—Zhang Jue used it for a 3A.

Before the change, 55 cm was just enough for Zhang Jue to comfortably complete 3.5 rotations. Now, he completed the rotations with time to spare while still airborne. This meant he had excess rotational ability. But higher jumps also meant greater landing impact. In the past, he avoided jumping too high to conserve stamina and reduce strain.

With this change, everyone began speculating.

Had Zhang Jue lost precise control over his jump height? Was he modifying his technique? Had he discovered a new jump method?

Only a few who knew him well vaguely understood.

Zhang Jue’s situation now resembled those who trained for 4T and then found their 3T less stable.

As he landed, he slipped a little. But he was so famIlyar with the 3A that he adjusted his balance by feel—he neither touched the ice nor fell. Though the landing looked a bit awkward, it didn’t warrant a negative GOE.

His next jump, a solo 4Lo, was of excellent quality. The entire program flowed with a gentle, elegant sweetness, and in the end, Zhang Jue received a very strong score.

111.35 points.

He ranked third in the short program, 3 points behind Ilya and 1.8 points behind Hayato.

No one was satisfied with this score. Zhang Jue sat in the kiss and cry area, wiping his sweat. His breathing was slightly heavy, his cheeks were flushed, and heat radiated from his body after intense exercise.

“I’ll make up the score in the free skate.”

But Zhang Junbao didn’t reply with his usual “I’ll be waiting.” Instead, he patted Zhang Jue on the shoulder and said: “Don’t feel pressured.”

Zhang Jue was confused: “Huh? I’m not feeling pressured.”

He was naturally good at handling pressure. Falling behind temporarily didn’t mean much to him—didn’t his uncle know that?

Zhang Junbao coughed: “I know. I just mean you shouldn’t get too fixated on making up the score. Go back and get proper rest. Isn’t the Olympics coming up soon? You can’t afford even the slightest mishap.”

Zhang Jue blinked and then reassured his uncle instead: “Don’t worry about me. I’m doing great. Eating and sleeping fine. Didn’t the recent team physical show that, except for my legs not being as agile as two years ago, I’m still strong enough to wrestle a bull?”

Shen Liu shook his head: “Hey, just don’t get upset about falling behind temporarily.”

As for the coaches, of course they cared about results—but Zhang Little Jue wasn’t just their student. He was a child they had watched grow from a tiny figure into today’s champion. He was a turning point in their careers. It was after meeting him that their coaching path really flourished.

Back when none of them were very experienced, it was Zhang Jue who followed their still-developing training plans to explore the path of quadruple jumps. And when coach Zhang became stronger, Zhang Jue even helped coach younger students with their performances.

To the coaches, Zhang Jue was more than just a student—he was their mischievous but beloved kid. So when he occasionally faltered, they worried more about his feelings than the outcome itself.

Fortunately, it turned out their worries were unnecessary.

After the short program, there was a small medal ceremony and a short press interview. The organizers brought out a small podium, and the Three Musketeers sat on it, holding microphones and chatting. This scene mirrored what had happened back in their junior days—at the time, Zhang Jue had been a tiny kid, forming a V shape with the older athletes on the podium.

The Three Musketeers looked at each other and realized they were all remembering that youthful moment.

Hayato immediately spotted reporter Komura in the crowd.

“Komura-san, would you please take another group photo for us?”

Zhang Jue cupped his cheeks in his hands and beamed: “Another one? Should we put our arms around each other?”

Since he was sitting on the lowest step, his long legs had nowhere to go. Ilya, seated on the top step, had to stretch out both arms to reach the others, making the pose look a bit awkward. Zhang Jue glanced at him and kindly leaned in closer.

Reporter Komura raised his camera—click.

That night, photos of the Three Musketeers sitting on the podium as juniors and now as seniors were posted online.

Only then did many realize—it had already been seven full years since these three became both rivals and friends.

 

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