Chapter Thirteen: Anticipation and the Morning Before Battle

The news that the kindergarten would be holding a parent-child sports day was delivered to me by Yi Yi, who looked as eager as a little squirrel presenting its treasure. She pulled from her backpack a notice adorned with balloons and smiling faces sketched in colored crayons, the paper creased with the precious marks of her tiny fingers.

“Daddy! Daddy, look!” She spread the notice before me, her small finger tapping the bold words “Parent-Child Sports Day,” her eyes shining brighter than all the stars in the sky. “Teacher Zhang said you have to come with me! There’s kangaroo jumping, and… and a spoon-and-ping-pong-ball relay!”

She chirped out each event listed, her joy bubbling over with every word. I watched her little face, flush with excitement, and for a moment, even the heart I’d honed to stillness over two thousand years was stirred with the gentlest of ripples.

Parent-child sports day…

The words pulled my thoughts far into the past. In that age of iron and blood, “group activities” meant the brutal drills of the Qin army. Tens of thousands of soldiers, sweating under the relentless sun, ran weighted cross-country, wrestled, and fought. Every drill meant sweat, pain, sometimes even death. The victor’s rewards were meager—a bowl of meat, or a chance to stand a little further from the front when the next charge began.

But now, my “battlefield” would be the kindergarten playground lined with plastic tracks; my “comrade”—the daughter I cherished above all; our “combat”—to stuff our legs into a sack and hop like kangaroos.

The contrast filled me with a strange, almost laughable happiness.

“All right,” I said solemnly, accepting the notice as if it were a sacred challenge rather than a slip of paper, “Daddy will go with you. We… should prepare well.”

“Mm!” Yi Yi nodded vigorously, clenching her small fists. “Daddy, can we win first place? Shi Tou said his mom is going to help him win first!”

“We’re just going to have fun,” I replied, ruffling her hair with a smile. “For Daddy, playing with you is already first place.”

But despite my words, I found myself sleepless the night before the sports day.

By this stage, my cultivation had rendered me immune to cold and heat, body and mind as one—such mundane troubles should not have touched me. Yet as I lay in bed, my thoughts kept rehearsing the scenes to come.

The kangaroo jump: how could I perform well enough to seem an “excellent father,” yet not so well as to leap three meters and frighten everyone, all without betraying a trace of my true power?

The spoon relay: how could hands that had once wielded swords weighing hundreds of catties now steady a feather-light ping-pong ball?

This, I realized, was a trial of finer control than any I’d faced at the bottleneck of my cultivation. That night, I did not meditate, but simply savored this sweet, mortal anxiety unique to a father.

At dawn, I awoke before the first light. I prepared for Yi Yi her favorite osmanthus cakes made with spirit rice, ensuring she’d have energy for the day. I dressed her in her sky-blue uniform and, with clumsy hands, tied her hair into two pigtails—slightly straighter than last time.

When we reached the kindergarten gates, the place was already alive with noise and excitement. Children shrieked with delight, parents chatted in small groups. Amid this sea of joy, the team of Li Yue and Shi Tou stood out as the most “professional” and conspicuous.

Li Yue wore a brand-name pink tracksuit and the latest running shoes. She was meticulously running Shi Tou through warm-ups: stretching, chest expansions, high knees—each move textbook-perfect. Shi Tou, though somewhat unwilling, performed each exercise under her stern eye.

“Mr. Jiang, you’re here,” Li Yue greeted us, pausing with a smile that lingered a moment on our casual attire. “How’s your preparation? I took Shi Tou out to practice for half an hour last night. These events should be taken seriously—they’re important for a child’s sense of honor and competitiveness.”

Her tone was kind, yet tinged with undeniable superiority.

I smiled and gestured to the lively Yi Yi. “Our best preparation was a good night’s sleep.”

Li Yue clearly didn’t take my words seriously. She patted Shi Tou on the shoulder, issuing her orders: “Shi Tou, remember what I said—our goal is first place in every event! Go for it!”

“Go for it!” Shi Tou echoed, though his gaze drifted toward Yi Yi.

I took Yi Yi’s hand and found a quiet corner. She looked up at me, asking, “Daddy, do we need a goal too?”

I crouched to meet her eyes. “Of course we do. Our goal is to smile more happily than anyone else in every game today. Can we do that?”

Her eyes curved into crescents as she nodded with all her might. “We can!”

With the principal’s announcement, the sports day officially began, and parents and children poured onto the playground. The first event was the kangaroo jump Yi Yi had been longing for.

Parents and children stood on opposite sides; the child would jump over first, then the parent would return in relay.

When our group’s turn came, Li Yue offered me another “friendly” reminder: “Mr. Jiang, there’s a technique to this—keep your center of gravity low, and land steadily!”

I nodded to her with a smile.

Yi Yi readied herself at the starting line, her tiny form inside the sack like a cute little mushroom. At the whistle, she bounced forward with all her might. She was earnest, but small and not very fast.

Shi Tou, under Li Yue’s tutelage, shot out like a little cannonball and quickly took the lead.

By the time Yi Yi reached me, we were in third place. Her cheeks were flushed, and as she handed me the sack, she gasped, “Daddy, go for it!”

I took the sack and slipped it over my legs. In that instant, I felt my inner power stir—if I wished, I could reach the finish before the sound itself.

But I mustn’t.

I drew a deep breath, sinking all my strength into my core, relying only on pure physical effort. I mimicked the other fathers, jumping forward awkwardly, even letting myself stumble a bit to appear clumsy, drawing laughter from the children on the sidelines.

Yi Yi cheered me on with all her might: “Daddy, go for it! Daddy, go for it!”

Her laughter and encouragement were, to me, sweeter than any celestial music.

Li Yue’s husband, a slightly chubby middle-aged man, pushed himself hard and crossed the finish line first. I finished just after a younger father, taking third place—exactly where we’d started.

Li Yue and her husband hugged Shi Tou in excitement, shouting, “We’re number one!” Shi Tou was hoisted high, his face glowing with pride.

Li Yue looked my way, her eyes bearing the reserved pride of a victor, as if to say, “See? I was right.”

I paid it no mind. I walked to Yi Yi, who was looking up at me, her eyes bright, not the least bit disappointed by not winning.

“Daddy, the way you almost fell just now was so funny!” she giggled.

I scooped her into my arms, kissed her forehead, and laughed. “Was it? Then we succeeded.”

“Huh?” Yi Yi blinked in confusion.

“Didn’t we meet our goal?” I pointed to her mouth, still stretched in a wide grin. “See how happy you are.”

Yi Yi was momentarily stunned, then her face lit up with understanding and she laughed even more joyfully in my arms.

Yes, my daughter did not win first place.

But she possessed the brightest happiness in the world.

And I, this clumsy “superman” father, in this deliberately “lost” competition, felt a sense of fulfillment heavier and richer than I had ever known.