Chapter Fifty-Three: Long Bisheng's Wrath

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Long Bisheng stood up, feeling as if a fire were burning inside him.

He seldom listened to songs; from childhood, all he heard were the spirited, stirring songs from the barracks, songs that made one’s blood race. When he was in Xi’an, he grew fond of those grand, majestic folk tunes that could penetrate to the deepest recesses of a person’s soul. As such, he never cared for pop music, even less for those melodious laments of meaningless sorrow. In his pure heart, only military songs were worthy of a man, and only folk songs deserved to be heard by ordinary folk. As for those pop songs, just listening to them gave him goosebumps!

Yet today, the song he heard struck his soul just like those folk tunes!

“What’s the name of this song?” Long Bisheng muttered to himself again.

“I Am a Little Bird, a song by the Taiwanese singer Zhao Chuan.” A voice suddenly sounded behind him, startling Long Bisheng out of his thoughts.

His hair stood on end as he turned around. He was quite brave by nature; had it been any other child, they would surely have fled in fright if a ghostly voice suddenly echoed behind them in an empty, deserted sports field.

The grass by the field was lush and overgrown. Long Bisheng searched around and finally spotted a spark and a shadow in the darkness. The person chuckled, snuffed out the spark under his foot, then stood up.

By the faint moonlight overhead, Long Bisheng barely recognized him—it was his coach, Ding Yu.

“Coach, you nearly scared me to death,” Long Bisheng complained. “Suddenly saying something like that—I thought it was a ghost!”

“Haha, I was bored tonight and came to the field for a smoke,” Ding Yu laughed as he walked over. “I saw you coming a while ago, but I kept quiet so I wouldn’t frighten you. Who knew you’d just stop here—I almost suffocated holding it in... Besides, I only spoke up to answer your question. What, you’ve never heard this song?”

Long Bisheng shook his head. Ding Yu smiled in realization, “Of course. When this song was popular, you were probably just born. Nowadays, few people listen to these old songs. But when Zhao Chuan first appeared in the pop music scene, he was truly an eye-opener. The late eighties in Taiwan were dominated by pretty-boy entertainers, whether acting or singing. Zhao Chuan was a miracle—so ugly he barely looked like a star, yet he shook the music world with his impact. His first album was called I Am Ugly, But I Am Gentle.”

Long Bisheng didn’t care about ugly or gentle; he immediately asked, “So this song—”

“That was his third album, I Am a Little Bird, and also the last one to gain nationwide fame. It captured the confusion and contradiction between modern people’s lives and dreams.” Ding Yu glanced at him, “Usually, those who get lost in this song have something weighing on their hearts. What about you—do you have something on your mind?”

Long Bisheng remained silent.

“I can tell you do!” Ding Yu laughed, pointing at him. “Look at your brow, furrowed like a lump of iron. Tell me, what could trouble a kid your age? Always so gloomy, like Lin Daiyu—do you look anything like Lin Daiyu?”

He thought he’d told a particularly funny joke, but Long Bisheng lifted his head in confusion, “Who’s Lin Daiyu?”

“Oh, damn.” Ding Yu was left speechless again. “If I ever talk in riddles with you again, I’m a fool!”

Long Bisheng still didn’t reply.

Ding Yu calmed himself, then said, “I know what you’re thinking about.”

Long Bisheng looked up but continued to say nothing.

Ding Yu was unsettled by Long Bisheng’s gaze and sighed, “For months, there’s been a rumor in the school... that by the end of this semester, you, Long Bisheng, will definitely be one of those eliminated.”

Long Bisheng twitched but kept silent.

“I think I know what’s on your mind,” Ding Yu smiled, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “I can’t reveal much to you, but I want to ask you one question—do you really have so little faith in yourself?”

He believed his words would ignite Long Bisheng’s fighting spirit. In fact, he’d noticed Long Bisheng’s distracted performance in training these past days and planned to talk to him. Upon seeing Long Bisheng walk alone onto the field, he quietly followed, intending to console this troubled child.

But unexpectedly, Long Bisheng lost control and shouted, “What good is confidence? Who will give me this confidence? You all want me to persist, but has anyone thought about how hard it is for me? How difficult it is to keep going? Yes, I can persevere, I can endure hardship, I’m not afraid of fatigue—I grew up in a military camp, hardship and toil are nothing for me. But if I keep persevering, will it save me from elimination? Isn’t it for you all to decide who stays and who goes? What good does perseverance do me? Even if I’m not eliminated this year, what about next year? I work so hard, but I still can’t catch up with the others—what’s the point of all this effort? If I’m eliminated at fifteen, what will I do then? What high school would accept me? Wouldn’t it be better to be eliminated now, at least then I could finish middle school and maybe become a soldier later!”

Ding Yu stared at Long Bisheng, stunned. He had never seen Long Bisheng lose his temper; the normally gentle and honest face was now twisted with anguish. Only now did Ding Yu realize how much torment was hidden in this usually mild child’s heart.

He took out a cigarette, placed it in his mouth and lit it, then organized his thoughts.

He knew he had to do something now, to make this child—whom he hadn’t noticed at first but gradually came to value—understand that things weren’t as he imagined.

Indeed, just as Dai Guangming had guessed, Ding Yu, the head coach of the reserve team and assistant coach of the first team, was sent for their sake. But Ding Yu wasn’t here for any single person—his concern was for everyone in Dormitory 505.

The Yun Jia Tianyu scouting system constantly rated all young players, and among those of Long Bisheng’s age group, quite a few outstanding talents had emerged. They were all prized by the club, earmarked for special development. Apart from Long Bisheng, the other six in Dormitory 505 were all highly regarded young players. These six spanned positions from goalkeeper to midfield—only lacking a striker. So, Long Bisheng, with his excellent physique and potential as a target-man center forward, was placed into the dormitory. The effect was clear: the dorm now formed a strong team, capable of playing half-field matches as one of Yun Jia Tianyu Football School’s better squads.

Wu Bufan, Li Jie, Hu Gantang, Zhou Wei, Zhang Yi, and Dai Guangming all possessed abilities beyond their peers, and in training showed enormous untapped potential. Provided they continued with the coaches’ regimen and avoided serious injuries, their prospects in professional football were bright—indeed, their futures looked wide open. This was why Ding Yu also coached their class; his job was to protect these gifted children, ensuring their football journey advanced faster, better, and more smoothly.

But Long Bisheng’s place in the dorm was awkward—on one hand, he was indispensable in matches; on the other, he was the weakest player in the year, perhaps the whole school. His presence helped the other six improve more rapidly, but he might not have the ability to survive in a professional team. Ding Yu was troubled: from a rational viewpoint, Long Bisheng should stay, so the others could progress faster; but emotionally, this was unfair to Long Bisheng. As he himself said, what good would it do to persist until graduation? If eliminated, he might not even qualify to enlist later—nowadays, even to remain after three years of service, a high school diploma was required. Why should a ten-year-old sacrifice himself for the others?

From the school’s perspective, obviously one student cannot outweigh six—especially when it’s one unremarkable talent versus six gifted ones. But from Ding Yu’s standpoint, he couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice one child’s future for the sake of six others; he believed his boss wouldn’t agree either.

Could this child really lack talent? Ding Yu racked his brain. He believed Long Bisheng must have some exceptional quality, otherwise Wei Zhe wouldn’t have recommended him. Ding Yu knew all about the level of Yun Jia Tianyu’s scouts; Wei Zhe was the best under king scout Sa. But after a year of training, Long Bisheng truly showed little talent. Despite his hard work, he not only failed to close the gap with the others, but the gap kept widening.

“Why has it come to this?” Ding Yu pondered. He had never considered this question before. The difference was clear, but in fact Long Bisheng’s current level was not bad—at least on par with the other forwards at their age, though he was almost eleven...