Chapter 27: The 800-Meter Starts—Foreigners Provoke? Easy Pickings!

Kalim Engel is the hot favorite to win the swimming event for the United States. However, he only competes in long-distance races: the 800m and the 1500m. Having watched the 50m race, where a fellow American secured the first swimming gold medal, he felt the pressure not to bring shame upon his country when his turn came.

"Engel, are you confident?" asked Raymond Owen, the 50m gold medalist.

Kalim Engel laughed dismissively. "Don't worry about it. These yellow-skinned monkeys? What kind of threat could they possibly pose to me?"

Raymond Owen advised caution. "Engel, don't underestimate your opponents. That guy from China, Wang, he's very strong."

"Very strong?" Kalim Engel sneered. "Him? He didn't even place."

"Engel, you're a professional swimmer. Can't you see the sheer insanity of his closing speed? You shouldn't take that kind of acceleration lightly!"

Kalim Engel curled his lip. "Pfft. You know that Chinese saying? Something about burning through your last bit of energy right before you lose? Oh, right—'the final flare of a dying lamp'!" He smirked. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he's eating my dust for the entire race."

Seeing his teammate's arrogance, Raymond Owen could only offer a final warning. "Don't forget, there's another old Chinese saying: never underestimate any of your opponents."

"Enough, Engel. I know you won gold, but you don't have the right to lecture me. I’m not your teammate, and you’re not my coach. The race is starting, I’m off."

Raymond Owen sighed as he watched Kalim Engel walk away. For some reason, he felt a deep sense of unease. Could there really be an upset in the 800m? No, that was impossible. Engel was their premier long-distance swimmer; his advantage was practically overwhelming. "I hope my worries are just me overthinking it," he muttered. Yet, the memory of Wang Xiaoming’s closing acceleration sent shivers down his spine. He knew that when he dove into the pool during the 50m, he had led by a full body length, but when he caught a glimpse behind him at the finish line, Wang was closing in fast. Since Owen hadn't eased up for even a second, Wang’s acceleration was terrifying. He just hoped Wang’s endurance wouldn't hold up.

As the whistle blew for the 800m, contestants from various countries entered the arena. Wang Xiaoming caught Zhang Wei’s eye, gave him a reassuring nod, and slowly took off his red down jacket. As he emerged, the stadium erupted in boos, mostly from the foreign spectators.

They couldn't stand seeing an athlete from another country act more arrogant than they were. Hearing the jeers, Wang Xiaoming didn't show the slightest bit of fear; instead, he smiled. He even raised his hands toward the foreign crowd, signaling, "Is that all you've got? Are you not eating enough?"

The gesture infuriated the crowd. However, just as they tried to increase the volume of their booing, they were drowned out by a wave of cheers from the Chinese spectators. There is no denying how united the Chinese are when facing the outside world. Despite being outnumbered two or three to one, the Chinese fans didn't yield an inch. Their cheers overwhelmed the jeers, rising in wave after wave. The venue was soon covered in red as people hoisted the national flag.

"Brother Ming, go! Crush those bastards!" Since the Chinese reporters knew Zhang Wei was Wang Xiaoming’s college classmate, they gave him plenty of camera time. Little did they know, the kid would be completely unfiltered on live national television. It was cathartic, but the control room cameraman had to scramble to mute the audio. Yet, everyone watching knew exactly what Zhang Wei had said. The crowd was ignited, filled with patriotic fervor.

Wang Xiaoming noticed the support from the Chinese fans. He turned to the camera, pressed a finger to his lips, and made a "shh" gesture before holding that finger high.

The race was about to begin. There were eight competitors in total. The top favorites were from the United States and Australia, though the French swimmer was not to be underestimated. Wang Xiaoming was assigned to Lane 8, which, truth be told, is a poor position in swimming, much like the outside lanes in track and field where the middle lanes are always the most advantageous.

Standing on the starting block, Wang Xiaoming heard a scoff. He turned to see the Japanese swimmer in the adjacent lane.

"You're a shooter coming to a swimming race. You have no respect for this pool," the athlete said in English. Wang, who often handled international work, had a decent command of the language.

However, he didn't reply in English. He spoke in Chinese: "What kind of crap are you spouting? Speak Chinese when you're talking to your daddy!"

"Nani?" The Japanese swimmer clearly didn't understand, but he knew Wang wasn't saying anything pleasant. He immediately responded with an international gesture: the middle finger.

The Chinese audience watching the screen erupted. With Wang Xiaoming’s high profile, multiple cameras were fixed on him, capturing the entire incident. The atmosphere at the venue reached a fever pitch. Wang Xiaoming then pushed the tension to the breaking point: he held up his thumb and index finger, making a pinching gesture at the Japanese athlete. *Gotcha.*

The American swimmer next to the Japanese athlete watched the scene like it was a show, happy that the Japanese and Chinese were at each other's throats without him having to lift a finger. *Let these Asians tear each other apart,* he thought.

But before he could turn away, Wang Xiaoming snapped at him too. "What are you looking at? You feel uncomfortable because I didn't curse at you?"

"What?" Clearly, another one who didn't understand Chinese.

Wang Xiaoming had no time for more banter; the race was starting. By now, the internet was ablaze. Many people understood Chinese, and those who didn't used translation tools. A flood of vitriol directed at Wang Xiaoming filled the livestream comments.

Just then, the whistle blew. The eight athletes dove into the water simultaneously, creating a massive splash.

The 800m freestyle "Flying Fish" battle had officially begun. Everyone was holding their breath to see if Wang Xiaoming truly had the strength to back it up.