It was eleven at night.
The house was quiet.
A suitcase sat in the middle of the living room, still unzipped.
Gu Kai sat at the edge of the couch, picked up a pair of worn training shoes, placed them into the suitcase—then took them out again.
He glanced at the scuffed soles, the patterns worn flat by years of use.
In the end, he set them aside.
He knew he probably wouldn't be wearing them again.
Water ran softly in the kitchen as his mother washed a cup.
His father sat at the dining table, reading through a stack of printed documents, reading glasses perched on his nose, completely focused.
"The flight's the day after tomorrow," his father said naturally as he closed the file.
"Los Angeles. You'll stay at my place first."
Gu Kai hummed in response.
His mother walked over with two glasses of water and placed one in front of him. She didn't speak right away—just looked at him.
"Have you thought it through?"
she asked.
Gu Kai raised his head and met her eyes.
There was concern there, carefully restrained.
Not opposition. Not persuasion.
More like—are you ready to live with the outcome?
"I have," he said.
His mother nodded and didn't ask anything else.
She knew her son well.
If he hadn't thought it through, he wouldn't be sitting here.
His father slid the documents toward him—English materials, training camp information, contacts, addresses.
"These aren't famous camps," he said.
"The conditions aren't great, but the competition is real. No one's going to go easy on you just because you're Asian."
Gu Kai flipped through the pages. His fingers paused on a line of fine print.
"What if I don't play well?"
he asked suddenly.
His father took off his glasses and leaned back.
"Then you'll know exactly how far you're lacking," he said.
"That's still better than accepting a conclusion handed to you."
The living room fell quiet again.
Then his mother spoke.
"Do you remember when you were little, after that one game, when you said you didn't want to play basketball anymore?"
Gu Kai froze for a moment.
That was years ago.
"You said the coach wanted you to change positions," his mother continued.
"Said you were too tall, not like a guard. You came home, tossed the ball into the corner, and didn't touch it all night."
Gu Kai lowered his head and smiled faintly.
"But the next day, you picked it up again," she said, watching him.
"We didn't try to persuade you back then. Because it was your choice."
She paused.
"This time is the same."
Gu Kai didn't reply. He just nodded.
He returned to his room and folded the last few pieces of clothing.
The room was small, the walls still covered with photos from old tournaments.
He stopped in front of one and stared at it for a long time.
It was a youth championship final.
He stood at center court, drenched in sweat, his expression focused.
Back then, he truly believed that as long as he kept winning, he could keep moving forward.
His phone suddenly lit up.
A text message from an unfamiliar number.
> Heard you're going abroad?
What a waste. Your body's actually pretty good.
Gu Kai looked at the message and didn't reply.
A few seconds later, another one came through.
> But honestly, your style probably won't work at the pro level.
He turned off the screen and set the phone on the bed.
He'd heard enough of that today.
It was late.
Gu Kai lay on his bed, eyes open.
What kept replaying in his mind wasn't the verdict from the meeting room,
but a familiar sensation from training—
That instant when his body exploded forward,
the defender left behind,
space torn open.
That feeling was real.
As his consciousness slowly drifted, the faint sharp sensation from earlier returned.
This time, it didn't vanish.
> [Environmental change confirmed.]
> [Path reconstruction in progress…]
Gu Kai's eyes snapped open. He sat upright.
The room was dark, lit only by a trace of streetlight through the window.
The words appeared directly in his mind—
no sound, no temperature.
> [Current status: Separated from original development system.]
> [Potential release condition: High-intensity competitive environment.]
Gu Kai held his breath.
He didn't ask what it was.
He didn't question whether exhaustion was playing tricks on him.
Because those words landed perfectly on his current reality.
As if someone were telling him—
You made the right choice.
> [New phase unlocked.]
> [Confirm continuation?]
No buttons.
No countdown.
Just a single thought.
Gu Kai closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Continue.
In that instant, something seemed to press gently against his chest.
No pain—just clarity.
He lay back down.
This time, he fell asleep.
---
The next morning, just as dawn broke—
Gu Kai dragged the suitcase to the door. The zipper slid shut with a crisp sound.
His mother handed him a jacket.
"It gets cold at night in Los Angeles," she said.
His father stood by the doorway and patted his shoulder.
"Remember this," he said.
"You're not going there to prove them wrong."
Gu Kai looked up.
"You're going to find out how far you can go."
As the door closed, Gu Kai stood in the hallway and glanced back once.
That was the first road he had walked.
Ahead lay a track no one had drawn for him.
He pulled the suitcase forward and walked on—
without stopping.