Lin Mo tilted his head.
"Young Mistress, what the hell are you trying to do?!"
The Young Mistress, however, declared, "Even if I’m just a mascot, I’ll stay on the court. We agreed to fight side by side."
Lin Mo sighed. "Fine, then keep doing what you were doing."
Across the net, Wang Senling sneered. "Just putting on an act. You’re still relying on others."
Though her voice was quiet, Lin Mo heard every word.
So he turned directly to Xu Congjun.
"Hey, your teammate says you’re unreliable. But then again, you lost fair and square, so you had to resort to dirty tricks—only to end up getting humiliated."
"You—!" Wang Senling choked on her anger, but she couldn’t retort.
"‘You’ what? I wasn’t even talking to you, yet you jumped in anyway."
Xu Congjun’s face darkened, but he stayed silent.
He had just learned that Jiang Yunlu’s sprained ankle was entirely Wang Senling’s doing.
If not for sportsmanship, he would’ve forfeited already. Winning alongside someone like her was no honor.
But he didn’t hold back either—Lin Mo was simply too strong.
Yet why hadn’t Lin Mo joined the men’s singles? Or even the badminton team?
With these thoughts swirling, the second game began.
Jiang Yunlu remained on the court, but per Lin Mo’s arrangement, she stood in the corner. Her injured foot made even standing a struggle, so he refused to let her move further.
Lin Mo positioned himself diagonally for the serve.
He let Xu Congjun serve first—after all, the latter had been serving nonstop.
"Go on. Show me how strong you really are."
Xu Congjun responded with a sharp crosscourt backhand serve.
Yet Lin Mo didn’t budge, letting the shuttlecock land beside him.
The second game began 1-0, with Lin Mo and Jiang Yunlu at zero.
Xu Congjun frowned at Lin Mo’s stillness. "What are you doing?"
"Letting the shuttlecock fly a little longer."
Xu Congjun served again. After a pause, he handed the shuttlecock to Wang Senling.
She served, but again, Lin Mo didn’t move, letting it drop.
The mixed doubles final had drawn nearly the entire badminton team, along with crowds of spectators.
The gym was packed, spectators sitting on the floor around the court.
Yet Lin Mo hadn’t lifted a finger for two serves in a row.
Not because he couldn’t reach them—he simply chose not to.
Whispers spread through the crowd, speculating why Lin Mo refused to engage.
Xu Congjun served once more.
Again, Lin Mo let the shuttlecock fall untouched.
The more this happened, the clearer Xu Congjun’s suspicion grew.
By the time Xu Congjun’s side reached 15 points, he finally stopped.
Voices criticizing Lin Mo rose around them.
But Class 8 remained eerily calm, not a single murmur of dissent.
Xu Congjun gripped the shuttlecock, staring at Lin Mo. "Lin Mo, what’s your game?"
Lin Mo shrugged. "Just serve."
"Not until you explain." Xu Congjun despised hollow victories.
A bold theory nagged at him, but he couldn’t be sure.
Then Fang Jun, seated on the floor, suddenly stood up.
"Still don’t get it? Old Mo’s planning to let you win until the last point—then crush you!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
This was arrogance on another level—leaving himself no room for error?
To everyone, Lin Mo seemed downright audacious.
But Lin Mo ignored the chatter, his gaze fixed on Xu Congjun.
"Hurry up. Jiang Yunlu’s tired."
The taunt spurred Xu Congjun into another swift serve.
20-0.
One more point, and Xu Congjun’s side would win.
Lin Mo switched his racket to his left hand.
Though he usually favored his right, Lin Mo was naturally left-handed.
As a child, his father had insisted he write and eat with his right hand, deeming left-handedness inconvenient.
But genetics couldn’t be erased.
In sports like badminton or table tennis, his left hand was dominant.
Against amateurs, his right hand sufficed.
Now, with his left, he signaled the start of Phase Two.
The boss had entered his second form!
Xu Congjun’s serve barely cleared the net before a gust of wind sent it rocketing back—landing dead-center at his feet.
Fast. Too fast.
Lin Mo dominated the net.
Every return was a blur, the shuttlecock barely touching his racket before it was gone.
Xu Congjun’s face paled. He hadn’t even seen Lin Mo move.
Beside him, Wang Senling stood frozen, useless as a statue.
"It’s not over yet. Either win this point or watch me take twenty-two straight."
In badminton, if the opponent hits 20, you must reach 22 to win.
And Lin Mo did exactly that.
He served. Xu Congjun lunged to intercept.
But Lin Mo was faster, driving the shuttlecock straight at Wang Senling.
What followed was a merciless slaughter.
Lin Mo never needed more than three strokes per rally.
Wang Senling and Xu Congjun went from determined to defeated.
Even Coach Wang Yiping’s eyes gleamed as he watched Lin Mo.
This kid was a once-in-a-lifetime talent.
He belonged in the school team—maybe even destined to inherit the mantle of Lingdan.
As the gap closed, Wang Senling finally cracked under the pressure. She collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably.
The fragility of a young girl’s psyche.
Lin Mo’s expression didn’t flicker.
Tears? The Young Mistress cried too.
He glanced at her—only to find her leaning on her racket, staring at him in confusion.
Well. The Young Mistress didn’t cry.
But no one blamed Lin Mo.
Because everyone knew one truth: the strong could trample the weak.
Especially in competition.
Losing was the original sin.
Of course, Lin Mo hadn’t planned this from the start.
The reason? Jiang Yunlu’s injury.
It pissed him off. As for Xu Congjun? He’d never mattered—just collateral damage as Wang Senling’s partner.
Lin Mo eyed the weeping Wang Senling.
"Still playing?"
Then to Wang Yiping: "Coach, can we continue? Or should we wait for her to finish crying?"
Wang Yiping hesitated, stepping forward to console her.
As Lin Mo turned away, Fang Jun and the others swarmed him, offering water and towels.
But Lin Mo hadn’t even broken a sweat. He took a sip of his drink and left it at that.
Moments later, Wang Senling’s sobs subsided.
All that remained was her venomous glare, locked onto Lin Mo.