National Championships (5)
In baseball, for instance, you decide whether you’ll be a pitcher or a batter. In soccer, whether you’ll play as a striker or a defender.
In most modern sports, even within the same discipline, athletes spend their careers finding the role that suits them best.
Figure skating is no different. Like every other sport, it is an endless succession of choices and focus.
Of course, some people will point out the exceptions—two-way players in baseball who both pitch and hit, or soccer forwards who drop back and defend. But those cases are rarities filtered from among the rarest chosen geniuses.
To Han Jinsung, Cha Seolhwa belonged to that category.
Within the technical box, her mastery of every jump was uniformly high. Had she abandoned artistry for it? Not at all.
Just look at that performance—so raw it nearly turned the stomach. Was that really the work of a thirteen-year-old child?
That isn’t acting.
She neither manufactured emotion nor carefully modulated it. She simply expressed, with precision, the melody already living inside her.
It was not the product of a coach’s acting drills, nor the result of practicing how to “look the part” on the ice. She simply showed herself—announced, without words, that she was there on the ice.
She did not hide her feelings; she released them, and the atmosphere followed her lead.
That approach was worlds away from the figure skating Han Jinsung had always known. And that was exactly why he loved her skating.
It was the complete opposite of everything he had pursued his entire career, yet inside it lay technique built layer by layer through countless hours of effort.
She never lost the emotional thread. Instead, she wove jumps, spins, and step sequences into that current without dropping a single element—an exquisite sense of balance.
“You really like it that much?”
“…Pardon?”
“Up until now… you only really watched Jin Sehee. You barely glanced at the rest.”
“What? I scored every skater fairly.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Yu Hyungyeong smiled quietly. The look in her eyes held something more complicated than mere teasing.
“That expression just now. That look in your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“You were moved.”
Han Jinsung closed his mouth. He said nothing, yet his eyes were already telling more stories than any words could. Yu Hyungyeong was never going to miss that.
“A performance that truly stirs the heart… no matter how objective the judging, it always shows on the face.”
“Unprofessional of me.”
“No—I actually liked it. For a moment just now I, too, was reminded of how magnificent a sport figure skating can be.”
“Is that so.”
Han Jinsung answered absently and turned his gaze back to the ice. Right now, watching even one more second of this performance mattered more than anything else.
At the same moment, Cha Seolhwa accelerated.
Raising speed in the second half meant she intended to attempt high-difficulty jumps under the 1.1 bonus factor. Just as he began to wonder what was coming—
3A+Eu+4S?
Triple Axel. Euler. And a quadruple Salchow.
Even senior men rarely used that combination.
“Incredible.”
“Still… that last combination will have to take a deduction.”
“A deduction of that severity at a junior event?”
“Not a full downgrade, but at least an under-rotation, I think.”
“Really? The landing was a bit soft, but I wouldn’t call it a deduction—more like it looked slightly unnatural.”
“Unnatural… yes, that fits. Almost as if she were jumping the way male skaters do.”
Han Jinsung fell silent at Yu Hyungyeong’s words. It wasn’t merely that the program layout felt masculine; every so often her jump technique itself flashed a distinctly male style. Strange, considering her coach was Shin Yerim, a former ladies’ singles skater.
Well, as long as it hasn’t hardened into a real habit… she’ll fix it with feedback.
She was a girl, after all. Habits like that usually ironed themselves out as the body grew.
“Seolhwa! You jumped so well! Your parents arrived earlier—they watched the whole thing from the start!”
“…”
The moment I stepped off the ice, Yerim started happily smacking my cheeks. But—
“…”
“Hmm? Why so quiet? You didn’t even fall.”
I had nothing to say.
…I’m embarrassed.
Before and during the program the dopamine had been rushing so hard I hadn’t noticed. The instant it ended, my mind cleared. I had judged Jin Sehee and the other skaters while failing to deliver a perfect program of my own. The shame hit hard.
When I got tired, the old habits came out…
On the Axel of the final combination, a bad habit from my previous life had surfaced—stretching the free leg straight back to generate power when strength was fading. A technique that only made sense on a taller body. On this one it was useless. The overextended leg ruined the weight transfer, and I nearly couldn’t even attempt the rest of the combination.
Thank goodness I’ve practiced landings so much on the floor this life.
I’d done endless off-ice landing drills under the excuse of reducing injury risk. Without that, the precarious moment would have ended in a fall.
Should I just look on the bright side?
That I managed a clean landing after almost crashing—was that something to be grateful for? Once everything was over, my head was a mess.
“Still, the crowd went wild. And the judges’ faces looked pretty good too.”
I accepted the water Yerim handed me and slowly lifted my head.
“I failed the steps…”
“Failed? Come on, Level 3 isn’t exactly a failure.”
“I always get Level 4…”
“When jump difficulty goes up, step and choreo sequence levels naturally drop. Nobody can do everything perfectly.”
“Next time I’ll get full levels on both steps and choreo.”
“Oh? That sounds like a baseball player saying he’ll hit a home run every single at-bat.”
“I can do it.”
I said it seriously, but Yerim only ruffled my hair as if I were adorable.
“Shall we go?”
“Yes.”
When we reached the Kiss & Cry together, the skater before me had already left her seat. Maybe the score gap was so wide she saw no point in staying. Her choice was free; I sat down without much thought.
“Look forward and smile. Or cry if you want—either’s fine.”
The moment we sat, Yerim spoke while facing the cameras.
“This is a federation event, so let’s make sure every photo they take of us looks as pretty as possible.”
“I look pretty even in candid shots.”
“…True, but still—look forward and smile. The next skater hasn’t started yet, so the cameras will still be on us.”
At the same time the results came over the speakers.
Skater number 5, Cha Seolhwa: 140.2 points. Currently in first place.
140.2. More than enough to take the title at this competition without any surprises. And yet—
…Too low.
With this program the theoretical maximum climbed into the 160s. 140.2. The final jump, the mid-program recovery where I’d twisted my body, and the failure to secure Level 4 on the step sequence had clearly cost me.
“One hundred forty!”
While I was thinking that, Yerim looked ready to explode with joy all over again.
Next time.
I drew a deep breath. Sitting under these lights, staring at this score, I carved the moment into myself.
Gender, age, body, condition—no matter what tried to stop me, next time I would deliver a perfect performance with no excuses.
“Hey! Did you see this?”
Two weeks had passed since the National Championships. It was Friday, so Jin Sehee had come over to this rink; the moment she spotted me she came running. Until last week she’d been calling me a traitor and refusing to speak. Apparently her anger had finally cooled.
“See what?”
“The World Championships entry list is out! Don’t tell me you still haven’t checked?!”
It was still winter break; I’d been practicing since morning and hadn’t looked at my phone. If Yerim had been around she probably would have told me, but it wasn’t lesson time yet so she hadn’t come to the rink.
When I said as much, Sehee shoved her phone at me as if appalled I hadn’t seen it.
“Just a second.”
I pulled off my gloves, took the phone, and scrolled. Let’s see… I tapped the junior ladies’ singles section and checked the entries.
Japan and the United States each had three spots. Canada, Estonia, Finland, France, Italy, Korea, and Switzerland had two. Everyone else received one.
Reina’s there too?
While scanning Japan’s roster I spotted a familiar name and felt a small rush of happiness. We messaged occasionally but never discussed competition results. At last we’d be skating the same event.
And me… of course.
Korea’s two spots had gone exactly where I’d expected—to me, the previous champion, and to Chloe. I glanced at Sehee with a slightly guilty look.
“I lost fair and square, so quit staring at me like that! If you’re going to feel bad, just go win another spot next time.”
“I plan on winning anyway.”
“…For real?”
She’d told me to win, yet the moment I agreed she looked flustered. So was I supposed to do it or not?
“Akane’s going too, you know…?”
“I can beat her.”
Kayano Akane—famous even in my previous life, a Japanese Special Reinforced Athlete. In Korean terms she was like a national-team skater, and “Special Reinforced” meant she had already claimed both the All-Japan title and a World Championship gold.
And her defining trait—
161.2
She held the junior free-skating world record, having broken 160 points in the free alone.