Zhu Yun arranged to meet Li Xun at the school gate at seven o’clock.

Zhu Yun was awake by five, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fall back asleep. She took a shower, then realized there was still too much time, so she put on a face mask. That finished and there was still time left over, so she spent more than an hour going through her wardrobe.

By the time she left the house, she was already running a little late. When she arrived at the meeting spot, Li Xun was already there.

An autumn wind stirred the air. The school gate at seven was still quiet. Li Xun stood in the autumn landscape of thinning trees and fallen leaves, wearing a dark jacket, a cigarette between his fingers. He was older now, and something in his manner had changed — gone was the arrogant ease and effortless confidence of his youth. But his bearing was still there, and having been worn and weathered by the years, it had taken on a certain melancholy beauty.

Though his temperament was still every bit as insufferable.

Zhu Yun simply honked from inside the car. They caught sight of each other through the window, and he put out the cigarette and got in, settling into the passenger seat.

“How long did you wait?” she asked.

“Half a day,” he said.

“…”

Zhu Yun checked the time. She was only about ten minutes late.

This was their first time alone together since the argument. In the car, Zhu Yun caught Li Xun glancing at her a few times out of the corner of her eye — probably gauging whether she was still upset.

Zhu Yun’s expression was perfectly composed.

This was a skill she had acquired over the years — the art of forgetting.

Nothing in the world can withstand forgetting. She had mastered this self-deluding yet remarkably efficient technique over the course of those difficult years. As long as she forgot the things that cut deepest — the good and the bad alike, all treated the same — she could clear the space she needed and keep moving forward.

Seeing that she was fine, Li Xun closed his eyes and rested.

Following the address Old Man Lin had given her, Zhu Yun turned into the residential compound behind the school. She had expected to spend some time hunting for the right building, but Old Man Lin was already waiting at the compound entrance. The moment he appeared in her field of vision, Zhu Yun noticed Li Xun’s body go briefly rigid.

She said to him, “Get out first.”

Li Xun frowned. “Why?”

“I need to park the car.”

Old Man Lin came toward them from a distance, and Zhu Yun quickly unlocked the door and pushed Li Xun out, half shoving him along. Old Man Lin was full of energy — from five meters away, he was already pointing at Li Xun with a raised arm, and before he could decide what to say, he closed the gap and threw a punch. The blow looked dramatic, but landing on Li Xun it made no sound at all.

“You reckless little fool!”

Li Xun lowered his head. His voice came out a little rough.

“Teacher…”

At those two words, both Zhu Yun’s and Old Man Lin’s eyes went red. Zhu Yun’s heart was in turmoil. She drew a deep breath to hold back her tears and smiled at Old Man Lin. “Teacher, I’ll go park the car.”

She made a quick turn and parked along the tree-lined road. When she killed the engine, two withered leaves drifted onto the hood and were blown to the ground by a passing wind.

Zhu Yun took out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, then touched up her makeup in the mirror before getting out.

Old Man Lin lit up the moment he saw Zhu Yun.

“Look at you, all grown up.”

Zhu Yun greeted him respectfully, and Old Man Lin pointed between her and Li Xun with a laugh. “You two always liked working together back then, and now you’re at the same company — what a coincidence!”

“Isn’t it,” Zhu Yun said with a smile. “Quite the happy accident.”

Old Man Lin walked them to his apartment. The compound was home mostly to teachers from the university district. Though it lacked the modern amenities of the newer campus buildings elsewhere, the residents were cultured people, and the grounds were immaculate — trash neatly sorted at designated points, not a single bicycle parked out of place.

Old Man Lin lived on the fourth floor — no elevator. They chatted as they climbed the stairs. They had just reached the third floor landing when the door above opened, and Old Man Lin’s wife, Zhao Guowei, appeared with a warm smile.

“Welcome, welcome! You haven’t had breakfast yet, I’m sure — come in, come in.”

Zhao Guowei was a professor in the university’s history department. Her face was gentle and kind.

“I’ve been looking forward to your visit for so long!”

Zhu Yun was flustered. “We didn’t mean to—”

Zhao Guowei laughed. “Ever since your Teacher Lin got off the phone on Wednesday, he’s been completely beside himself. If you’d waited any longer, I would have had to send him to the hospital.”

“What are you saying about me?” Old Man Lin grumbled. “Go heat up the food. These two haven’t eaten — and that boy never eats breakfast!”

The meeting had been scheduled early mainly because Old Man Lin had an academic conference in the afternoon. But Zhu Yun later learned from Zhao Guowei that he’d also had a morning meeting — which he had cancelled. He simply couldn’t wait.

Zhu Yun stirred the white congee in her bowl, watching Old Man Lin hold Li Xun captive in an endless stream of conversation. She puzzled over what the two of them could possibly have to talk about — Li Xun had spent the past six years in prison, after all.

But Old Man Lin and Li Xun had no shortage of topics. Li Xun answered every question patiently, and eventually the two of them fell into an enthusiastic discussion about prison food.

Zhu Yun sat quietly to the side playing her supporting role, racking her brain over how she was going to approach Zhao Guowei for a favor.

Then, while Zhu Yun was still deliberating, Li Xun said to Old Man Lin: “By the way, Teacher, I’ve been working on a game recently — history-themed. I’d love to ask my teacher’s wife for her help.”

Old Man Lin blinked. “Sure,” he said, and looked over at his wife. Zhao Guowei took a sip of her congee. “Sure,” she said.

Li Xun nodded, then went back to chatting with Old Man Lin about prison accommodations.

Zhu Yun: “…”

She had never in her life felt more completely unnecessary.

The congee bowl was scraped clean, not a grain of rice left, but Old Man Lin and Li Xun showed no sign of stopping. Zhao Guowei nudged Zhu Yun’s arm and gestured for her to follow.

Zhu Yun followed Zhao Guowei into the study. Zhu Yun had grown up in a science and engineering environment, and the atmosphere of a scholar’s private study felt quite foreign to her. She gazed curiously at the paintings on the walls, the shelves lined with complete sets of books, the inkstone sitting in the corner of the main desk.

The room had the same quality as Zhao Guowei herself — rich with the scent of learning, radiating a heavy, settled tranquility.

“No use waiting for them,” Zhao Guowei said as she settled beside the writing desk. “They’ll be talking until noon. Men and their endless chatter.”

Zhao Guowei sat down. Zhu Yun stood politely to the side. Zhao Guowei noticed and smiled. “Why are you being so formal? Nothing like that partner of yours.”

“He’s always been fearless,” Zhu Yun said.

“Fearless is a good thing.” Zhao Guowei spoke as she spread open a notebook covered in dense handwritten notes. She flipped to the latest page. “What people lack most these days is courage — and for men, it’s especially critical.” She glanced at Zhu Yun and lowered her voice. “Just look at your Teacher Lin — a textbook case of a timid man.”

Zhu Yun had no idea how to respond to that.

“Six years ago, when that boy first went to prison,” Zhao Guowei continued, “your Teacher Lin was barely holding himself together.”

Zhu Yun froze. Zhao Guowei’s expression was warm and unhurried, as though she were telling a story from a lifetime ago.

“He couldn’t even bring himself to attend the sentencing hearing. He shut himself in his room like a child. And then every day after that, he’d fret about what conditions were like in there, getting upset every few days — honestly, he seemed to be suffering more than the one who was actually inside. I told him, ‘Either stage a jailbreak, or sit down and wait for the man to come out.'” Zhao Guowei clicked her tongue twice. “It’s really quite baffling — how hard can it be for a genius in his twenties to make a comeback? If it truly is too hard, then all his reputation was just a facade. It’s as simple as that. What is there to agonize over?” She sighed. “It comes down to small-mindedness — clinging to the past, unable to let go. Mark my words: when it comes to men, never choose one like that. Choose one who keeps his eyes fixed forward.”

Zhu Yun listened to Zhao Guowei with her mouth hanging open.

What a formidable woman.

If she herself had possessed even half of Zhao Guowei’s perspective back then, she would have been spared so much heartbreak and anguish. In that respect, Old Man Lin had even managed to do better than her — at least he’d cried on his wife’s shoulder. During those years of her own, the sorrow was hers alone, the moments of tenderness witnessed by no one — like performing a long, lonely one-woman show to an empty theatre.

Just as Zhu Yun was sinking into these reflections on the past, Zhao Guowei added in a leisurely tone: “Of course, that emotional turbulence was necessary in its own way. You can’t skip over the stages of growth — that would only produce hollow maturity.”

“…”

The pivot left Zhu Yun speechless once again.

Arts scholars truly were something else. Every word sealed airtight — arguments soaring to great heights then plummeting without warning, all without ever fully committing to one side. No matter the angle, it all made sense.

“Come then,” Zhao Guowei said, clasping her hands together. “Tell me what you need from me.”

Zhu Yun quietly reached into her bag and drew out the promotional plan for Invincible Warrior.

Zhao Guowei put on her glasses and read through it carefully. Once finished, she turned back to the first page and read it again.

Seeing how thoroughly she was reading it, Zhu Yun felt a fresh wave of nerves. Of course the proposal represented her best efforts, but after so long spent in the company of Dong Siyang, Zhang Fang, and others, she worried that her standards might have subtly slipped without her realizing it…

“Your game is set against the backdrop of the Warring States period?” Zhao Guowei asked.

“Yes.”

“More specifically?”

“The opening is set in 239 BCE.”

“When the Qin king formally took power?”

“That’s right.”

Zhao Guowei was a well-known authority on history, and even in her warm, approachable manner she still carried the gravitas of an academic. Under her occasional pointed questions, Zhu Yun’s nerves stretched taut — she was terrified of saying a single wrong thing and leaving the impression that she hadn’t done her homework.

“Why did you choose that moment as the opening?”

“Well,” Zhu Yun considered carefully, “the first major battle we designed is the Qin king’s campaign against the rebel forces of Lao Ai. After that battle, the king fully eliminated his last obstacle in Lü Buwei, and set out on the path to conquer the six rival kingdoms. We felt it was a fitting point at which to begin.”

“Hmm, and there’s some salacious drama to stir up as well,” Zhao Guowei said with a smile. “Ying Zheng, Lady Zhao Ji, Lü Buwei, Lao Ai — quite the scandalous little spectacle. It does make for a good opening act.”

“…”

They had, in fact, factored that element into the decision as well.

“You’ve done very thorough research,” Zhao Guowei remarked.

This time Zhu Yun didn’t deflect with modesty. “We have,” she said firmly. “We made up our minds to do this properly — we would never be half-hearted about it.”

Zhao Guowei smiled and asked Zhu Yun to open the game. With Zhu Yun guiding her, Zhao Guowei tried out the content, then began offering her thoughts. Her feedback was meticulous, drilling down to specific lines of dialogue, often cutting straight to the heart of the matter with surgical precision. Zhu Yun broke out in a cold sweat repeatedly, scribbling notes furiously.

Time flew. In what felt like a blink, it was noon. Zhu Yun finished writing down every last word of Zhao Guowei’s comments, and when she finally looked up, Zhao Guowei was watching her with a smile.

“…Is something wrong?” Zhu Yun ventured carefully.

Zhao Guowei shook her head. “Nothing. I was just thinking of how your Teacher Lin used to praise you — he’d talk about his class representative with nothing but admiration.”

Zhu Yun’s cheeks warmed. “You’re too kind, Teacher.”

“Though not quite as often as he mentioned that other student,” Zhao Guowei added.

“…”

Zhao Guowei let out a hearty laugh. “It’s not easy being a woman.”

Zhu Yun stole a glance through the study doorway. Old Man Lin still had Li Xun cornered in deep conversation. The dishes had been cleared from the table at some point, replaced with a tablecloth — old-fashioned in pattern, but clean and neatly spread. The table sat beside the balcony door. In the morning the light had been unremarkable, but now, in the full afternoon sun, it poured in in generous waves — warm as a low flame, burning away every trace of cold and desolation.

The light lay across Li Xun’s back. There was something strangely tender about it. Zhu Yun thought to herself that his back must be warm to the touch right now, perhaps even hot.

Old Man Lin treated Li Xun like his own son.

The study door was open, and the conversation outside drifted in in fragments. Old Man Lin was asking about Li Xun’s company. He had already recommended several firms and a research institute at the university, all of which Li Xun had turned down.

“It’s fine,” Li Xun said quietly. “I’m doing well where I am.”

Old Man Lin let out a sigh. “You’ve had it rough.”

“Not really,” Li Xun said. “I think it’s been pretty manageable.”

“But there’s one thing I want you to remember—” Old Man Lin’s tone shifted abruptly, his expression turning grave and serious. “No matter what difficulties lie ahead, you must always walk the right path.” He pressed a finger firmly into Li Xun’s shoulder, enunciating each word as though afraid Li Xun might not hear. “Don’t you ever destroy yourself again.”

At noon, Old Man Lin needed to leave for his conference. Zhao Guowei offered to have them stay for lunch, but Zhu Yun politely declined.

“We’ve imposed enough for one day. And you’ve given me so many suggestions — I need to get back and start making revisions right away.”

“There’s no rush,” Zhao Guowei said. “The game doesn’t need to be finished today.”

After another round of heartfelt thanks, Zhu Yun finally took her leave.

Li Xun had been cooped up with Old Man Lin and barely restrained himself — he had his cigarettes out the moment they stepped out the door.

Zhu Yun was still turning over the suggestions Zhao Guowei had offered, thoughts tumbling through her mind. Zhao Guowei’s insights had opened up all kinds of new possibilities for the storyline. It would be wonderful to be able to consult with her regularly. She was just thinking this when Li Xun said, “Zhao Guowei will serve as a consultant for your project. You can go to her with questions going forward.”

Zhu Yun looked at him.

When did you manage to work out that kind of deep partnership?

“She’ll write promotional articles for the game over the next few days,” Li Xun continued, “to be released in line with the game’s update schedule. For this project, just market it under the banner of ‘the most historically rigorous game ever made.’ That’s your angle.”

“…” Zhu Yun asked him: “If Professor Zhao is credited as our historical consultant, won’t that affect her reputation as a scholar?”

“Don’t know,” Li Xun said.

“You’re not worried at all?”

“If you’re so worried about damaging her reputation, why did you come here in the first place?”

They stepped out through the building entrance into the blinding glare of midday sun. Both of them squinted reflexively. Li Xun’s gaze drifted across Zhu Yun’s face for a moment. He knew nothing about cosmetics, had no idea what she’d applied, but her skin seemed to catch the light in a way that made it glow — delicately luminous, almost translucent.

Zhu Yun blinked against the brightness and quickly refocused. She caught Li Xun glancing sidelong at her and said irritably, “What?”

“Your skin,” he murmured, “thin as paper.”

Zhu Yun assumed he was still mocking her for her nervousness inside, and she couldn’t be bothered to argue.

“Yes, well — not everyone has nerves of steel like you.”

Li Xun put the cigarette between his lips and walked away.

That brief exchange left Zhu Yun with a strange sensation — like déjà vu, a deep and bone-level familiarity.

She searched back through her memory and landed on a morning from their university years: she had woken Li Xun up at the base after he’d slept off a night of drinking, and then the two of them had talked in the empty room. There had been sunlight then too, and leaves, and a quiet corner — exactly like this. They had felt like two old friends.

Head down, Zhu Yun walked with him to the compound entrance, then asked: “Can I give you a ride back?”

“No need. Go on ahead.”

Li Xun headed off in a different direction. Zhu Yun watched his retreating figure and realized that even now, she had no idea where Li Xun lived. Every time she saw him it was at the office — he left later than her, arrived earlier than her. No matter what time during the day she happened to look up, he was there at the desk across from her, except for the occasional lunch or smoke break outside…

Exactly like it had always been.