Perhaps the successfully delivered joke had put the boss in a good mood, because Zhu Yun was today fortunate enough to see the actual project for the first time.

A long list of items. Zhu Yun took it and immediately bent her head over it.

Li Xun stood up and leaned against the edge of her desk.

“Through the second-curriculum program, you can earn two credits here in total. A standard project is worth 0.2; a special one is 0.4.”

Zhu Yun looked up. “What counts as special?”

“The ones that make money.”

“…”

The boss was standing very close. She had to tilt her head back to see his face properly.

How does he maintain his skin like this on so little sleep?

Li Xun smoked with his brows drawn slightly together, too exhausted to keep his eyes fully open.

“So does the base keep all the money it earns, or does it go to the students?” Zhu Yun asked.

“Keep dreaming.” The hangover had roughened his voice slightly. He twisted his upper body in a small arc and looked back at her; his still-damp shirt gathered in soft folds along his side. “Have you heard of the university-industry cooperation center?”

The room was as quiet as a park in the early morning — not even a shaft of sunlight had come to disturb it.

Zhu Yun was mildly curious how they had so naturally slipped into conversation, as though they were a pair of old friends.

“I have,” she said. “Every department has one, right? They partner with outside companies.”

“Right. In theory those arrangements have potential to generate revenue, but a lot of them don’t perform well — not much ends up in the university’s hands. Usually just enough for space fees and administrative costs.”

“So the base’s earnings all go to the university?”

“Not entirely. There’s a revenue split.”

“What’s the split?”

Li Xun didn’t answer. He stubbed the cigarette out on a blank sheet of paper. “Why — looking to make money?”

“…”

Is that why I came here? For whatever small cut you’re offering?

“No, no,” Zhu Yun said politely. “I was just asking out of curiosity.”

Li Xun perched on the edge of the desk, his long legs stretching all the way to the floor, and said with unhurried ease: “There you go again. Stop performing. Just say what you want to say.”

Zhu Yun already had a low-burning irritation in her, and Li Xun’s prodding knocked out whatever filter she had — without thinking, she said: “The moment money comes up you get all defensive. Your personality is every bit as tacky as your hair color.”

The moment the words were out, both of them went blank.

Li Xun stared at her. “Say that again?”

“…”

“Miss Zhu, paragon of refinement — what was it you just said? Say it again.”

A single misstep, and a lifelong regret.

Someone please come and save her.

“You misheard me,” Zhu Yun said, her voice dropping as low as it could go. “I need to use the restroom.”

Li Xun’s long arm shot out and caught her by the collar. Zhu Yun nearly choked.

“Where are you going?” he said, from behind her.

Zhu Yun reflected that in moments like these, a man was very much a man and a woman very much a woman — she meant this purely in the physical sense.

There was no escaping his grip. His large hand closed around the back of her neck and physically turned her around to face him.

Single eyelids again.

How are you even a real person.

“My personality — and my hair color — are what exactly?”

Zhu Yun held her ground stiffly. “Both very nice. Truly, both very nice… I was talking nonsense just now, it was a misunderstanding, a genuine misunderstanding.”

Voices came from the corridor. Zhu Yun startled and said in a whisper: “Someone’s coming! Let go, quickly.”

Li Xun gave a cold laugh. “Am I the one who should be worried about being seen, or are you?”

His hand didn’t move an inch — unhurried, unbothered, entirely undisturbed by the footsteps growing closer and closer outside.

In the split second before the classroom door opened, Zhu Yun gave a sharp push, darted back to her own seat, and buried her face in the project list.

Wu Mengxing came in, saw Li Xun and Zhu Yun, waved a greeting, and then without being asked picked up the broom and began to sweep.

Li Xun yawned beside her and said to Zhu Yun: “Stop choosing. Bring your things over and sit here — you’re working on my project.”

Zhu Yun murmured her acknowledgment without looking up and folded the project list closed.

A few more people trickled in. When Gao Jianhong arrived, he looked equally exhausted and was about to collapse into a seat for a few minutes’ rest when Li Xun slapped him back upright, then waved Zhu Yun over as well to have a meeting.

This was the first time Zhu Yun had gotten a proper look at Li Xun’s laptop.

The desktop was immaculate. Not a game in sight — not even the most basic social media applications. Zhu Yun suspected the entire machine contained nothing but compilers and runtime plugins.

The project, naturally, was the Lancrown Foods one. Zhu Yun already knew. Li Xun walked her through the current state of the work.

“The two of you can sketch out the features in rough terms — no need to nail down every detail yet. Just confirm the overall direction first, then go deeper once we’ve met with their team next week and things are settled.”

Zhu Yun looked at Li Xun. “They haven’t decided yet?”

Gao Jianhong answered: “Not yet, but I’ve looked into our strongest competitor, and the level is pretty ordinary. We should be able to get it.” He gave Li Xun a grinning shove. “Lead developer, Your Excellency — it all depends on you.”

Zhu Yun glanced over at Li Xun. The top-ranking student smiled with serene, unshakeable confidence.

On her way back to her seat, a question occurred to Zhu Yun almost as an afterthought — so was she now, officially, a member of the core team?

Over the days that followed, Li Xun threw himself entirely into planning and building the foundational architecture, while Zhu Yun and Gao Jianhong got to work preparing the basic templates.

The pile of books on Zhu Yun’s desk grew thicker. She went to sleep later and later — and felt more and more energized.

Wednesday came in what felt like a flash. Li Xun arranged leave for all three of them and took Zhu Yun and Gao Jianhong with him to Lancrown Foods.

Lancrown’s food processing plant was out in the outskirts. Zhu Yun had spent time beforehand working out the complicated bus route — only to have the young lord simply flag down a taxi the next morning and hire it for the whole day at five hundred yuan.

They set off at seven in the morning. Twenty minutes later, the car came off the inner ring road overpass and turned onto a side road. The side road was under construction; they spent the next hour rocking like passengers on a boat. Zhu Yun had anticipated a busy day and eaten two steamed buns before leaving to line her stomach — and promptly vomited them up halfway through the journey.

Fortunately the driver pulled over in time, sparing the inside of the car.

Gao Jianhong crouched beside Zhu Yun with a look of concern. “Are you alright? That was quite something.”

Zhu Yun, drained of all color: “I’m — I’m fine.”

Li Xun stood at a distance with his arms crossed, watching as a spectator. “Nerves, probably.”

Zhu Yun, red-eyed from the effort of being sick, looked up and fixed him with a stare.

Li Xun: “Look at you.”

Gao Jianhong couldn’t help himself. “Could you lay off for two minutes? Can’t you see she’s getting worse every time you open your mouth?”

Zhu Yun’s breathing was unsteady.

Her stomach was completely empty now, otherwise she’d have saved something to throw directly at his face.

Li Xun tossed her a bottle of water. “Finish up, let’s get moving.”

Back in the car, Zhu Yun’s stomach had settled considerably. She looked up and saw Li Xun in the front passenger seat, yawning repeatedly.

Zhu Yun took a slow, deep breath. She had to admit, he’d been right — she was a little nervous.

Around half past eight, they finally reached their destination.

Stepping out of the car, the view opened up before them: three large factory buildings, with the tallest one at the back appearing to house the offices.

The factory was large, but didn’t seem especially well-organized. Workers moved between buildings at a leisurely pace, not unlike people out for a stroll.

After they got out, Li Xun made a call, and before long a staff member appeared, looking the three of them over.

“Everyone else is already here. What took you so long?”

Gao Jianhong quickly apologized. “Sorry — the road’s under construction.”

The staff member said: “They’ve been waiting ages. Come on.” He led them to the building at the back. Inside it was empty and cold; stepping through the entrance and looking down the corridor, dust hung suspended in shafts of light.

And this is a food processing plant…

By the third floor, there were finally signs of life. Potted plants lined both sides of the stairwell, each one housing a spiraling money tree.

They slipped quietly in through the rear door of a conference room where a presentation was already underway.

There were more than twenty people inside. The four in the front row in formal suits were Lancrown’s senior management and technical leadership. Behind them, clustered in groups, were employees from various software companies.

The staff member who had brought them in left immediately. Zhu Yun found a seat and listened carefully to the presenter at the front.

Once the initial anxiety settled, Zhu Yun gradually began to notice something was off.

The presenter had successively demonstrated to the clients a sleek, polished UI mockup, an impressive-sounding functional breakdown, and an optimistic vision for future development.

But…

You’re pitching for a software outsourcing contract. Why is your entire presentation just slides downloaded from the internet?

All the visual materials were pulled from online sources, the proposed features were lifted wholesale from similar existing websites, and the future outlook was pure speculation without even a rough edge to hold onto.

Zhu Yun frowned at this enthusiastically gesticulating presenter, and by the end she had realized: this person had come up here without even the most basic conceptual framework in place.

A warm breath grazed her ear.

Zhu Yun turned her head. The blond-haired troublemaker was sitting to her right, arms folded, leaning slightly in her direction.

She lowered her voice. “What are you doing?”

At this proximity, Zhu Yun noticed that Li Xun was not, strictly speaking, single-lidded. His lids were double on the inner corner, splitting into a thin, delicate line toward the outer edge. It was rather striking.

When soft, like the forked tail of a swallow. When sharp, like a pair of opened scissors.

He smiled and asked her: “Still nervous?”

…

Apparently not anymore.

The further the presentations went, the less nervous she felt — because she had already seen Li Xun’s code.

At last it was their turn.

Li Xun took out his laptop, stood, and walked forward without any preamble — so suddenly that Zhu Yun didn’t even have time to wish him luck.

He spoke from the front of the room. That voice, neither high nor low, carrying a measured ease, quietly settled everyone’s nerves. Zhu Yun found herself listening and listening until she gradually stopped taking in the words themselves, and was simply watching him.

How many nights had he gone without sleep?

Zhu Yun had left the base at curfew any number of times, and every time, Li Xun had still been there. Just as he had said at the beginning — No scheduled hours. Come whenever you have time. I’m always there.

He was wearing an ordinary grey shirt, his hair the only bright thing about him.

Li Xun had a straight, upright build — like a fresh stalk of bamboo — but he never actually held himself that way. Taking advantage of his height, he tended to slump when he sat and slouch slightly when he stood.

Zhu Yun watched for a moment, then reached into her jacket and took out her phone and took a photograph.

Gao Jianhong looked at her. “What was that for?”

Zhu Yun set the phone down. “Nothing. Just… felt like it was worth remembering.”

Gao Jianhong smiled and turned back toward the front.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

Apart from a minor ripple of attention among the senior staff at the initial sight of that unruly hair, Li Xun’s presentation went entirely smoothly.

Their group’s presentation time was the shortest of all — and drew the most technical follow-up questions from the leadership. Li Xun answered everything with clarity and composure, working through each question in an unhurried, methodical way until every last one had been addressed.

The senior executive, who didn’t understand the technical side of things, furrowed his brow and said: “Your interface doesn’t look very eye-catching.”

The technical head leaned over and murmured a few words in his ear. The executive’s frown eased into a slow, acknowledging nod.

Li Xun came back to his seat with his laptop. Zhu Yun gave him a thumbs up.

Li Xun’s mouth curved slightly — the picture of unassailable self-possession.

They were the final group. After them came the senior executive’s closing remarks. Having held back for some time, the executive could finally unleash his full authority as the client. He spoke with great gravity for a while, and then sent everyone home to await notification.

The three of them filed out with the rest of the crowd.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, Zhu Yun noticed someone.

Walking along the side of the group — a young man, lean and slight.

A hand caught the back of her collar; Li Xun pulled her back.

“Keep walking like that, you’ll hit the wall.”

Zhu Yun said quietly to both of them: “Did you see that person?” She discreetly pointed toward the young man. “Does either of you recognize him?”

Gao Jianhong shook his head. “No idea.”

Zhu Yun frowned. “I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere.”

Li Xun: “If you like the look of him, just go over and ask. Your taste really is something.”

“…”

They turned a corner. Something sparked in Zhu Yun’s mind, and she stopped abruptly.

“I remember now.”

Li Xun slanted his eyes toward her.

“I saw him when I went to pick up Fang Shumiao from a meeting once. He’s from the graduate program in our department.”