It took Zhu Yun a good moment before she understood what he actually meant.

“You’re saying you want to join the competition?”

“Yes.”

Zhu Yun was a little thrown. “But before, didn’t you—”

“I changed my mind.” Li Xun rolled his shoulders loosely. “No need to be so wound up. It’s good to relax a little now and then.”

“…”

Watching him stretch, Zhu Yun was once again reminded that most people genuinely could not keep up with this man.

One word against joining had sent them into a scramble. Now one word for joining left her feeling equal parts relieved and troubled.

Remembering what Li Lan had said, Zhu Yun asked one more question: “You’re really sure about this?”

Li Xun nodded.

Zhu Yun frowned. “Then why didn’t you say so earlier? Wu Mengxing is already on the team.”

Li Xun: “You don’t need to worry about him. Just tell me whether you agree or not.”

That didn’t sit quite right with her.

Yes, there was an enormous gap between Wu Mengxing’s abilities and Li Xun’s, but Wu Mengxing had still come on board with genuine earnestness. Was the donkey really going to be slaughtered before the mill was even done grinding?

And yet…

Zhu Yun stole a glance downward at Li Xun…

There was no way she was going to give up on this powerful backing.

While Zhu Yun was at war with herself, Li Xun stepped closer. Both hands tucked in his pockets, he bent slightly at the waist — bringing himself exactly level with her gaze.

Zhu Yun’s mind wandered…

Had he changed his body wash?

This time it was pomelo — clean and fragrant, with a faint trace of bitterness underneath.

So the mint one ran out…

She wondered what she smelled like right now… Probably not great. Not having showered was starting her off at a disadvantage already…

Wait — no!

Smack!!

Zhu Yun delivered herself a sharp mental slap!!

What on earth are you thinking about right now?!

“As I said,” Li Xun spoke mildly. Zhu Yun went still. He continued, “You don’t need to worry about what Wu Mengxing thinks. You don’t need to worry about what Gao Jianhong thinks. Just tell me whether you agree.”

A night breeze swept past, stirring the air.

Zhu Yun glanced to one side. “Obviously I agree.”

Li Xun straightened up, relaxed. “Then that settles it. I’ll handle Wu Mengxing.”

Zhu Yun: “…………”

The word “handle,” coming from Li Xun’s mouth, always produced a vaguely unsettling sensation.

She looked at him. “Don’t go too far.”

Li Xun turned and started walking back. Zhu Yun followed. “Wu Mengxing is a good person. He works really hard.”

Li Xun gave a small smile, took out his lighter, and lit a cigarette, speaking as he walked. “Princess, the college entrance exams are a dividing line.”

Zhu Yun quickened her pace to catch up. “What kind of dividing line?”

Li Xun spoke around his cigarette, unhurried. “From the moment they end, the things a person can do well through sheer effort alone — there are fewer and fewer of them.”

By the time they got back to the base it was well past midnight, and Zhu Yun was running on empty. She was about to collapse face-first onto the desk when Li Xun hauled her upright.

He scavenged a dozen or so chairs from around the classroom, arranged them in two facing rows, and dug out two spare curtains from the cabinet, draping them over the top.

“Get on.” Boss Li issued his command.

Zhu Yun lay down on the makeshift bed. The relief in her back was immediate — but the improvised surface was very narrow. She couldn’t roll over, could only lie face-up, completely still.

The backs of the chairs on either side were just the right height. Zhu Yun thought that if you flipped a lid over the top, it would be a perfectly respectable coffin.

Li Xun propped a hand on the chairback and looked down at her.

Lying in state…

Li Xun: “Why are you staring up at me — go to sleep.”

How am I supposed to sleep with you looming over me like that?

Li Xun turned and switched off the lights.

The room dimmed. The atmosphere was no longer quite so ominous.

Li Xun returned to his seat and opened his laptop. Zhu Yun was close enough that through the gaps between the chairbacks, she could see his face illuminated by the cold glow of the screen.

“Aren’t you sleeping?” Zhu Yun asked softly.

Li Xun: “I’m going to look over your competition documents. Don’t mind me.”

Zhu Yun had been exhausted just moments before, but now she suddenly couldn’t sleep. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking that the past few days had felt very long indeed.

The room was quiet — only the occasional click of a mouse.

Why had he changed his mind?…

Zhu Yun felt she had some dim, vague sense of the reason. But she didn’t want to dwell on it, and she certainly didn’t want to seek confirmation from Li Xun himself.

Results were what mattered.

Zhu Yun tilted her head slightly to one side. Li Xun had nearly finished reading through the documents. He tipped two pieces of chewing gum into his mouth and began chewing, writing and sketching on a piece of paper as he went.

He never lost heart.

Zhu Yun thought about it: he carried no weight from the past, felt no sorrow for the seasons, and never looked back. He walked a path that was not particularly easy — yet each step he took was more decisive than anyone else’s.

That was why he had gone further than anyone else.

Watching Li Xun’s silhouette, Zhu Yun felt something long-extinguished stir back to life somewhere deep inside her. She couldn’t help but say, “Li Xun, you absolutely have to win…”

Li Xun’s writing hand paused.

“Not asleep yet?”

Zhu Yun lay in her coffin and looked at him, and said it again.

“You have to win.”

Li Xun smiled lazily. “Is that so? Well, if Her Royal Highness has declared it, then winning this competition is nothing short of mandatory.”

In truth, she hadn’t been referring to this particular competition. But she didn’t explain herself further.

Li Xun finished his notes on paper and switched to the computer.

And it was to that deeply rhythmic sound of typing that Zhu Yun drifted, peacefully, to sleep.

The next morning Zhu Yun woke early, aching all over. By then Li Xun was already gone from the base. She went back to the dormitory, showered, grabbed her books, and headed to class.

In the C Programming course, Li Xun wasn’t in his usual seat.

Zhu Yun glanced toward the back of the room and spotted Li Xun in the corner, talking quietly with Wu Mengxing. He had one arm slung over Wu Mengxing’s shoulders, pressing down on him so thoroughly that Wu Mengxing — already not particularly tall — had practically disappeared beneath the weight.

After class, Li Xun came over and walked with Zhu Yun toward the base.

“Let’s go.”

“Wu Mengxing…?”

“Already taken care of.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Arranged some other things for him to work on.”

Zhu Yun was still full of misgivings. “What kinds of things?”

Li Xun looked at her, stopped walking, and furrowed his brow.

“What’s that expression for?”

I’m just a little worried you went too far, she thought.

“I gave him one of my projects.” Li Xun explained with noticeable impatience. “A Class-A company. The program is nearly done. He’s taking it over. When it’s finished, the company will offer him an internship.”

“Oh, oh.” That was actually quite decent. Zhu Yun felt the tension leave her — then looked up and caught Li Xun’s cold, flat stare.

“You thought I’d skin him alive, didn’t you.”

Zhu Yun: “…”

Not quite that dramatic.

That same afternoon, Li Xun tracked down Gao Jianhong to go over the current state of the project, and demanded that the entire section Wu Mengxing had been responsible for be deleted.

Gao Jianhong disagreed. “That part has already been cleaned up. Professor Lin reviewed it too — there are no issues. If there’s something that doesn’t sit right with you, you can refactor it.”

Li Xun: “Refactoring is worse than rewriting.”

Gao Jianhong: “We’re already tight on time.”

“We have enough.” Li Xun leaned back in his chair. “I’ve had eyes on this document for a long time. I know what needs to be done — delete his code.”

Gao Jianhong still hesitated. “That would set our progress back too much.”

Li Xun said, “If you don’t delete it now, we’ll be swimming with a winter coat on. You won’t feel it at first, but the longer it drags on, the more fatal it becomes — and by then we truly won’t have enough time.”

Zhu Yun sat nearby eating a piece of bread without saying a word. She had known from the start how this would end.

Sure enough, a little over an hour later, Li Xun had successfully persuaded Gao Jianhong.

After Gao Jianhong left, Zhu Yun went over to Li Xun. “You were pretty reasonable with him.”

Li Xun gave a noncommittal sound. He took a sip of water to clear his throat. “I need him fully committed. Better to spell things out clearly.”

Zhu Yun: “Then why don’t you explain a single thing to me? Don’t you need me to be fully committed?”

Li Xun: “No.”

“…”

Zhu Yun choked on her bread. She was about to lose it.

Li Xun saw her expression and leaned toward her with a smile.

Zhu Yun didn’t move away. Li Xun propped his elbow on the desk and leisurely proceeded to enlighten her:

“Sitting on your throne, issuing commands, waiting for your soldiers to lay their spoils at your feet — that is the spirit a princess must have. That kind of effortless entitlement.”

Absolutely unhinged.

Zhu Yun rolled her eyes inwardly. Just then Li Xun stood up, pressed a large hand down on top of her head, and said lazily, “Keep talking back and see what happens.”

Zhu Yun’s neck instinctively shrank down. She became vaguely aware of a faint, tingling warmth spreading from where his hand had touched her.

From the next day onward, everything fell into its proper rhythm.

With Li Xun’s addition to the team, the competition project moved forward smoothly. Professor Lin came by twice, offered some brief guidance, and then left them entirely to their own devices.

Even though Li Xun had told Zhu Yun to cultivate a “princess” mentality, she threw herself headlong into the competition project regardless, spending every day buried under books and her laptop, working like mad.

When Li Xun saw Zhu Yun disheveled and hollow-eyed from pulling all-nighters, he made a disapproving sound. “Some people are just born for this suffering. Hopeless.”

“…”

But in truth, Zhu Yun was hardly the only one burning the midnight oil.

Once, their discussions ran so late that they stayed the night at Ren Di’s studio. Zhu Yun woke in the middle of the night to find Li Xun leaning against a load-bearing wall, writing code.

She walked over. Li Xun was so deeply focused he didn’t notice her.

He was working on a separate project — one Zhu Yun also knew about. If they hadn’t joined the competition, he would have gone straight to this after returning from the capital.

Now that the competition was consuming all of Zhu Yun’s and Gao Jianhong’s free time, Li Xun was the only one who could split his attention. He had to keep going — because no matter what, the expenses for the base, the band, and that home he never returned to remained constant.

Zhu Yun pressed her back against the wall and sat down beside him.

In the deep of the night, the sound of his fingers on the keyboard brought her a greater sense of peace than any of Ren Di’s guitar playing.

“What are you doing?” Li Xun finally noticed her. He kept his eyes on the screen, a faint smile in his voice. “Sneaking around like that.”

Zhu Yun said nothing. Li Xun said nothing further either, and returned to his work.

Zhu Yun watched the screen for a while, then shifted her gaze to his face. The dim light wrapped gently around his features — clear, pale, and still.

She drew her knees up to her chest and suddenly spoke.

“Li Xun.”

“Mm?”

“Once the competition is over, I’ll do whatever you need.”

Li Xun’s hands went still. He turned his head to look at her.

He had dimmed the screen’s brightness, which made his features appear unusually refined in the soft light.

He curved the corner of his mouth and said, with unmistakable deliberateness: “That statement could be taken more than one way, you know.”

Zhu Yun paid no attention to his teasing.

“I’m serious. Whatever you want to do in the future, whatever goals you have — you can count me in.”

Li Xun gave a light laugh. “You’re a princess. You have to be mindful of your station when you speak.”

Zhu Yun reached out and closed her hand around his wrist. The sound of typing ceased.

She looked directly into his eyes. Those eyes that had struck her as slightly willful the first time she saw them — the longer she looked, the more she found something in them she couldn’t quite name. Something gentle.

Zhu Yun took a slow, steadying breath. “I’m not joking,” she said calmly. “I mean every word.”

In the vast surrounding stillness, Li Xun quietly reached up and gave the side of her neck a light pinch — the way one might coax a child who refused to sleep — and said softly, “I know.”