Li Lan’s illness had worsened from the cold.

She didn’t have Zhu Yun’s robust constitution. She had been running a low fever for several days straight, unable to keep anything down. Li Xun had taken her to the hospital, but Li Lan slipped out on her own afterward, insisting it was a ridiculous overreaction — where she came from, nobody went to the hospital for something this minor.

Worried about passing it to Li Xun, she had secluded herself in a hotel room to recover on her own.

When Li Xun came to check on her a few days later, he found she had lost a noticeable amount of weight.

“What happened?” He frowned. “You told me on the phone the fever had broken.”

Li Lan was already half-delirious. She shook her head with great effort, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s nothing…”

“No — you’re going to the hospital.” Li Xun pulled her up. Li Lan still tried to resist, but the dizziness had taken her strength; she barely had enough left to speak.

Li Xun brought her downstairs. They had just stepped out of the hotel when his phone rang — Professor Lin, telling him to get back to campus right away.

“What for?”

Professor Lin said hurriedly: “Just come, come — we’re shorthanded!” And hung up.

Li Xun frowned. He glanced at the dazed Li Lan beside him, then steered her into a nearby restaurant.

“Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”

He returned to campus at a quick pace, and Professor Lin immediately dragged him to the administrative auditorium.

Tomorrow’s finals were to be held there. The venue was mostly set up already, and several competing teams were running their final equipment checks. Despite the bitter cold, Professor Lin had worked himself into a sweat. He explained to Li Xun that several volunteers had gone into the city and were stuck in traffic on the way back, leaving a string of urgent tasks with no one to handle them.

As the school’s chief coordinator, Professor Lin shoved a stack of materials into Li Xun’s hands and said, frantic: “Get these competition entries logged in for me — I genuinely cannot spare myself right now.”

Li Xun scanned through the materials and found there was quite a lot to enter. Thinking of Li Lan waiting at the restaurant, he set the papers aside. “Find someone else to do it.”

Professor Lin glared at him. “If I had someone else, do you think I’d be asking you? You are my last resort!”

Li Xun smiled without any shame and was about to push back again when someone stepped over from the side. Fang Zhijing took the materials from Li Xun’s hands and addressed Professor Lin directly: “Sir, let me take care of it.”

Professor Lin recognized Fang Zhijing quickly enough — the events of two years ago at that competition had been too extraordinary to forget, and Fang Zhijing, as the one Li Xun had singled out, had left a particularly vivid impression.

Now the two of them were face to face again. Professor Lin felt a flicker of tension, though looking at the two parties themselves, neither seemed to be reacting in any particular way.

While Professor Lin was busy managing his own awkwardness, Fang Zhijing had already settled himself at the computer. He turned and asked: “Sir, do I just enter everything directly? Is there anything specific I should know?”

Professor Lin collected himself and immediately said: “No, no — you’re a guest here, we can’t have you doing this. We have people—” He reached out to grab Li Xun. Li Xun stepped back out of reach and said pleasantly: “Let him do it if he wants to. Saves me from seeing something I shouldn’t, and then my hands getting restless — that would be trouble.”

A cold chill ran down Professor Lin’s back; the sweat on his forehead nearly dripped. He stole a glance at Fang Zhijing, who was busy with the data entry and appeared not to have heard Li Xun’s remark.

Professor Lin pulled Li Xun aside and jabbed a finger at him.

“He came over out of goodwill to help. How can you say something like that to provoke him.”

Li Xun said: “None of the teams ahead of his have even finished testing their software yet. Why is he the one coming to help you, the judge?”

Professor Lin’s brow creased. “Stop being so cynical.”

Li Xun shrugged. “I’m heading out.”

“Don’t you dare!” Professor Lin snapped. “Go help me test all the machines. You don’t leave until you’ve confirmed every team’s software is running. Every single one.”

“…”

Li Xun checked the time, decided there was still enough of it, and stopped arguing with the old man. He turned and went to check the machines.

Professor Lin went back to Fang Zhijing’s side and, after a moment’s thought, offered a conciliatory word: “He’s always been like this — rough around the edges. Don’t take it to heart.”

Fang Zhijing looked up. “Please, sir, it’s ancient history. I stopped caring about it long ago.”

Professor Lin relaxed and sighed approvingly. “That’s the right attitude. Character and talent together — that’s what takes a person far. No matter how many times I say it to him, it doesn’t get through.”

Fang Zhijing said generously: “What happened before wasn’t entirely his fault. I came to recognize my own weaknesses because of it. He’s genuinely impressive, actually.”

Hearing this, Professor Lin felt a surge of warmth toward Fang Zhijing — what a broad-minded young man, holding no grudges whatsoever. He leaned in and said quietly: “I’ve looked at your team’s submission this year. It’s quite strong.”

Fang Zhijing looked a little modest. “Could you give us a bit more guidance?”

Professor Lin went through several points about the specifics of their entry. At the end, Fang Zhijing said: “Those are all genuine weak spots — thank you so much for pointing them out. I’d always heard this department produces exceptional talent. With someone like you guiding Li Xun, it’s no wonder his abilities are what they are.”

Professor Lin smiled. “Ah, his situation is its own thing.”

Fang Zhijing looked at him and said nothing.

Professor Lin couldn’t help himself — he launched into talking about Li Xun unprompted.

In daily life, Professor Lin yelled at Li Xun whenever he saw him, but everyone at the school who knew him well understood: by every measure, this one student outweighed the entire rest of the department put together in the old man’s heart. His fondness for Li Xun was so extravagant it might as well have been written on his forehead — he treated him like a son, and seized every opportunity to boast about him to anyone who would listen.

And so, once the mood struck him, Professor Lin talked without stopping — about what Li Xun was trying to build, about the company he planned to start, about the technical problems he had already solved, about the major manufacturers who had come seeking partnerships.

“The world truly belongs to your generation now,” Professor Lin said at last, his enthusiasm fully alight. “Your ideas, your capabilities, your nerve for throwing yourselves at things without hesitation — it’s nothing like what we were like back then.”

He was in the middle of his spirited monologue when Fang Zhijing, looking faintly apologetic, interrupted: “Sir… I’m sorry, I need to use the restroom for a moment. I drank too much water at lunch.”

“Of course, of course. Go ahead.”

Fang Zhijing rose, and in passing cast a glance — unconsciously or not — toward Li Xun, who was some distance away helping someone run a diagnostic on a machine. The look that crossed his face was dark and sharp-edged.

He walked to the restroom in silence. It was empty. He locked the door behind him, went to the sink, and ran cold water over his face, his whole body shaking with something that had nowhere to go.

His mind felt like it was crawling with ants — thousands of them, relentless. He tried to bring himself back to equilibrium and could not.

To watch someone you despise living in brilliant light — he couldn’t conceive of anything more excruciating in the entire world. The feeling was grinding him into something unrecognizable.

“Useless old fool…” he muttered through clenched teeth, eyes narrowed, venomous. “Not an ounce of discernment. No wonder he’s at this rank after all these years.”

The image of Li Xun’s contemptuous smile rose in his mind again, and something seized in his chest — even breathing became an effort. He shoved the window open in frustration, wanting cold air, and in doing so happened to catch sight of a shivering figure standing below.

Li Lan had lasted perhaps fifteen minutes inside the restaurant before coming back out.

The reason was that a server, noticing she hadn’t ordered anything, had come over to ask. The question startled her so much that she left — she had forgotten entirely that Li Xun had left her money.

The low fever had persisted for days. She hadn’t been able to eat anything, and the prolonged illness had left her body feeling weightless and insubstantial; whenever she stood up, the world tilted.

Li Lan stood outside the campus gate for quite a while before it occurred to her to call Li Xun. She fumbled her phone out with trembling hands — but the handset was old, and the cold had drained the battery in an instant; it died before she could dial.

At that moment, a kindhearted volunteer happened to pass by and guided her to the area outside the competition venue. Li Lan didn’t dare go inside, so she waited by the entrance. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough, and within those same fifteen minutes, the wind had numbed her to the bone. Her thoughts had become hazy; she could no longer tell whether what surrounded her was heat or cold.

On instinct, she moved toward the building, thinking to find a sheltered corner of the corridor where she could rest.

As she approached, someone came out.

He stopped in front of her and asked without ceremony: “Who let you in? Who are you here to see?”

His tone was cold, carrying the particular detachment of someone accustomed to city life. Li Lan felt a flicker of anxiety.

The man said, impatient: “I asked you — who are you here to see?”

Li Lan’s voice came out barely louder than breath. “My brother… I’m looking for my brother.”

“Ah. Your brother.”

He surveyed the surroundings. The campus was quiet — a holiday, and the paths were completely empty.

He said in a matter-of-fact tone: “They’re setting up the competition venue inside. No one is allowed to wander in. Are you a competition participant? Show me your entry pass.”

“A participant? No, no, I’m not—” His questions frightened her further. “I’m just here to find someone. I’m not competing, I’m not in the competition…”

Fang Zhijing regarded the woman in front of him with cold eyes.

Shabby. Self-effacing. Worn down. The kind of woman who made every man around her straighten up instinctively by contrast.

And this woman was Li Xun’s older sister —

Simply allowing himself to think it, the gnawing sensation from before eased, just slightly.

Fang Zhijing could see that Li Lan was seriously ill — barely coherent. He moved closer, unhurried, and said in a quieter voice: “Do you recognize me?”

Li Lan shook her head in a vague, unthinking way. The fever had her body floating; faces in front of her were blurred at the edges, let alone any capacity for recognition or recollection.

Fang Zhijing registered this and felt all remaining restraint fall away. “You can’t go inside. There are competition teams in there. If you wander in, you might disrupt the proceedings, and it would reflect very badly on your brother.”

Li Lan’s lips had gone pale. She trembled, helpless.

Fang Zhijing would have preferred her condition to be worse. He looked toward a deserted corner around the back of the building and said: “Go wait in that corner back there where no one can see you. Don’t let anyone notice you — it’ll only get in everyone’s way.”

Li Lan did not respond.

Fang Zhijing snapped: “Do you hear me? Move!”

All Li Lan understood was that someone was driving her away. A tremor ran through her, and she turned mechanically.

Fang Zhijing’s coat was inside. He had grown cold from even this brief exchange outdoors. Without another glance at her, he turned and went back in.

The sky above was a low, flat grey, sunless. A hard wind swept through, carrying fragments of dead grass from nowhere. The world looked murky and without shape.

Zhu Yun had been home for several days, and her head felt ready to split.

The longer she stayed, the worse it got — yet the situation couldn’t be left to drift forever. Something had to give.

Patiently, tirelessly, she explained to her mother what it was they were trying to build, what they were working toward, what they believed in. She wanted her mother to understand that this was not a whim. They hadn’t stumbled into this without a plan.

But her mother was a wall. Nothing got through. Whatever Zhu Yun said, her mother refused to accept it, finding objections from every angle and picking apart every corner she could reach.

Eventually Zhu Yun’s own temper ignited.

“Whether or not you accept it doesn’t matter anymore. My mind is made up, and it isn’t going to change.”

Her mother smiled. “You’re young. Don’t be so quick to use words like ‘absolutely’ and ‘never’ — words that leave you no way back. You’ll understand eventually just how naive you sound right now.”

Zhu Yun had never said a word to Li Xun about how her family felt. She had never wanted him involved in sorting it out. The company was beginning to find its footing, and beyond being his girlfriend, she was his partner in the work — she had always told herself that she was there to help him, not to bring him more problems.

Then, just when everything seemed to have locked into a standstill, something shifted.

One evening, without warning, her mother’s attitude changed entirely. She took a sudden interest in the company.

“Write up your development plans and projections for the next few years. A proper proposal. I’m going out tomorrow — I want to see the full details when I get back.”

Zhu Yun could barely believe she was hearing correctly. It felt like finding a path forward in what had seemed like a dead end. She shut herself away immediately and began compiling everything she could — not only the company’s future direction, but every project they had undertaken before, all of it gathered and organized.

Her mother, for her part, didn’t even wait for the next day. She said something brief to Zhu Guangyi, and left the house that same evening. Zhu Yun was so absorbed in the proposal that she didn’t notice.

Several days later, her mother returned. The moment she came through the door, Zhu Yun pressed the proposal into her hands — checked and rechecked up to the very last moment.

Her mother took it. She did not look at it. She set it aside.

She settled onto the sofa, brewed herself a cup of tea at her leisure, lifted the cup, and regarded her daughter for a long moment with an expression of quiet appraisal. Then she smiled, gently.

“Zhu Yun,” she said. “You’ve misjudged things again.”