Zhu Yun stumbled and scrambled her way back to the dormitory.
She opened the door, closed it, and leaned against it, catching her breath in ragged gasps.
Fang Shumiao turned her head and asked, “Why is your face so red?”
Zhu Yun was slow to respond. “From climbing the stairs…”
Zhu Yun didn’t read any more that night. She took a shower and went to bed early. In truth, Li Xun hadn’t done all that much — he had simply said that meaningful remark, and afterward carried on as if nothing had happened, opening his laptop and going about his business.
Of course, Zhu Yun couldn’t very well voluntarily “come clean” on her own initiative either. What if it was a trap he’d laid out, waiting for her to walk right into it? After all, the top scholar Li had a nimble mind and never liked to play by the rules.
But the excitement of tonight had been far too much. That night, Zhu Yun had a dream.
In the dream, they were in the same position as before — only this time, vertical had become horizontal. Zhu Yun lay on a narrow bed, and Li Xun was draped over her, his head turned to the side, his ear pressed against her chest, listening to her heartbeat.
The dream was very quiet. She lowered her head, unable to see his face — only his golden hair, gleaming brightly. She looked around and recognized the place: the tiny single room of Lihua Hotel where Li Xun had stayed when he came to find her during the New Year.
She quickly realized it was a dream and forced her eyes open. Sure enough, there was the pitch-black ceiling above her. In the deep stillness of the night, Zhu Yun covered her burning face with her hands, unable to fall back asleep.
---
The next day, Zhu Yun showed up to her meeting with Gao Jianhong with heavy dark circles under her eyes.
“I discussed it again with Professor Lin yesterday, and we’ve settled on this direction,” said Gao Jianhong, placing a pre-prepared document on the table. “‘A Host Defense System Based on Chip Virtualization Technology’ — take a look at the contents first.”
Zhu Yun and Wu Mengxing each picked up a copy and bent their heads to read.
“Hey, Li Xun, help us take a look too.” Gao Jianhong turned and called out to the top scholar. “Li Xun! Hey!”
Zhu Yun quietly glanced sideways toward the back-left corner of the room. Li Xun was facing his computer screen but not typing. His expression was distant, as though he were lost in thought.
Gao Jianhong called out several times in a row before Li Xun finally came back to his senses. He cast a brief glance over, and Zhu Yun quickly turned her head away.
Li Xun said nothing — he simply crooked a finger. Gao Jianhong tossed the document over to him.
Today was already Friday. The concert was the day after tomorrow.
Those tickets were definitely bought for Li Lan. And then what — was he planning to take her?
They got through the day quietly.
On Saturday, Zhu Yun and Gao Jianhong brought Wu Mengxing along to Professor Lin’s office to work on the competition project, spending the entire morning cooped up there.
Although Wu Mengxing was extremely excited to be participating in the competition and showed tremendous enthusiasm, his abilities still fell considerably short compared to Gao Jianhong’s and Zhu Yun’s. He spent a very long time trying to make sense of the system monitoring logs.
Gao Jianhong and Professor Lin walked him through the material while Zhu Yun stood to one side. She appeared to be listening, but her mind had already wandered far away.
Once Wu Mengxing finally grasped the content, they all returned to the base. Li Xun was in his seat, writing code.
Zhu Yun glanced toward his feet. The bag with the concert tickets was still sitting there.
Had Li Lan left already, or was she still waiting nearby for him?
---
At last, Sunday arrived. Zhu Yun came to the base early in the morning to find Li Xun still hunched in his chair, tapping away at the keyboard. His eyes were streaked with red — he had clearly been at it all night — yet his expression was fairly relaxed.
It was still early. The entire classroom held only the two of them.
Zhu Yun walked over and asked, “You didn’t go back last night?”
Li Xun ignored her.
Zhu Yun looked at him. “Have you grown into that chair?”
Li Xun remained as if he hadn’t heard a word.
Zhu Yun looked at the screen. Lines of code appeared in a steady, rhythmic stream — no corrections, not even a pause for thought, as precise as if they were being generated automatically by a machine.
He had focused every bit of his attention here.
This way, he didn’t have to think about anything else.
Zhu Yun quietly returned to her own seat and waited for Gao Jianhong and Wu Mengxing to arrive.
When Wu Mengxing came in, he looked deflated. “I’m sorry… I didn’t finish it.” When they had parted ways the evening before, Gao Jianhong had assigned him some tasks.
“It’s fine — show me what you’ve done, and we’ll take a look.” Gao Jianhong said. Wu Mengxing pulled up his program, and Zhu Yun went over for a glance. The code was an absolute mess.
It was clear Wu Mengxing had done a great deal of work, but he had bitten off more than he could chew. He had tried to incorporate numerous advanced algorithms, yet lacked the ability to integrate them cohesively. By the end, the entire program was scattered and disjointed, each function operating independently as though each were a separate faction — fragmented beyond repair.
Gao Jianhong studied it with a furrowed brow. Wu Mengxing stood beside him, his face flushed red. “I’ll… I’ll fix it again.”
“It’s not easy to fix this,” Gao Jianhong said. “Better to rewrite it.”
Wu Mengxing clenched his teeth and bowed his head without a word.
Gao Jianhong looked up from the screen, and when he saw Wu Mengxing’s expression, he smiled. “Don’t be nervous — it’s all right.”
“I’m afraid I’ll drag you all down…” Wu Mengxing said quietly.
Gao Jianhong spoke in an easy tone: “This isn’t a question of ability — you just got too caught up in trying to use flashy techniques. A program doesn’t need to be complicated. Code exists to serve the function. In fact, most of the time, simpler means more robust. Keep that in mind. You have the ability — just don’t lose sight of what matters most.”
Zhu Yun looked over at Gao Jianhong.
Unlike Li Xun, who was a prodigiously gifted genius, Gao Jianhong was more grounded. He didn’t have Li Xun’s sharp edges, and he was far more willing to accommodate others.
In truth, she didn’t think she had ever met anyone more stubbornly single-minded than Li Xun.