That afternoon, Zhu Yun returned to campus. Stepping out of the taxi, she felt a touch self-conscious — her outfit was far too formal for a leisurely summer campus.
Fortunately it was the break period, and there were hardly any people around. Zhu Yun crept toward the hotel like a thief trying not to be seen. She hadn’t worn heels in a long time, and new ones at that — her feet were miserable, and by the end of the short walk, she’d already rubbed half the skin off her heels.
The building was oddly quiet. Zhu Yun made it back to her room without encountering a single soul.
Her room was empty too — her senior had gone off somewhere. Zhu Yun was just starting to find this strange when she sat on the bed to pull off her shoes and, halfway through the process, suddenly remembered that today was the day of the competition award ceremony.
“…”
She couldn’t help giving herself a silent scolding. Not a single useful thought in her head.
It was already nearly two o’clock. The ceremony was probably wrapping up soon. She had no idea what the final outcome had been for their group.
Zhu Yun noticed she wasn’t the least bit nervous — she didn’t even care about the competition results. Whether they’d won a prize or been handed a penalty was completely irrelevant to her right now. Her head was entirely full of those flighty, rosy schemes of hers.
This is exactly how people go astray in life.
Her phone had died and switched itself off. She set it to charge, turned the air conditioning to its lowest setting, and decided that given the way she was dressed, she had no business showing up at the ceremony hall — besides, the others would be back soon enough.
With that settled, she lay back down to rest.
The room was quiet. Outside the window, sunlight poured down brilliantly.
What a gentle and lovely afternoon.
Zhu Yun gazed at the scene beyond the window. She hadn’t slept properly in several nights. Now, with her mind completely blank, she found herself drifting off as she looked — and simply fell asleep.
She slept so deeply the world ceased to exist. When she finally opened her eyes, the sky had already dimmed.
For a moment Zhu Yun had no idea where she was. Then, as consciousness returned, she was gripped by a sense of impending catastrophe.
What time is it?!
Zhu Yun half-fell out of bed to check the clock. Six-thirty. She scrambled to grab her phone from the nightstand — fully charged now — and switched it on. A text message from her senior popped up first:
“Competition’s over! We went straight to the dinner gathering. Couldn’t reach you, so we headed off on our own. Congratulations — first place!”
What — what — what’s going on…
The message contained far too much information. Zhu Yun stared at it with glazed eyes.
Over. Dinner. First place.
How on earth had she slept like the dead through all of that?
Zhu Yun clawed at her hair in distress — then remembered she’d paid a small fortune for this updo, and jerked her hand back.
She noticed there were over a dozen missed calls as well. She opened the log with some trepidation: two from Gao Jianhong, one from her senior, one from old Lin — and the rest, all from Li Xun.
She was one breath away from the grave.
Zhu Yun pressed her hand over her chest to steady her heartbeat, then called back.
No answer.
Gone to meet his maker, then.
At a restaurant nearby, the students had just finished ordering and were seated around the table, chatting while waiting for the food to arrive.
Old Lin had a teacup in front of him that he hadn’t touched — he was too busy delivering a focused reprimand to the person beside him.
“You got lucky this time — you happened to have Professor Wang on your side! He’s a distinguished professor the school brought in, and he carries enormous weight. It was entirely because he went to bat for you that you escaped any punishment!”
Li Xun sat beside him, leaning back in his chair with a blank expression, staring at the complimentary dish of salted radish with a thoroughly dark look on his face.
He was clearly in a foul mood. Anyone could see it. Everyone assumed it was because of old Lin’s scolding.
Gao Jianhong, sitting next to Li Xun, leaned over and asked old Lin, “Teacher Lin, why was that professor willing to defend us?”
“Why do you think? A man of Professor Wang’s standing — he’s seen every kind of unusual student you could imagine! Do you have any idea that because of what you pulled, the expert panel and the sponsors nearly came to blows last night?!”
Gao Jianhong shrank back into his seat.
Old Lin turned his gaze to the person beside him — the very individual at the center of this whole affair — who had been staring fixedly at the salted radish dish throughout and had shown absolutely no reaction to any of it.
As the supervising teacher, old Lin had been brought in to attend the meeting where the matter was handled. It was entirely thanks to Professor Wang that Li Xun’s group had been spared any penalty and allowed to continue competing. Afterward, old Lin had gone to find Professor Wang to express his gratitude, and the professor had said the following:
“To have pulled this off, the student must be exceptionally sharp. He certainly knew that doing something like this would be thankless work — that he’d make enemies, and that the sponsors might even penalize him. Yet he did it anyway. Why?”
Professor Wang smiled and said, “Because he’s young. Pushing back against injustice is something young people are born knowing how to do. And there’s a boldness in him — let me put it broadly: every emerging field needs people who are willing to step outside established frameworks. They don’t just challenge what’s known — they challenge what’s unknown. What many of our students lack today is not intelligence, but the courage to face the unknown in pursuit of their own goals and convictions.”
“I remember asking him at the time why he did it, and he said it was because of love. I don’t think he was joking.” Professor Wang’s smile grew warmer. “As a teacher myself — how could I possibly stand in the way of a student’s love?”
Even so, Professor Wang had left old Lin with one final caution: “That said, this student is a little too sharp-edged. If he keeps going like this, he’ll come to grief sooner or later. He needs to be tempered.”
Old Lin had sat with that thought ever since.
And at this very moment, the student whom the professor had described as possessing such remarkable “boldness” was busy radiating a low-pressure front from his seat at the table.
Gao Jianhong nudged him with an elbow. “Hey — your phone’s been buzzing non-stop.”
Li Xun said nothing.
“Answer it. It’s probably Zhu Yun waking up.”
Li Xun let out a cold laugh and remained an immovable fixture. Gao Jianhong knew his temperament well enough — he offered a couple of words of persuasion, then gave up.
The phone rang over a dozen times before Li Xun finally rose unhurriedly from his seat and headed outside. Gao Jianhong watched his retreating back with a knowing smile.