“Princess — the development of computers and networks has transformed the way people live. What do you think the underlying reason for that is? What’s at the core of it?”
Zhu Yun’s ear felt like it was going to catch fire. She pressed herself closer into his chest.
“I don’t know…”
You’re talking like this and you expect me to think?
“It’s the integration and circulation of information,” Li Xun said.
Yes, yes. Whatever you say.
His fingers moved, quiet and slow.
“The human body is itself an enormous model — the systems inside it interact in structured, patterned ways. But I looked into it, and more than ninety percent of the data sitting in medical institutions right now is just gathering dust in back-end storage. If we could scientifically consolidate all that wasted clinical data, and design some method of feeding it back to less experienced doctors to help guide their diagnostic decisions — that would be worth incomparably more than building some kind of medical chat application. Don’t you think?”
He was asking for her opinion. Zhu Yun did her best to respond coherently. “…I can’t speak to other people’s human bodies, but I think yours is fairly remarkable.”
“Be specific.”
“You seem to be running two separate operating systems in one body.”
One governing the mind. One governing everything else. One rigorous, one entirely otherwise. Each attending to its own domain without interference.
Li Xun laughed soundlessly.
In the midst of all this, Zhu Yun somehow found enough of her mind to actually think — and after a few minutes, she asked: “The data — where would we get it? Can hospitals share across institutions? Their data formats probably aren’t standardized either. And what method would we use to consolidate it — numerical, something else — and on top of that—”
“Alright, alright, settle down.” Li Xun cut her off. “It’s just a concept. Think about all that and neither of us is sleeping tonight.”
If you’d move your hand, I’d settle down immediately.
But the sleepiness was gone entirely from Zhu Yun’s mind. She directed everything she had toward what Li Xun had just laid out.
As he’d said himself — this was still only a concept. Even raising it loosely produced an immediate flood of questions.
From rough to precise. From the broad vision down through layer after layer of detail. It would involve algorithms, data architecture, medical knowledge frameworks — any single element picked at random would require endless testing, enormous time, enormous effort. And yet…
Zhu Yun felt that this was something worth doing. This direction had a quality that made you want to follow it further. She thought of a line from the classical essay she’d memorized in middle school, Record of the Peach Blossom Spring —
The mountain had a small opening, and through it filtered what seemed to be light.
That was what his words gave her. Exactly that.
It was still only a beginning. But Zhu Yun had always been a strong student, and she had a sensitivity for things within her field. She had long since noticed how intently Li Xun paid attention to information and data.
As the network age progressed, the speed at which information expanded was becoming staggering — everyone could feel it. But very few people had paused to ask what it actually meant: all that data, scattered in fragments across countless corners of the world — what was the significance of it? What changes might it bring to how people lived?
Two years later, a major international management consulting firm, having recognized the latent value buried in the ocean of information accumulating across the internet, would invest enormous resources in a research effort that concluded with the publication of what became known as one of the landmark reports in the history of the internet — the famous “Big Data Report.”
The concept of big data was not new, but that was the moment it entered mainstream attention — first in finance, then gradually spreading across industry after industry.
But none of that mattered yet. Zhu Yun was nowhere near thinking on that scale. In that small rented room, in that small bed, her mind was full of one thing only: how to help him take the first step.
While she was still deep in thought, Li Xun, on his end, drifted off and fell asleep against her.
So Zhu Yun let her thinking go too, and her attention shifted.
She loved watching him sleep. She had her own private comparison for the process — she called it “warming the shrimp,” after the way shrimp curl slowly when they hit heat. He always fell asleep gradually, his body drawing inward by degrees, until before long his face would slide from the pillow and that long frame would be curved like a crescent moon, as guileless and unguarded as anyone she had ever seen.
---
With a direction in hand, life grew busier still.
Zhu Yun had a long conversation with Gao Jianhong and asked him what he was planning for his future. He said he was still thinking it through.
Two years as classmates had given Zhu Yun a reasonable sense of his family’s situation — his parents were both ordinary salaried workers, comfortable enough but nothing remarkable.
Gao Jianhong said he was torn. Continuing academically meant either a postgraduate recommendation or going abroad, but he also wanted to step into the working world and start earning properly.
Li Xun wasn’t present for the conversation. Gao Jianhong asked: “Do you think practical experience matters more in our field, or theory?”
“Both, I’d say.”
“Then why are you following Li Xun’s path?”
Zhu Yun gave a dry laugh. “My situation probably shouldn’t count as part of this discussion.”
Gao Jianhong smiled too. “Fair enough.” Then he said: “Since we’re already talking about post-campus life, let’s set aside the classmate relationship for a moment. Give it to me straight — what is he actually planning to do?”
Zhu Yun told him honestly: “He won’t be pursuing postgraduate study. He’s been laying groundwork for a while. He’ll probably start moving toward setting up a company next year.”
“Next year?” Gao Jianhong blinked. “Not waiting until after graduation?”
“Depends on how things develop.”
“Has he found investors? Does he have startup capital?”
“He does.”
And quite a bit of it, too.
There are real advantages to having a friend with money.
Gao Jianhong frowned, thinking hard. Zhu Yun understood his dilemma — if he committed to following Li Xun’s path, what came next would consume him so completely that the options of studying abroad or pursuing a postgraduate recommendation would simply cease to exist as realistic possibilities.
She looked toward the window. Winter had arrived. The cold seemed to have sealed everything in a precise, unsentimental shell, and the atmosphere felt oddly suited to conversations like this one.
“I know he’s exceptionally capable,” Gao Jianhong said at last, quietly. “But he can also be reckless. I’ll be honest — he can be arrogant about it. Working with the few of us has been manageable, but the bigger the team gets, the more likely that becomes a problem.” He glanced at Zhu Yun. “He’s been better about it since you two got together, but if you weren’t there someday, he might—”
Zhu Yun interrupted without thinking twice. “That’s not going to happen.”
Gao Jianhong said nothing.
Zhu Yun looked at him steadily. “Gao Jianhong, this affects your future and I’m not in a position to push you in either direction. But there’s one thing I want to say.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not only his girlfriend. I’m also the person with the highest grade point average in this class.”
He looked at her. Zhu Yun held his gaze, her expression composed and unhurried.
“My choice to follow him isn’t based on love alone.”