Chapter 1

*Moon-Chasing Diary*
“They say the closest star to us is Proxima Centauri, 4.22 light-years from Earth. A wish we make needs at least nine years to come true, so when you place an order with the universe, you have to be patient.”①
“In the tenth year, if I become the brightest star…”
“Will your gaze pause for me, even just for a moment?”
— *Moon-Chasing Diary*
-
Late summer. The city lights had just come on.
At the biennial Golden Bell Awards, stars gathered and the spotlight blazed. Media outlets and fan-site photographers had squatted on-site early, lugging long lenses like artillery.
On the red carpet, beauty bloomed everywhere; “a riot of spring” wouldn’t have been an exaggeration.
Suddenly, the scene began to stir. Someone in the crowd shouted first—
“—Qin Sang.”
It was like a clever passcode. Cameras around them pivoted in unison. The moment Qin Sang appeared in frame, the carnival feast hit its peak.
She strolled in with a rose in hand. A champagne-colored fringe gown traced a slim waist and long legs just right; thin silver chains lay against her narrow shoulder blades. Black hair, red lips—and beneath her eyelid, a faint tear mole tempered the heaviness of her rich features.
She pinched the rose’s stamen lightly, lowered her gaze toward the lens, and smiled. The vivid color on her fingertips seemed to dye the corners of her eyes and brows as well.
A little more would be vulgar; a little less would be too cold.
Coolness and richness—perfectly balanced.
Clearly, tonight’s queen had arrived.
The “pinching-a-flower and smiling” gif didn’t even need effort to top trending. Not only did it cause a huge commotion; the Golden Bell livestream outright crashed. It took fifteen minutes of emergency repairs to barely bring it back.
As the hot favorite for Best Actress tonight, Qin Sang’s attention was a given. Ten years since debut, she’d produced a strong work almost every three years. Her star luck had soared nonstop—yet award luck always seemed to fall just a little short.
Nominated three times for Golden Bell Best Actress, each time one step from the summit, and each time she left with regret, missing the throne.
Tonight’s ceremony was just as appetite-whetting.
The other nominee that year, Liang Tingwan, was no lightweight either. She hadn’t debuted as long as Qin Sang, but as a rising star she was formidable—charging into this Shura field of fame and fortune like a dark horse.
Even more intriguing: at the start of her career, Liang Tingwan had modeled herself after Qin Sang. Their looks and personas overlapped so much that for a long time after Liang debuted, she couldn’t shake the label “Little Qin Sang.”
Only in the last three years—when Qin Sang’s momentum waned and Liang Tingwan surged as the next big thing, faintly overtaking her—did the six-year entanglement fade from the public eye.
But tonight, that feud—aged for three years—was dragged back out. The secret tug-of-war became open, blade-on-blade slaughter. This smoke-filled invisible war was, undeniably, a spectacle.
“So tonight, who will the Golden Bell Best Actress crown fall to?”
The host clearly knew what he was doing. He paused meaningfully; the camera switched with the same intent, sweeping the audience seats one by one.
Liang Tingwan’s smile was poised and generous. Her booming career in recent years gave her confidence; her brows and eyes carried a calm arrogance—as if she’d already decided the award was hers.
When the camera swept to Qin Sang, the shot visibly shook.
She rested her left hand against her chin. Dark lashes gathered the faint glow of the screen. Compared with her dazzling red-carpet radiance, she now looked like a pearl after the powder was washed away—softly luminous.
How were they similar?
Viewers in front of the screen and the cameraman behind it raised the same question.
Liang Tingwan’s features looked sharper, more aggressive. With her sky-high luck these two years, fame had fed her; her already upturned eye shape now looked even more forceful, faintly revealing a domineering edge.
Qin Sang was different. Though her face was the “rich beauty” type, her proportions were more balanced, and her features carried an Oriental softness—gentle and slightly blunt. Her contours flowed smoothly; the tear mole on her eyelid looked like an ink drop that fell by accident, reducing the arrogance such intense brows and eyes could suggest.
And she was unflustered. She looked absentminded—or genuinely indifferent. Her finger scrolled aimlessly across the screen, as if her mind wasn’t in this battle at all. She didn’t even notice the live camera had switched to her.
What was she looking at so intently?
The cameraman controlled the crane and, without drawing attention, zoomed in on the phone screen.
Only two seconds—just enough for a quick sweep. The screen went dark; the phone flipped over.
When the camera reluctantly tilted up, Qin Sang smiled sweetly into the lens, lifted a finger to her lips in a “shh,” then winked one eye. Lively and playful, like she was secretly saying, “That’s our little secret—please don’t spread it.”
The cameraman took a direct hit. Viewers behind the screen were ambushed by that sugary wink too.
But unfortunately, it was already too late: “Qin Sang slacking off on her phone at the awards” still went viral.
And the moment the camera swept the phone screen was saved instantly by quick-eyed netizens.
With the thought of “Let me see what could possibly distract a gorgeous celebrity so much she zones out at an awards show,” they kept enlarging the screenshot.
It was fine until they zoomed in.
After they zoomed in… netizens and fans alike fell silent.
_
An endless Gobi Desert—desolate and vast. Sandstorm winds. Huge day-night temperature swings. It didn’t get dark until ten at night; in the near-dusk, the moon climbed the sky soundlessly, and little by little, stars filled the night.
In this uninhabited place, an aerospace research station carried out ground integrated power experiments and wilderness survival simulation training.
The Gobi—people rare as hens’ teeth. Silence all around, except for the occasional distant wolf howl. During breaks, entertainment options were even more limited; signal basebands were spotty at best.
When a new push notification arrived, He Chengyu glanced at it while stealing a moment.
#QinSangAerospace#
Qin Sang? Who was that? Seeing “aerospace,” He Chengyu clicked in, puzzled. After reading, he finally understood.
So a female celebrity named Qin Sang had been caught secretly scrolling her phone at the awards show—and what she was reading was aerospace-related news. That became the linked keyword and shoved her onto trending.
The topic feed even had a forwarded on-site video. After she was accidentally caught zoning out, she gave the audience a cute, playful wink.
The barrage exploded with “awsl.” The flutter of her lashes seemed to wink straight into his heart. He Chengyu’s face slowly reddened; even his ears burned.
Across from him, Song Ziyue watched the whole thing. Seeing He Chengyu breathing fast and blushing, he frowned suspiciously. “He Chengyu, you little punk—you’re not watching something shady, are you?”
He Chengyu held the phone like it was a hot potato. Like his butt was on fire, he sprang up and cursed, “Get lost.”
“Not shady, huh.” Song Ziyue shrugged, lazy grin on. “Then why are you so worked up? Unless I hit the mark?”
Before He Chengyu could answer, Song Ziyue’s sloppy posture snapped into propriety. He stood and looked past him. “Director Chen. Boss.”
Only then did He Chengyu turn. Two people had walked out one after the other and were standing not far away. Director Chen was still giving instructions: “Test again after modifying the data.”
Then he looked at the young man before him—slim yet upright. The same black uniform looked unusually refined on him: like an unsheathed blade, cold and sharp; like a thin crescent moon hung high, aloof and indifferent.
Director Chen thought highly of the young man and knew the future would belong to their generation. He patted his shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged. Failure is common.”
Xie Yuncheng didn’t talk much. “I understand, Director Chen.”
“As for your father’s matter…”
Director Chen stopped, hesitant. Just then Song Ziyue called from afar. Seeing both Song Ziyue and He Chengyu there, Director Chen swallowed the rest and said no more.
After Director Chen left, Song Ziyue and He Chengyu finally dared to come closer. Song Ziyue glanced at Director Chen’s back and asked, puzzled, “Boss, what was Director Chen saying?”
“About the data,” Xie Yuncheng answered lightly. Then, even more lightly: “What are you two arguing about?”
Song Ziyue’s brows knit, then relaxed. Half-joking: “Oh, He Chengyu was watching something—his face got red and his neck got thick. I was just kindly reminding him not to get too excited, so he doesn’t embarrass himself.”
“Bullshit!” He Chengyu exploded instantly. “Quit spreading rumors about me.”
“Boss,” He Chengyu flipped his phone to prove innocence. “I didn’t watch anything. I just looked at this—some female celebrity.”
Song Ziyue, ever unserious, grinned teasingly. “Let me see—what female celebrity has our little He so emotionally compromised?”
He Chengyu opened the topic video. After a brief buffer, the image appeared; the award presenter’s powerful voice came through the phone.
“I hereby announce the winner of the 26th Golden Bell Best Actress is—”
“—Qin Sang.”
Before you saw her, you heard the crowd.
The roaring cheers proved just how beloved she was—well deserved.
Even through the screen, you could feel the audience’s passion—life force surging.
When her figure appeared in the camera, on the far end of the screen—
Screams and shouts rose without end.
Xie Yuncheng lowered his eyes. The screen was packed with bullet comments, dense enough to nearly cover her face.
Ten years—an unexpected reunion.
She had become the superstar everyone watched.
And here, in this place cut off from the world.
Separated by mountains and seas; separated by the vast Milky Way.
There was no doubt—
she had become the brightest star.