Chapter 16

*Moon-Chasing Diary*
“A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boy is flamboyant and free—like a midsummer-night poem: its heat never dies, its romance never dies. Youthful spirit, ambition reaching the clouds.”
— *Moon-Chasing Diary*
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When they arrived, it was right at mealtime. The restaurant was packed. If Shen Yi hadn’t been a regular and called the owner in advance, they probably would’ve had to wait two hours to get in. But since they hadn’t made a proper reservation to hold a table, only one last-room remained—small, close to the back kitchen. They could even hear the messy footsteps in the corridor. The kitchen was in full swing, spatulas knocking the edge of woks with clanks and clatters.
So when exactly had he come in? No one noticed. At this moment, even the noisy chatter was slowly blurred away. It was as if the world had been put on mute—she couldn’t hear anything.
He was close. When he looked down at her with those thin lids lowered, his gaze was clear and focused. Qin Sang stalled; her breathing unconsciously lightened, a helpless panic rising in her limbs.
Luckily—one second before she felt she might suffocate, he withdrew his gaze and, with effortless naturalness, pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.
The last-room was small to begin with, space cramped. Good thing there weren’t many of them—otherwise they might not even have fit. When he sat, the metal zipper of his jacket accidentally brushed her, grazing across the back of her hand—cool, slightly icy.
Qin Sang said nothing, only covered the back of her hand.
Whether intentionally or not, Shen Yi laughed. “Xie God’s charm hasn’t diminished at all.”
Qin Sang’s heart jolted. She instinctively lifted her eyes toward the opposite side. Shen Yi wore glasses, eyes bright. The curve of his smile was very “official,” but it still carried a faintly unreadable meaning.
“Not bad—only a tiny bit worse than me back then,” Zhou Yihong stroked his chin. “In high school I was way more popular than Junior Xie. It’s just that I picked the wrong major in college and got tortured into looking a little haggard. Otherwise, would this ‘top courtesan’ title have fallen to him?”
“If we’re talking thick skin,” Xie Yuncheng seemed in a good mood and even joked. Relaxed, he replied evenly, “Senior Zhou is naturally unmatched.”
“Don’t you doubt it. Back in high school I was a famous ‘campus heartthrob’ at our affiliated school,” Zhou Yihong said.
Shen Yi stabbed: “Goosegrass is still grass.”
“You little brat—have to argue with me?” Zhou Yihong yelped, pulling out his phone to flip photos. “Look. As if I was never young.”
He actually found their high school graduation photo. He wasn’t lying—back then he did look good. He was northern, tall, fair—an advantage. He stood out in a crowd.
Zhou Yihong got nostalgic. “In high school, girls wrote me so many love letters. If I hadn’t chosen the wrong major and wasted four years in college, with this face of mine—forget anything else—I’d have been more than qualified to be the male lead in an idol drama. Absolutely not worse than Junior Xie.”
Wasn’t there a saying—set fires and kill in your last life, study civil engineering in this one?
Zhou Yihong really had been bewitched. When he filled out his major preferences, his head heated up and he got talked into civil engineering. After that he ran construction sites every day, circling under the blazing sun until his face peeled a layer and he grew rougher.
He couldn’t stand being dusty on a jobsite all day. It wasn’t his ambition. That was why he gave up his school’s guaranteed recommendation slot and buried his head to take the entrance exams for Tsinghua. Who would’ve thought he’d just climbed out of one pit and fell into an even deeper one?
Anyway, he’d lived muddleheaded. No grand aspirations. Only after thirty did he understand what he actually wanted to do.
Shen Yi glanced at the photo and twisted the knife. “Time is a butcher’s knife—on Senior Zhou it’s displayed to perfection.”
Zhou Yihong cursed with a laugh. “Get lost.”
Shen Yi, calm as ever, suddenly added, “I think, Senior Zhou, you’re not convincing. If you compare, you can’t use yourself at your best.”
“Fine.” Zhou Yihong refused to lose. He turned and called out, “Teacher Qin. You’re neutral, and you were high school classmates with Junior Xie. Tell the truth—what was Junior Xie like in high school? Was he this showy too?”
Qin Sang froze at the question. Her mind drifted far away.
In high school, Xie Yuncheng was heaven’s favored. In No.1 High, he was the lone towering presence. For three years, he’d held first place on the grade honor board without ever being replaced.
At that time, No.1 High was Jingcheng’s key high school. Every year the acceptance rate to “first-tier” universities was as high as 99.5%. Especially for Tsinghua and Peking University, the acceptance rate reached around ten percent nationwide—those who got into those schools from Jingcheng were almost all No.1 High students. That was why there was that popular slogan: “Step through No.1 High’s gate, and one foot is already through the gate of Tsinghua and Peking.”
But No.1 High’s cutoff was high, and its admission criteria strict. Besides students who advanced directly from the affiliated middle school, it mainly admitted middle-schoolers within the district. That year, after approval from the Education Bureau, it reformed and expanded enrollment, bringing in many top exam scorers from nearby counties and cities. Qin Sang was admitted to Jingcheng No.1 High at that time.
Back then, she lived in a small county town near Jingcheng—Ningjiang County. Her middle-school grades were actually good. She was a little lopsided in subjects, but overall she ranked near the top. On the entrance exam she even overperformed and, by a subtle point margin, became that year’s Ningjiang exam top scorer.
Qin Dahai was a local contractor. Their family’s conditions in a small county town were actually decent. Qin Dahai never forced her, never pressured her. He always said, “Grades aren’t important. The most important thing is my daughter is happy. Studying is to become virtuous and polite. Scores don’t matter.”
He said that—but when he learned she’d become top scorer and was admitted to Jingcheng No.1 High, he was so happy his mouth couldn’t close. He threw a banquet in Ningjiang’s biggest restaurant for three days straight, telling everyone: “Yeah, my girl got into No.1 High. That’s right, Jingcheng’s No.1 High. They say if you enter No.1 High, it’s like one foot is already through Tsinghua and Peking’s gate.”
Ningjiang was small, but people were closer and more easygoing than in big cities. Others laughed along. “Then congratulations to Sang-sang! Such a promising girl. Ningjiang might produce a female top scholar. Congrats, Old Qin—Sang-sang is Tsinghua/Peking reserve. You’ll enjoy blessings.”
Qin Dahai was flattered into floating. Qin Sang was full of longing too. But only after she truly entered that “devil No.1 High” did she learn: there’s always someone beyond you, always a sky beyond your sky.
Because she was Ningjiang’s top scorer, she was assigned to the experimental class. Almost half the class were local Jingcheng students—many from No.1 High’s affiliated middle school.
There was no need to ask around. Among top students, the favorite topic was scores. And the entrance exam score wasn’t secret. The exam paper was unified citywide; difficulty was the same. Only then did she realize her score—here in the experimental class—was barely worth looking at. She was bottom.
Others complained about where they shouldn’t have lost points. When they exchanged scores, they frequently mentioned one name: Xie Yuncheng.
That was the first time she heard it.
Xie Yuncheng wasn’t like her. He was local Jingcheng, a direct-advance student. He was practically guaranteed admission into No.1 High. They said he’d participated in competitions since elementary school. Math, physics, chemistry Olympiads—he’d won plenty of provincial and city awards. And in ninth grade, he took part in the “Beidou Cup” National Youth Aerospace Technology Competition and won a national first prize. Even now, the award photo was still posted on the middle-school bulletin board.
But on the first day of school, she didn’t see him. They said he’d been in a car accident during summer vacation and was still recuperating in the hospital, so he took leave and delayed the semester start. He didn’t attend military training. Not until after the month-long training ended, at the freshman assembly, did he appear as the new-student representative at the opening ceremony.
At that time, his hand hadn’t fully healed. His right hand was in a cast. He didn’t wear the uniform; he wore a gray hoodie, looking like he’d been dragged from home half-asleep just to make up numbers. He stood on the podium, posture upright yet oddly giving off a rebellious casualness.
He lowered his eyes to the prepared script only twice, then flipped it over and pressed it on the podium.
He spoke lazily: “You’ve heard enough pretty ‘occasion talk.’ I don’t want to ladle chicken-soup either. There are no shortcuts in studying. If you want to gain, you must first work hard. Of course, hard work doesn’t mean you’ll definitely get returns.”
“But—”
His tone shifted. Those eyes that looked cold and tired suddenly lifted—sharp, yet not cutting.
“If you don’t work hard, you won’t even have a chance at success.”
“All that’s past is prologue. Walk barefoot toward what your heart points to. In the next three years, I hope everyone learns for themselves. After all, you’re the masters of your own lives. What kind of future you want depends on how you struggle for it.”
“Still—this world is placed before us expecting us to create, not to repeat.”①
“If you don’t unfold your ambitions, you’ll waste your boyhood spirit. No matter how winds surge and waves roar in the future, we should face it head-on—ride the wind, strike the open sky; step the waves, break through clouds.”
His voice was clear yet decisive. Through the microphone, those words swept across the entire field.
Just entering high school, everyone was lost and timid, nervous and helpless about the future.
But Xie Yuncheng was like a fearless pioneer—always rational, awake, independent. With a few plain words he parted the fog and pointed to the heart.
Yes. When they set foot on the road, people around them constantly reminded them: high school—work harder, strive more, make your parents and teachers proud on the gaokao.
They were like taut strings, like bows pulled full. With one more push, the arrow on the string would lose control and shoot out.
Only he—that boy who looked unruly yet unusually clean—stood under the bright sky, calm and indifferent, telling them: their effort was for themselves, for the future they wanted.
“Ride the wind, strike the open sky; step the waves, break through clouds.”
The boy’s ambition soared; his spirit was high.
That was the first time she saw Xie Yuncheng. A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boy was flamboyant and free—like a midsummer-night poem: its heat never dies, its romance never dies. Youthful spirit, ambition reaching the clouds.
…
Qin Sang pondered for a long time and chose a relatively objective, compromise answer. “Classmate Xie was very popular in high school. A lot of people liked him.”
And she was just the most insignificant one in the dull crowd.
Most students at No.1 High were local Jingcheng—well-off families, dazzling grades. She was from a small county town. In front of true favored sons of heaven, she was only a grain of sand.
Back then, she had just arrived in Jingcheng. She didn’t know the environment. She couldn’t adapt to No.1 High’s elite, wolf-like education methods. Besides concentrated monthly exams and the midterm and final, there were weekly Friday tests—let alone the occasional pop quizzes.
Under that high pressure, she couldn’t breathe. Her grades plummeted. She already had a subject imbalance. Becoming top scorer was only luck mixed with her strong humanities. She lost fewer points there. In English she only lost two points to careless grammar. Her Chinese exam’s perfect-score essay even became a model. But she was weak in math, physics, chemistry—especially math. A subject requiring flexible thinking and strong logic was her fatal weakness.
In middle school she could barely keep up. She didn’t lose too many points. But after entering No.1 High, difficulty rose. And the experimental class was full of top students. She’d taken her first step, and others were already near the finish line. What they discussed often exceeded high-school scope.
Pressure slowly pressed in. She couldn’t keep up. Naturally, distance opened. On her first monthly exam she was barely okay. By midterms, her rank dropped to the bottom—precarious, almost kicked out of the experimental class.
She couldn’t bear the pressure. She hid on the rooftop, crying secretly while calling Qin Dahai. She wanted to go back to Ningjiang. But on the phone she heard Qin Dahai happily ask, “Baby, why’d you think of calling Dad? Not enough spending money?”
Qin Dahai was still at a construction site. Background noise was loud—excavators roaring, deafening. Qin Dahai was honest and warm. The workers all knew him. Hearing him on the phone, they asked, “Old Qin, is your daughter calling? Your daughter is amazing. Our Xiao Yan said she’s become a role model at their school. Their homeroom teacher still uses her as an example to encourage new students. You’re something else—raised such a smart girl.”
Qin Dahai’s pride-tail practically shot to the sky. He replied joyfully, “Of course. My girl isn’t like me—I'm a rough guy. My girl will go to Tsinghua or Peking. Go, go, go—work already. Don’t delay my call with my girl.”
Qin Sang held her breath, her palm sweating around her phone. A chill ran up from her spine.
So when Qin Dahai avoided the others and asked, “Baby, did you call because something happened? Are you used to life at No.1 High? Is anyone bullying you?”
Her nose turned sour. Tears filled her eyes but she forced them back. She thought of Qin Dahai working daily at the construction site. Once he even fell and broke his leg, lying at home for more than two months. Their family wasn’t poor in Ningjiang, but every penny was earned by Qin Dahai’s own hands. She bit her lip and pushed that cowardly urge to retreat back into her chest.
In a muffled voice she said, “I’m fine. Life at No.1 High is good. The classmates and teachers here are friendly. They’re good to me. I just… miss you and Mom.”
Alone and drifting outside, she had no sense of safety.
In Ningjiang, the place was small. To make it convenient for her schooling, her parents even bought a house near the school. So whether in elementary or middle school, she never lived in the dorms—she lived at home.
Every morning Mom woke her on time. When she sent her out, she hugged her. Every day she kissed her and said, “Whose little girl is so pretty?”
Qin Dahai drove her to school on time, then went to work. Every day he waited for dismissal and came to pick her up—again and again, wind or rain.
People in Ningjiang were easygoing; neighbors all knew one another. Every day, coming and going, they greeted each other. Ningjiang classmates were enthusiastic too—walking to school and home together, meeting to play on holidays.
Not like Jingcheng, where everyone was busy—busy surviving, busy making money. Not like No.1 High, where teachers were strict and classmates cold.
She lied.
After coming to No.1 High for so long, she had no friends. In the dorm or in class, no one talked to her.
In the dorm, she even heard two roommates whisper behind her back. “I heard she’s from Ningjiang, right? Supposedly Ningjiang’s top scorer. What top scorer? Her grades don’t look that great. Last time I even heard Teacher Chen say her math was terrible. Her ranking probably isn’t high. She’ll likely be kicked out of the experimental class soon.”
Another girl asked curiously, “Where is Ningjiang? Is that even a place?”
“No idea. Probably some backwater,” the other said with disdain. “Anyway, some poor countryside. So unlucky, sharing a dorm with her. Who knows if she has weird habits or some dirty disease. I heard people from small places are poor and savage—we’d better be careful and not provoke her.”
They didn’t know she was in the dorm. She changed clothes and left. She stayed in the bathroom, only coming out when she heard the door close.
She wasn’t dirty and had no strange illness. Ningjiang was good. Ningjiang’s mountains were grand, its waters clear, its people simple and warm.
She wanted to go back to Ningjiang. She wanted to go home.
“Classmate.” A voice suddenly came from above. “School’s out and you’re not going back to the dorm—what are you doing here?”
Qin Sang looked up. The other party looked like he’d found something rare. “Yo—you crying? What’re you crying for? Anything you can’t think through? Tell your bro.”
She spoke in a muffled voice, trying to steady herself. “I…” But once she opened her mouth she choked. The sentence broke apart. Her nose felt stuffed, painfully sour. “I… I just miss home.”
“Miss home?” The boy didn’t understand. “I thought it was something big. End of the month you can go back. What’s there to cry about? I really don’t get you girls—why so sentimental.”
“I’m not from Jingcheng.” Her home was more than 200 kilometers away. No.1 High competition was intense, inward roll severe. The experimental class even consciously attended extra lessons on weekends, so on average there were no breaks. Only two days off each month. Local Jingcheng students could go home easily, but to return from Jingcheng to Ningjiang took two or three hours by bus. She didn’t want Qin Dahai to run back and forth exhausting himself, but there were only two buses back: one at 9 a.m., one at 2 p.m.
If she returned Saturday morning, she could only stay one night, and at the latest had to come back Sunday afternoon.
If it wasn’t a long holiday, she couldn’t go back to Ningjiang at all.
The boy asked, “You’re not from Jingcheng? Then where are you from?”
Qin Sang’s voice was low. “Ningjiang.”
The boy was surprised. “Ningjiang?”
Remembering her roommates’ mockery, Qin Sang unconsciously tightened her grip on the phone. Her fingertips whitened against the edges. She lowered her lashes and stayed silent.
The next second, she heard the boy shout back, “Hey, A-Yun—what was that place you went for sketching last time called again?”
In just two months after the semester started, Xie Yuncheng’s name had spread across the campus. All teachers and students knew that the experimental class had an incredible student—cold and arrogant, yet his grades were outrageously good. Having some pride seemed normal.
Like his style, his face was also aggressively outstanding—like he was born to be this loud.
Qin Sang froze and lifted her head instinctively. She’d never noticed anyone else on the rooftop. She didn’t know how long they’d been there.
She saw the person lying on top of the rooftop tower. His legs were so long they had nowhere to go—one knee bent, foot braced on the edge, the other leg hanging off naturally.
It seemed he’d been woken from resting. He casually yanked off the white baseball cap covering his face and sat up. Wind blew from behind him. The blue-and-white uniform short-sleeve clung to the slim, taut line of his waist. His hair looked like it hadn’t been trimmed—loose and messy, a fluffy clump. Maybe he had “wake-up anger.” Those beautiful eyes glanced at her lazily. His brow knitted slightly. His voice was indistinct with the hoarse texture of just waking:
“Yiling.”
Yiling was Ningjiang’s scenic area, a national 4A forest park, known as a natural oxygen bar. Every year many tourists from different cities went there for spring outings.
Qin Sang didn’t quite react. Then she saw him hop down easily from the rooftop. His blue uniform pants scraped some wall dust. His intact left hand held the cap and brought it down over her head.
Her vision went black.
The brim pressed her forehead; her sight was blocked. In darkness she heard the boy say lazily, “Put it on. Cover it.”
Later, back in the dorm, she looked in the mirror and understood his intention. She’d cried too long—her eyelids were swollen, her nose red. She looked like she’d been crying. If a teacher saw, she’d inevitably be questioned.
But at that time her mind was chaos, and she forgot to say, “Thank you.”
When she lifted the brim, she only caught the boy’s departing back. The sun was setting, day lowering. Orange-yellow light like melted gold fell on him, as if sprinkling him with tiny gold foil.
The boy who’d talked to her chased after him, arm slung over shoulders, teasing without form. “Ancestor, generous today, huh? That was a cap signed by LeBron James. Usually I can’t even touch it and you won’t allow it. Now you just give it away? When did you get so considerate?”
Even as they walked far, she could still hear the boy’s lazy reply: “Get lost.”
That day, evening wind brushed gently. Leaves rustled, as if playing a choral hymn.
The sunset glow blazed. The orange-red sky was like a bottle of chilled orange soda—droplets sliding slowly down the glass, bubbles burbling up.
She took off the cap. The white cap was soft. The logo was embroidered. On the side, in black marker, was an English name signature. Only on the inner band, stitched in black thread, was a tiny “Yun.”
She touched that small character. Her chest warmed.