Chapter 6

*Moon-Chasing Diary*
“I panicked. I was confused. I stumbled, not knowing where I came from, not knowing where to go. In the end, I sank—lucidly—into this boundless night.”
— *Moon-Chasing Diary*
-
“Are you insane?”
Sister Wen hadn’t expected that in the time it took her to answer one call, Qin Sang could still cause trouble.
Her head hurt badly. She wanted to curse but swallowed it, forcing her temper down as she ground out, “You’d better give me a reasonable explanation. What do you mean you’re not taking Director Li’s film?”
“Sister Wen, don’t be mad first.” Qin Sang knew she was at fault. Her attitude was very proper—only her voice weakened as she explained. “I looked at the script carefully. I don’t think that role suits me.”
“What does it matter whether it suits you?” Sister Wen was about to explode. “Your priority is to stabilize your reputation. Besides, no matter how bad Director Li’s film is, how bad can it be? Do you know how many international stars he’s launched?”
“I know, but—”
Qin Sang looked at her directly. Rare seriousness settled on her face. “That’s all in the past, isn’t it?”
Li Zhengkui rarely came out in recent years. The most recent film he personally directed had been six years ago: *Crossing the Realm*. It had been advertised with an all-star cast, massive investment, and Li Zhengkui’s own “national-master” status. With those three hooks, expectations skyrocketed.
But after the premiere, word of mouth collapsed. Attendance fell off a cliff. Box office performance was poor. By the day it left theaters, the box office still didn’t come close to covering cost. Even the film’s rating sank to 4.5—and that score was only barely held up by the all-star lineup and Li Zhengkui’s past good works.
*Crossing the Realm* became the greatest humiliation of Li Zhengkui’s career. In interviews afterward—even when it was mentioned as a harmless joke—if anyone brought it up, Li Zhengkui would flip immediately.
Even six years later, he still couldn’t accept that failure. That was why he was returning now with *Crossing the Realm 2*, intending to wash away the shame.
But a bad script was still a bad script.
Qin Sang had read the preliminary script and partial outline. The plot was too obscure; the world-building too huge. In just two hours, it likely couldn’t be properly set up.
“Sister Wen, I understand what you mean. You want a steady win. But I don’t think collaborating with Director Li right now is the optimal choice. Director Li is very talented—that’s indisputable. But overly talented people tend to be overly proud: stubborn, self-enclosed. That’s a taboo in filmmaking.”
Sister Wen wavered, though her brows still knit. “Even if that’s true, we can choose other, more suitable directors. Zhou Yihong?”
She still held the business card Qin Sang had given her earlier. It was blue-and-white, with only a name and a string of numbers.
“I’ve never even heard of this person,” Sister Wen couldn’t understand. “How dare you respond to him?”
“I didn’t agree,” Qin Sang corrected. “I only said I’d consider it.”
Qin Sang sighed softly. “Sister Wen, I also came from nothing. Back then, I hit walls everywhere—wasn’t all I wanted just one chance to perform?”
“What’s the difference between me now and me then? I’m still me,” Qin Sang said, her eyes clear and sharp—just like they used to be. “It’s only that I happened to get lucky.”
Sister Wen was moved. She pressed a hand to her temple. After a long time, she sighed. “Forget it. You’ve always had your own mind. What to do—you probably already know.”
_
Xie Yuncheng’s advisor once said Zhou Yihong was artsy and emotional, smooth in dealing with people, ambitious—yet also possessed a stubborn, relentless recklessness that made him suited to research.
That recklessness, if you put it nicely, was persistence. If you put it bluntly, it was shamelessness.
Xie Yuncheng wasn’t close with this senior brother. But that didn’t stop Zhou Yihong from clinging to the connection.
Zhou Yihong spent half a day talking, pestering for ages, trying to persuade Xie Yuncheng to back him—use his identity to provide professional support.
Suddenly, Zhou Yihong let out a self-mocking laugh. “Honestly, I know you and Teacher both look down on me from the heart. I fled the battlefield. I betrayed Teacher’s painstaking cultivation. I’m selfish, I’m cowardly—I admit it. But…”
“Doing research is fucking hard.”
Some hardship is the kind where you “taste bitterness then sweetness.” Some hardship is the kind where “the sea of suffering has no shore—turn back and you’ll find land.”
“Sometimes I don’t know what this stubborn persistence even means. Conquer one hurdle after another—for human progress, for aerospace’s future, for the great harmony of human life? That talk only fools hot-blooded kids.”
“I’m thirty this year. Do you know what thirty means? If I die young, my life is already one-third over. People my age are either successful or married with kids. Me? Alone. Useless.”
“You tell me—we’ve done so much, but who actually cares? You can contribute endlessly and still not be remembered by history. Then what’s the point?”
Xie Yuncheng’s gaze darkened. He said nothing—or rather, he had no answer.
Zhou Yihong scoffed at himself. “I’m vulgar. And vulgarly so. I need to feel recognized. I need attention.”
“I don’t have the ability to act lofty. A future I can’t see the end of, giving without return—I can’t talk myself into persisting.”
“Just… one last time.” Zhou Yihong took a drag. It was both emotion and resignation. “One last time, I’ll shamelessly use the title ‘senior brother’ to beg you for a favor. Whether it works or not, I’ll accept it.”
_
These days Qin Sang had been neglecting sleep and food, her schedule flipped. Even at work her state was off—distracted, like she was addicted to something.
In a way, she was.
She added Zhou Yihong on WeChat because she wanted him to send the script. Instead, Zhou Yihong sent her a link to a comic.
According to him, he’d found this sci-fi comic, *Moon Project*, serialized on a foreign site, while looking for something to relieve stress in his spare time. He’d clicked in intending to nitpick, only to get more and more hooked, chasing updates until he finished it in one go.
Even after finishing, he still wasn’t satisfied. A desire to spread its influence stirred, so he contacted the author and studio, negotiated terms, and bought the rights.
The comic, *Moon Project*, told a story set after 2048: Earth, overloaded, was on the verge of destruction. To survive, humanity had to explore more suitable celestial bodies. The moon was one of the targets for development.
The synopsis sounded cliché, but just as Zhou Yihong said, you had to actually read it to understand how gripping the core was. Unlike similar works, it used light comedy and humor to unfold a plot that should’ve been heavy and dull—softening the dryness sci-fi couldn’t avoid.
This thing was like spiritual food: the more you ate, the more addictive it got.
Qin Sang—someone who’d always avoided sci-fi films and novels—found herself reading sci-fi comics with zero pressure, even savoring it. The kind where, the moment you put it down, your heart itched; you wanted to devour it all in one go.
If at first she’d had doubts and calculations about Zhou Yihong, then after finishing the comic, she was convinced.
“Sister Wen.” Qin Sang, with panda eyes from staying up too late, stared at her manager with bright, excited eyes. “I’m going to accept Zhou Yihong’s earlier proposal and meet again—talk in detail about the script.”
Sister Wen didn’t know what to say. Seeing Qin Sang exhausted but excited, she could only agree—setting time and place with Zhou Yihong.
Unfortunately, things went badly from the start.
After Qin Sang returned from a Shanghai schedule, on the way to the meeting, their car unexpectedly broke down halfway—stalled on the elevated road on Fuxing Middle Road. Traffic was jammed solid: no advancing, no retreating.
The driver was checking the cause. Sister Wen glanced at the time and pressed anxiously, “How is it? Can you fix it?”
The driver was baffled too. The car had just been serviced; logically it shouldn’t happen.
For the moment he couldn’t find the exact problem. He could only answer honestly, “I can’t be sure where the issue is. It probably can’t be fixed quickly.”
Sister Wen frowned. “Then what? It’s rush hour. The jam is terrible. Even if we arrange another car, it won’t arrive in time.”
The driver scratched the back of his head, reading her expression carefully, and suggested tentatively, “Should I go ask if anyone can help?”
Sister Wen was about to reject it when the cars behind them started honking impatiently. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a lone figure waiting off to the side—and froze.
Their schedule had been packed. Even tonight’s meeting with Zhou Yihong had been squeezed in forcefully. She had no time to rest, not even time for a proper meal.
And now things were different. With Qin Sang’s status, if they stayed stuck here too long and she got recognized, who knew what trouble would follow.
Sister Wen sighed helplessly and compromised. “Then hurry. Don’t take too long.”
…
Autumn was near. Jingcheng had cooled in the last two days; the night air was chilly. A river breeze swept over. Qin Sang shivered and pulled her trench coat tighter. White lambskin boots balanced on the curb edge; a beret pressed down on her hair; a mask covered her face. She tucked back the strands blown loose by the wind. Xiaoxiao handed her a thermos. “Drink some hot water. Warm up.”
Qin Sang took it, holding the thermos with both hands. Warmth seeped through the metal, and she let out a comfortable sigh.
When she saw the driver leave, Sister Wen came over. Qin Sang asked, “Sister Wen, what’s wrong?”
Sister Wen rubbed her eyes, exhausted. “The car can’t be fixed. The driver went to find help. He probably won’t be back soon.”
Qin Sang pressed her lips together. “Then I’ll tell Director Zhou. Our car broke down; we might not make it in time. I don’t want him waiting for nothing.”
Sister Wen answered absentmindedly, already contacting the company to see if there was any way to dispatch a car and detour.
Qin Sang lowered her lashes. Without a heat source, the hand holding her phone felt cold; even typing felt slow.
She sent Zhou Yihong a message explaining the situation.
Zhou Yihong replied quickly: “Teacher Qin, you mean your car broke down and you’re stuck on the road right now?”
Qin Sang: “Mm. Stuck on the elevated road on Fuxing Middle Road.”
Zhou Yihong: “Fuxing Middle Road? Wait a second. I’ll ask.”
Ask what?
Qin Sang was about to reply when she heard the driver shout, “Teacher Qin, I found someone to help!”
She lifted her head on instinct. Just then, a new message popped up.
Zhou Yihong: “What a coincidence—my junior seems to be there too.”
…
The riverbank was bright with lights; the moon was solitary. Ripples shimmered on the water like scattered flowing light. The nightscape along the shore was lush and illuminated.
Only that person walked out of the gaudy night—white shirt, black suit pants, a clean, straight silhouette. As if the years had never moved, as if time had never changed him.
The river roared and churned. Qin Sang stared, unblinking, at the figure drawing closer. For a moment her mind went blank; her ears rang. Everything fell silent. Even her thoughts slowed—like an old, poorly maintained pendulum: click, click—moving, sluggish and dull.
She realized it late, in a mess, and only thought—absurdly—of a sentence:
“I panicked. I was confused. I stumbled, not knowing where I came from, not knowing where to go. In the end, I sank—lucidly—into this boundless night.”