Act 1: Fracture
Jiang Mian sank deeper into Rong Xubai’s song.
“You are my accident, and also my only certainty…”
The clear voice washed over her like a gentle tide, wrapping her weary nerves and pulling her toward the depths of sleep.
Just as her consciousness began to blur—
“Zzzz—!”
A sharp alarm exploded inside her mind.
Not a sound, but a more direct, terrifying rending of existence itself. Jiang Mian’s eyes shot open. Darkness stretched before her—not the familiar darkness of the hospital room, but absolute, void-like darkness, where not even light existed.
She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Then she “saw.”
Not with her eyes. Deep within her consciousness, the warm golden halo—the link that represented Pei Yuyan’s presence—was collapsing.
Like a shattered mirror.
Golden shards scattered across the void, each fragment reflecting broken scenes: a crumbling starfield, fractured data streams, a pair of hands falling through nothingness—
Hands she recognized.
Long fingers, defined knuckles, hands that had inscribed warmth into her consciousness.
“Pei Yuyan—!”
She shouted. Her voice sounded hollow and desperate in the silent room.
No response.
Only harsher collapse. The halo fragmented completely, dissolving into billions of golden dust motes that vanished into the void. Just before the last fragment disappeared, she heard a voice—
Not from her ears, but from the depths of her soul, so faint it was nearly imperceptible:
“Don’t look for me…”
Then.
Silence.
Absolute, cold, dead silence.
Jiang Mian sat on the hospital bed, drenched in cold sweat. Moonlight spilled across the floor in pale patches. The lilies on the bedside table still bloomed, Fu Chenyu’s thermos bag lay neatly in place. Everything appeared normal.
But she knew something had been lost forever.
She pressed her temples, sharp pain stabbing like a nail forcibly pulled out, leaving a raw, bloody void.
The connection was severed.
That eternally calm, reliable voice—the one that always appeared when she needed it—
Gone.
[Golden livestream comments explode]
[Night Owl Champion]: “No way! The Observer’s gone?!”
[System Maintenance Worker]: “Link forcibly severed! This is a high-dimensional-level purge!”
[Trash Boy, Move]: “The streamer is trembling… she’s actually scared…”
Jiang Mian threw back the covers and stepped onto the icy floor. Barefoot, she walked to the window and pushed it open. The early morning wind rushed in, cutting through her, chilling her to the bone.
The city slept beneath her, lights scattered like a falling galaxy.
Everything was normal.
Except her world had collapsed halfway.
She turned back to the bedside, picked up her phone. 3:11 a.m. Only a few contacts: Fu Chenyu, Zhou Jian, Lawyer, Rong Xubai…
Her finger hovered over Fu Chenyu’s name.
Should she contact him to check on Pei Yuyan?
Check for someone who didn’t even exist in this world?
She shut off the phone, tossing it onto the bedside table. The metal clunked against the wood.
Then she saw it.
In the spot where the phone had just rested, lit by moonlight—
A line of writing.
Not written, not printed, but faint, glowing gold, floating on the wooden surface:
“31°14′ N, 121°29′ E. Before dawn. Do not come.”
Faint, like morning mist ready to dissipate.
But Jiang Mian recognized it.
It was Pei Yuyan’s handwriting.
Before disappearing, he had left her this final message.
Jiang Mian reached out, trembling fingers brushing the line. Warm to the touch, as if it still carried his presence.
Then the writing began to vanish, from the last character onward, transforming into golden light motes that drifted into the air.
A silent farewell.
“No…”
Jiang Mian clutched at the words as if she could hold onto them. But the motes slipped through her fingers, disappearing without a trace.
Only the cold wooden surface remained.
And a set of coordinates forever etched in her heart.
She stood there, staring at the empty desk for a long moment.
Then she lifted her gaze to the still-dark sky outside.
Despair slowly hardened into something else.
“Do not come?” she whispered. Her voice eerily clear in the silent room. “I’ll go anyway.”
Act 2: Midnight Run
3:30 a.m.
Jiang Mian changed out of her hospital gown into the black sportswear Fu Chenyu had sent. Her long hair tied in a high ponytail, she dug into the hospital locker for a backpack—inside, the emergency items Zhou Jian had prepared: flashlight, first aid kit, water bottle, and a multifunctional survival knife.
She slung the pack over her shoulders, pausing at the door.
A last look at the room she had stayed in for two days.
Lilies bloomed quietly under the moonlight.
Thermos bag neatly in place.
All warmth and order.
Then she opened the door and stepped out.
The corridor was empty. Only the faint green glow of emergency exit signs. Her footsteps were light but distinct in the stillness. The elevator descended, floor numbers clicking down: 8, 7, 6…
Reaching the first floor, the door opened.
The duty nurse dozed at the desk, undisturbed.
Jiang Mian slipped through the side exit. The early morning wind hit her face, bitterly cold. The streets were empty, lit only by dim streetlamps.
No cars.
No pedestrians.
Just her and the endless night.
She pulled out her phone, opened navigation, entered the coordinates.
Map zoomed in—Forest Park, East District, Abandoned Observation Station.
Distance: 27 kilometers.
She looked to the eastern sky. Still black, at least two hours from dawn.
Then she started running.
Not jogging, not brisk walking. Running. Her sneakers hit the asphalt with crisp sounds. Her breath formed mist in the cold air. Her ponytail whipped behind her as the night blurred past.
She ran through empty streets, past sleeping residential blocks, past a 24-hour convenience store—the groggy clerk didn’t notice the figure racing outside.
She ran fast, lungs burning, legs screaming, but she couldn’t stop.
Because the message said: Before dawn.
Miss dawn, and it would be too late.
[Golden livestream comments scrolling in excitement]
[Tea Lover]: “The streamer is running! The visuals are insane!”
[Night Owl Champion]: “27 kilometers! She’s really going there?!”
[System Maintenance Worker]: “Coordinates point to the abandoned observation station… high-dimensional energy residues recorded there!”
Jiang Mian didn’t hear any of this.
Only her heartbeat. Her breath.
And that thought, growing clearer:
Find him.
Before he disappears completely, find him.
At the fifth kilometer, pain shot through her left shoulder wound. Not the dull ache from before, but sharp, tearing pain, like a knife twisting into bone.
She gritted her teeth. Didn’t stop.
At the tenth kilometer, sweat drenched her sportswear. Cold wind made her shiver violently. Blood filled her throat. Lungs felt ready to explode.
She slowed but didn’t stop.
At the fifteenth kilometer, the horizon began to lighten.
Deep blue faded to gray-blue. Clouds edged with pale gold.
Dawn was coming.
Jiang Mian’s heart clenched violently.
She lifted her head and looked east—the golden light was spreading, like spilled paint, inching forward to swallow the darkness.
Too late.
The thought stabbed into her heart like an icicle.
She stopped, bent over, hands on her knees, gasping. Sweat dripped from her forehead, splashing onto the road, forming dark wet stains.
Then she straightened up and looked forward.
She had left the city behind. In front of her stretched a county road leading to Forest Park. The streetlights were gone. Only the faint light from the horizon barely illuminated the asphalt.
27 kilometers.
She had only covered half.
And dawn… would arrive in at most half an hour.
Jiang Mian closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.
When she opened them again, only icy resolve remained.
She turned and walked to the roadside—where an old van was parked. The windows were open, keys still in the ignition.
[Golden livestream comments erupted]
[Weather Report Unreliable]: “Is the streamer stealing a car?!”
[HandsomeGuyIsMe]: “The mood is perfect! She’ll do anything to save someone!”
Jiang Mian opened the van door and slid into the driver’s seat. The interior was messy—smoky smell, fast-food boxes, and the scent of motor oil. She gripped the steering wheel, fingers trembling—not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion.
She had never driven this type of vehicle.
But she remembered driving theory—left foot clutch, right foot brake and accelerator. Manual transmission: first gear to start, slowly release clutch while giving gas.
Pei Yuyan’s words echoed in her mind: “When you don’t know what to do, first trust your judgment.”
Ignition.
The engine growled deeply. The headlights cut through the darkness.
She engaged first gear, released the clutch, pressed the accelerator—
The van lunged forward, nearly stalling. She steadied the wheel, adjusted, and finally the vehicle moved smoothly.
Accelerate.
Faster.
The old van tore along the county road, the speedometer needle climbing: 60… 80… 100 km/h.
The scenery outside blurred into a wall of green as the trees streaked past. The golden light on the horizon intensified. The sun’s outline was about to emerge.
Faster.
Even faster.
Jiang Mian’s hands gripped the wheel until her knuckles whitened. Eyes locked on the winding road ahead. Each turn came with the screech of tires against asphalt.
She didn’t care about speeding, traffic rules, or crashing.
There was only one thing that mattered:
Reach him before dawn.
Act 3: Observation Station
4:50 a.m.
The van screeched to a stop at the entrance of Forest Park. The iron gate was closed, a sign reading: Opening Hours: 6:00–18:00.
Jiang Mian jumped out and ran to the gate.
The padlock was old, rusty.
She pulled a multitool from her backpack, flicked out a lock-picking device—also taught by Pei Yuyan. Fingers shaking from cold and tension, but precise.
Click.
The lock opened.
She pushed the gate and dashed inside.
The park was pitch black. Only the weak dawn light faintly illuminated the path. She turned on her flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness, revealing the winding mountain road ahead.
The coordinates led to the observation station atop the hill.
Three kilometers in a straight line—but all uphill.
She began the climb.
The trail was steep, strewn with rocks. She fell twice, scraping her knees and palms, but got up each time and pressed on.
Her breath tore through her lungs. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
Her legs felt like lead, every step unbearably heavy.
But she could not stop.
The golden light in the horizon had already stained half the sky red.
Dawn—only ten minutes away.
Halfway up the mountain, she saw a light.
Not sunlight. A pale, eerie blue light, flickering from the mountaintop, pulsating like a living heartbeat.
Her chest burned at its sight.
Warning. Guidance. Both.
Jiang Mian gritted her teeth and climbed faster, hands and feet working in unison. Thorns tore her clothes and skin, blood streaming—but she felt no pain.
Her eyes fixed on the light.
The final stretch was almost vertical.
She grabbed exposed tree roots, nails digging into dirt, inching forward. Sweat and blood stung her eyes, blurring vision.
But she finally reached the summit.
Before her stood a derelict building.
A three-story structure with peeling concrete walls, broken windows. On the roof, a half-dome rusted through with holes.
And the pale blue light—
Pouring violently from a shattered window on the first floor.
Like a living tide, swirling inside the room.
Jiang Mian sprinted toward the window.
Just as she was about to reach it—
The sun crested the horizon.
The first golden ray pierced the clouds, spilling over the earth.
Dawn had arrived.
The blue light inside flickered violently.
Then began to fade rapidly.
Like a candle about to go out.
“No—!”
Jiang Mian screamed, her voice hoarse and alien to herself.
She grabbed the window frame—splintered wood cutting into her palms—and leapt inside.
Landing, she finally saw him.
Act 4: Dissipation
The room had no floor.
No walls.
No ceiling.
Only a collapsing void.
The pale blue light flowed like living liquid, swirling in the emptiness, slowly dissipating into motes of light. At the center—
Pei Yuyan.
No. Not floating.
Pinned in the void.
Four transparent chains pierced his limbs, stretching him into a cruciform. The other ends vanished into infinite darkness, like countless hands pulling him in every direction, intent on tearing him apart.
His eyes were closed, face pale as paper.
The black shirt hung open, exposing his chest—where a massive wound bled.
Not blood.
Golden light.
Like molten gold, droplets streaming from the wound into the void, each drop rendering his body more transparent.
Jiang Mian’s breath caught.
She stood frozen, watching the ever-composed Observer become a sacrifice, draining his own existence.
Then Pei Yuyan opened his eyes.
Deep gray, reflecting her silhouette in the pale blue glow.
He looked at her—long, lingering—and with immense effort, forced a faint, trembling smile:
“…You still came.”
The voice was weak, barely audible.
Jiang Mian stepped forward. Each step pressed into the surging streams of light. The glowing motes swirled around her ankles, as if trying to stop her—and at the same time, welcoming her.
“How… how do I save you?” she asked, her voice trembling violently.
Pei Yuyan shook his head.
“I… can’t be saved… the Dimensional Overseer… has activated the purge… I broke too many rules…”
He coughed again, more golden light spilling from his wound:
“To see you one last time… before I disappear… is… enough…”
Tears ran down Jiang Mian’s face.
Scalding, they fell into the streams of light, scattering into tiny ripples.
“I won’t allow it,” she said, each word biting with desperation, almost tasting of blood. “Pei Yuyan, I won’t let you disappear.”
He looked at her. Deep gray eyes, gentle, like a farewell.
“Jiang Mian… listen… after I vanish… the link will break completely… you’ll be safe… continue your life… forget me…”
“I don’t agree!” Jiang Mian shouted, tears pouring uncontrollably. “You said you’d always be by my side! You said I was the only one you wanted to protect! What are you now?! Leaving me alone like this?!”
Pei Yuyan silently watched.
This girl—always calm, always rational, always careful to protect herself—was now collapsing like a child.
His gaze softened, heartbreakingly gentle.
“I’m sorry…” he said. “But I… must do this…”
His body began to turn transparent again.
This time, it spread to his waist.
The chains pulled tighter, creaking with a sickening sound.
Jiang Mian surged forward, trying to grab the chains—they were icy cold, like holding millennium-old ice. She pulled with all her strength, but the chains didn’t budge.
“Let him go!” she screamed into the void. “Let him go—!”
No response.
Only Pei Yuyan’s body became increasingly transparent, golden light flowing faster.
Jiang Mian turned to him:
“The cost! What if I pay the cost?! What if I make you stay?!”
Pei Yuyan closed his eyes.
“You can’t…”
“Let me try!” Jiang Mian grabbed his hand—it was already half-transparent, warm like lukewarm water. “Tell me! What’s the cost?!”
They stared at each other.
In the collapsing space, at the edge of life and death.
After a long moment, Pei Yuyan whispered:
“Anchor… it needs… anchoring…”
“How?!”
“With your memories…” he said. “Your most precious memories… use them as coordinates… to pull me back…”
He paused.
“But you… will lose those memories…”
Jiang Mian didn’t hesitate:
“Fine.”
“Jiang Mian—”
“I said fine!” she interrupted, eyes red, yet shining with startling resolve. “Memories can be rebuilt! But if you’re gone—then nothing remains!”
Pei Yuyan watched her. Long, long minutes.
Then he smiled.
Not the broken, fading smile from before, but a real, gentle smile, like a fire in winter.
“You’re always… so stubborn…”
“So,” Jiang Mian gripped his hand tighter, “tell me what to do.”
Pei Yuyan drew a deep breath—if his transparent chest could still inhale:
“Close your eyes… remember… remember your warmest moments…”
Jiang Mian closed her eyes.
The images appeared.
The first surprise at hearing his message.
His calm guidance in the middle of danger.
The figure made of light points in her consciousness.
The gentleness in his voice when he said, “It’s good to have met you.”
Each memory radiated warmth, like holding a cup of hot tea in the winter.
“Then…” Pei Yuyan’s voice began to waver, ethereal, “give them… to me…”
Jiang Mian obeyed.
She imagined those warm memories, imagined them turning into golden light, flowing from her body into the person who was disappearing.
Pain.
Excruciating, tearing pain.
Like countless hands digging into her brain, pulling out the most precious fragments one by one.
She bit her teeth, silent.
Clutching his hand, nails digging into her own palm, blood seeping into the streams of light.
Then—
She felt the transparent hand in hers regain substance.
Regain warmth.
Begin… to solidify again.
The chains loosened.
The collapsing space stabilized.
The pale blue light no longer dissipated—it flowed backward, converging toward the person at the center.
Pei Yuyan opened his eyes.
Deep gray, whole and intact, fixed on her.
He had returned.
Jiang Mian released her grip, her body swaying, vision going black. Pei Yuyan caught her, strong arms, palm warm—a real warmth.
“Jiang Mian?” he called, anxious in his voice.
She lifted her head to look at him.
For three seconds.
Then she said: “Who… are you?”
Pei Yuyan froze.
He looked at her bewildered gaze, at her expression that no longer recognized him, jaw clenched to the point of strain.
Yet he did not lose control.
He simply asked softly, almost whispering:
“You don’t remember?”
Jiang Mian frowned, trying to recall, but quickly gave up, eyes returning to their hollow calm:
“I… remember I need to find someone…”
“Who?”
“Someone…” she paused. “…very important.”
Pei Yuyan was silent.
Long, long silence.
Then he reached out—not to touch her, but to gently hold her hand that hung by her side.
“It’s me,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “Jiang Mian… it’s me.”
Jiang Mian looked at him. Long, long moments.
Then, very slowly, she shook her head:
“I don’t know you.”
She said it calmly, as if remarking on a sunny day.
Pei Yuyan closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, only restrained depth remained.
He held her hand, fingertips tracing three characters into her palm:
Pei. Yu. Yan.
Jiang Mian looked down at her palm, then back up at him:
“Your name?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
Pei Yuyan looked at her, at her clear yet confused eyes, and his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly.
But he simply nodded.
“Thank you.”
Then he released her hand and turned to the now-stable space. The chains had vanished, and the pale blue light once again filled the room. Walls, floor, and ceiling slowly reappeared.
Everything returned to normal.
As if nothing had ever happened.
Only Jiang Mian’s lost memories and the wound on Pei Yuyan’s chest—now healed but marked with a faint golden scar—proved that what had just occurred was not a dream.
Pei Yuyan walked to the window and looked outside.
The sun had fully risen, golden light spilling across the mountains and forests. A new day had begun.
He turned back to Jiang Mian, still standing there, eyes dazed.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Home.”
Jiang Mian blinked. “Home… whose home?”
“Yours,” Pei Yuyan replied, walking over to take her hand again. “I’ll take you there.”
This time, Jiang Mian didn’t resist.
She let him hold her hand, following him out of the room, out of the building, into the morning sunlight spilling across the forest.
The sun was warm, birdsong crisp.
Everything was full of life.
Pei Yuyan held Jiang Mian’s hand tightly as they descended the mountain. His back was straight, steps steady, but his grip on her hand was firm—
As if loosening it might make her vanish.
Halfway down, Jiang Mian spoke suddenly:
“Pei Yuyan.”
He stopped and looked back at her.
The morning light washed over her face, giving her pale skin a warm glow. Her eyes were clear, reflecting his figure.
“Even though I don’t remember you,” she said,
“I feel…”
She paused, her voice soft as the wind:
“That I… must like you very much.”
Pei Yuyan’s breath caught.
He stared at her for a long moment. Complex emotions churned in his deep gray eyes: shock, tenderness, pain, and… a profound, nearly overwhelming sense of preciousness.
He didn’t speak.
He simply reached out and gently drew her into his embrace.
Slowly, giving her room to refuse.
But Jiang Mian didn’t pull away.
She leaned quietly against him, her cheek against his chest, hearing the steady, strong beat of his heart.
Pei Yuyan held her lightly, but firmly.
His chin rested on the top of her head. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
Then he said, voice low and gentle:
“Yes.”
“You like me.”
“I… do.”
Jiang Mian blinked against his chest:
“Do what?”
Pei Yuyan was silent for a long time.
Then,
He released her slightly, looking into her eyes:
“It’s holding your hand… and never letting go.”
Jiang Mian looked at their hands, intertwined, for a long moment.
Then she lifted her head and smiled at him.
A faint smile, but pure and clear.
“That’s good,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
Pei Yuyan tightened his grip on her hand:
“Okay.”
They continued down the mountain.
Sunlight poured over them, stretching their shadows long, weaving them together on the fallen leaves.
As if from now on, they would never be separated again.
Act Five: Rebirth
Back in the city, Pei Yuyan didn’t take Jiang Mian back to her apartment.
Instead, he brought her somewhere else.
An old residential building, six floors, no elevator. They climbed to the third floor. Pei Yuyan took a key from his pocket—old, bronze, oxidized and blackened.
He opened the door.
A small apartment: one bedroom, one living area, but clean and simple.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, falling on the wooden floor. Furniture was basic: a sofa, a desk, a bed. Bookshelves were filled with books, mostly astronomy and physics.
On the windowsill, several healthy green plants thrived.
“Where are we?” Jiang Mian asked.
“My home,” Pei Yuyan said. “Or… my anchor point in this world.”
He led her inside and closed the door.
Jiang Mian walked around the room. On the desk sat an old computer, thick notebooks stacked beside it. She opened one—filled with complex astronomical data and hand-drawn star charts.
“You’re an astronomer?” she asked.
Pei Yuyan smiled faintly. “Sort of.”
He walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Sunlight poured in, illuminating the entire room.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the sofa.
Jiang Mian sat. Pei Yuyan sat beside her, shoulders brushing. Warm sunlight bathed them both.
Quiet.
Only the distant hum of traffic outside.
“Pei Yuyan,” Jiang Mian spoke suddenly.
“Hm?”
“I’ve forgotten something very important, haven’t I?”
Pei Yuyan was silent for a moment, then nodded: “Yes.”
“About you?”
“About us.”
Jiang Mian turned to him. “Will you tell me?”
Pei Yuyan looked at her, deep gray eyes gentle, as if containing the entire universe:
“I will.”
“Little by little.”
He reached out, lightly touching her cheek.
Jiang Mian looked at him for a long time.
Then she reached out, holding the hand that had touched her cheek.
“Then now,” she said, “you can start.”
Pei Yuyan grasped her hand in return, squeezing it tightly.
“Okay.”
Sunlight moved slowly across the room.
From the floor to the sofa, then from the sofa to their entwined hands.
Warm and steady.
As if saying—
No matter how many times we forget.
No matter how many times we start anew.
Some things are already etched deep in the soul.
Like my hand holding yours.
Like your eyes looking at me.
Like this moment: the sunlight just right, and you are here.
This is rebirth.