Naturally, no one answered the question.
While everyone teased the director, a staff member outside the course frantically gestured at Song Cheng. He blinked, then remembered—this was a game, not a real competition. Being too serious would ruin it for everyone else.
Feeling guilty, he realized he wanted to win, but didn’t need to steal all the spotlight.
So when Gan Yawen read the next question, Song Cheng quietly held his buzzer, watching the production logo on it.
Finally, it was no longer Qin Wunian’s turn to roll the dice. He exhaled and, once the camera panned away, fanned himself with his shirt.
Being the “plane” was exhausting—Gan Yawen wasn’t kidding.
Dancing, performing bizarre moves, one-handed push-ups, in the heat of the summer near noon… Qin Wunian moved slightly, and sweat broke out across his back.
Song Cheng could relax a bit. The other three guests slowly began their turns. Qin Wunian had already completed a third of the board. Liu Yanchu walked a few steps and ended up next to him.
They could exchange a few words standing on adjacent squares.
Song Cheng, who had been buzzing eagerly before, stopped. Naturally, he needed a reason; otherwise, the audience wouldn’t buy it. When Gan Yawen asked why he wasn’t speaking, Song Cheng admitted the truth: “Let Qin Wunian rest. I’ll join once everyone else catches up. Staying first place is enough for now.”
Gan Yawen: “……”
Qin Wunian: “……”
Liu Yanchu laughed. “So cocky—I like it.”
Qin Wunian shot him a glance. He was annoyed, but on camera, he said nothing. Liu Yanchu, seemingly oblivious, stepped forward a few squares, standing behind him, curiously asking: “Little Song, what’s his deal? Knows astronomy and geography—he isn’t a university professor, is he?”
Qin Wunian didn’t answer.
Because even he didn’t know.
There was a brief silence before he spoke, seemingly unrelated to the question. “It’s not about his profession. He’s been like this since he was a child—read a lot, knows a lot. School competitions? If he participated, he’d always bring home first-place awards. Let’s put it this way: except for sports, there’s no subject Song Cheng isn’t good at.”
Liu Yanchu let out an “Oh” and turned his head toward the big screen out of habit. Not long after, he jerked his head back. “Wait… you said Xiao Song doesn’t know astronomy? Are you tricking us?”
Qin Wunian looked at him, puzzled. “I said he’s not very knowledgeable, not completely ignorant. Song Cheng really isn’t particularly strong in astronomy. He’s only been to the planetarium once, and that was with me. Stayed there half an hour, bought a book, and then left.”
Liu Yanchu: “…You mean he remembered everything from just one book?”
Qin Wunian couldn’t resist a smug smile. “Surprised, huh? Actually, you should all be thanking me. I deliberately avoided choosing logic and picked astronomy—the one Song Cheng is weakest at—just for your sake. You know, in college, Song Cheng majored in law and minored in logic. If I had chosen logic, you’d have had to watch him crush everyone else.”
Though he didn’t really laugh out loud, Liu Yanchu felt as if Qin Wunian had.
Heh. Young people… so naive. Talking about ‘crushing everyone’ isn’t even about you. Song Cheng’s actions have nothing to do with you, Qin Wunian.
Smirking internally at Qin Wunian, Liu Yanchu turned his attention back as Lü Ruosi quickly answered a music question. Now it was Liu Yanchu’s turn to roll the dice. Since Lü Ruosi had answered correctly before, he had to look over and give her a thumbs-up this time.
At the same time, he said to Qin Wunian beside him, “See? My wife’s still the best.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Qin Wunian noticed something odd. Liu Yanchu froze, instinctively glancing toward Lü Ruosi, realizing she couldn’t hear them. He gave an awkward, complicated smile, then turned to his cameraman. “Cut that part, okay? Let the director know. I’ll talk to him during lunch.”
The cameraman blinked but nodded repeatedly. By then, the big screen’s lottery draw had ended. Liu Yanchu’s expression shifted back to calm as his camera switched focus to the screen. Qin Wunian, standing nearby, watched him for a moment before turning his head away. His own matters weren’t resolved yet—no need to worry about anyone else.
After Song Cheng had intentionally held back for others, everyone assumed Su Yu would dominate the game. But he didn’t. He and Lü Ruosi were evenly matched.
Su Yu could answer most geography and astronomy questions but never buzzed in for music questions. Questions about heartbeats or irregular patterns? Few he could get right.
Lü Ruosi, on the other hand, excelled in music and could handle plenty of geography as well. Her secret? She had played a young violinist in a drama, cramming musical knowledge, and had once modeled for a geography magazine. Free monthly issues for three years had helped her retain quite a bit.
Compared to them, Zhao Feifei was struggling, barely pressing the buzzer at all. Yang Qing, observing from afar, cycled through hope, disappointment, grimace, and finally gave up entirely. Falling last wasn’t the end of the world; they still had days ahead—slow and steady would do.
The first to reach the finish line was Qin Wunian. Staff from the atmosphere team fired confetti, sprayed gold powder, and brought out pre-prepared ice cream. Normally, Qin Wunian wouldn’t eat it, but it was so hot today he took a bite.
While Qin Wunian ate, the contest continued. Song Cheng had left the buzzer group, then, after checking with staff to avoid interrupting the game, he jogged over to Qin Wunian.
Handing him tissues and bottled water, he noticed the thin sheen of sweat on Qin Wunian’s forehead and felt a twinge of concern. “We at least had shade on my side. You guys were out in the sun. Hope they don’t make you suffer like this again this afternoon.”
Qin Wunian felt it was tolerable; filming in the heat had been far worse. He understood Song Cheng was showing concern, but wasn’t sure how to respond. Thinking for a moment, he grabbed another ice cream from a nearby mobile fridge. “You eat this too.”
Song Cheng blinked, then accepted it.
So there they stood, amidst the tense progress of the competition, silently eating ice cream, each displaying different expressions.
Qin Wunian’s thoughts wandered: he had decided to reconcile with Song Cheng, this time on his own terms. No matter why Song Cheng had come back, no matter his pretense or hidden motives, Qin Wunian would feign ignorance. He wasn’t the naive, gullible fool he once was. Now that Song Cheng had returned, he wasn’t going anywhere.
That said… Qin Wunian wasn’t set on forcing them into a perpetual grudge. If Song Cheng could pretend, he could too. As long as he could keep Song Cheng close, he’d use every bit of inherited acting skill.
It was only day one, and his performance had room for improvement. Later, he’d figure out exactly what Song Cheng wanted him to become.
Song Cheng, meanwhile, wondered why, even after kissing, there still seemed to be a barrier between them. That morning, Qin Wunian had been kind—helping him, refraining from mockery—but something felt off.
If their feelings warmed and returned, would it be like that morning? Probably not.
He wasn’t certain. After all, he couldn’t remember all the little details of the past, and his diary had been too sparse to compare.
He found himself glancing at the quiz area.
Even though he had been fast and accurate earlier, Song Cheng’s astonishment was just as high as anyone else’s. Those answers popped into his mind reflexively, yet he still couldn’t recall when he had learned that knowledge.
If he wants to regain his memory quickly, what should he do?
Thinking this, he glanced at Qin Wunian beside him and noticed his gaze. Qin Wunian asked, “What’s wrong?”
Song Cheng hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing.”
By nearly noon, the competition finally came to an end. First place went to the “Whitewash” team, second place narrowly to the “Unforgettable” team, third to the “Couples” team, and, without surprise, last place was the “Friends” team.
After collecting their respective prizes, some were happy, some less so. After lunch, everyone returned to their rooms to rest. Compared to yesterday, today’s nap felt especially real—because they all truly fell asleep.
Among the eight, Song Cheng and Qin Wunian were still the last to rest. Qin Wunian leaned against the headboard, scrolling on his phone. Song Cheng adjusted the air conditioner temperature slightly higher before lying down on his side.
Once down, he felt no sleepiness. Finally alone, Song Cheng wanted to talk about the kiss from last night, but the cameras were still rolling, and using his phone felt awkward.
He decided to wait until tonight.
Song Cheng thought to himself, cheeks flushed, maybe there would be another chance.
While he was hesitating, Qin Wunian’s phone screen hadn’t moved for a long time. After a while, he suddenly asked, “Song Cheng, you’ve never told me—where have you been these past few years?”
Startled, Song Cheng sat up. “I never said because you never asked.”
Qin Wunian put his phone down and turned to look at him. “I’m asking now.”
Song Cheng opened his mouth but no words came out. He looked troubled, weighing whether to reveal his amnesia. He had thought before that if he confirmed Qin Wunian still had feelings for him, he could tell him, but he didn’t want to expose this to the entire nation.
Before he reached a decision, Qin Wunian’s expression darkened for a moment, then he changed his mind.
“Forget it. I don’t want to hear it. You don’t need to say anything.”
At that moment, Song Cheng realized that maybe he really couldn’t pretend too well. Just like the old masters said, if you immerse yourself too deeply in the role, you might fail to act convincingly.
Qin Wunian lay down, and Song Cheng quietly watched him for a while before lying down himself.
Perhaps because he had spent the day thinking about regaining his memory, or perhaps because the intense mental focus from the competition had stimulated his brain, he finally had a long-forgotten dream, one tied to the past.
Heavy rain poured as if the sky had a leak. It was dark, streetlights had automatically turned on, and the roads were flooded. Countless cars were stuck in the water, and drivers stepped out to check conditions, pants rolled up to their thighs.
Everyone waded forward through the water. Song Cheng did the same, feeling the resistance as he moved and the cling of wet clothes.
The people around him hurried, each preoccupied, while he moved silently, step by step. Passersby gave him surprised glances, but he didn’t know how he looked.
He kept walking, and walking, and walking.
The rain never ceased. The wind joined in, and one misstep sent Song Cheng sitting into the water. His calves burned from the cold, cut by wire, bleeding, yet he seemed unaware. He stood up again and continued forward.
In this storm and gale, Song Cheng arrived at a hotel. The power was out; the sign barely visible. People inside paced anxiously, calling to ask when the electricity would return. Looking at the unmoving revolving door, Song Cheng clenched his fists nervously, then stepped inside through the chaos.