The cruise ship set sail at the end of the month.

The weather that day was incredibly good. The sky was a vast, high blue, meeting the sea at the horizon.

A cool breeze brushed past the ship’s rail, bringing with it fresh, moist sea vapor. The waves surged, and seabirds darted through the wind, their calls crisp and clear.

The hottest, most scorching part of summer had passed. The sun was no longer scorching but still exceptionally bright. It scattered on the sparkling waves, creating brilliant, warm specks of shattered gold.

The ship’s horn sounded, long and slow. The cruise ship, accompanied by the ringing of a bell, departed from the port, cutting through the sea and creating white waves.

For once, Xiang Luan wasn’t so excited that he was running all over the deck. He stood on the balcony of their room with his guitar on his back, his eyes wide as he watched the scene outside the window.

People who have always lived by the sea are certainly no strangers to it, but they may not be familiar with the feeling of going out to sea on a ship.

As the ship left the shore, all four sides turned into the azure blue of the sea—a blue that would change with the different angles of the light, sometimes becoming a clearer, more transparent green, and at other times, it seemed as if sunlight had dissolved into it, turning it a warm, light brown.

The moment the cruise ship completely left the port, the gradually disappearing pier behind it actually brought a very subtle sense of unease.

This was probably a kind of human instinct related to survival. Because the familiar land was getting farther away, and all around was the sea. The continuous, rolling waves stretched into the distance, incomparably vast, as if without end.

Fang Hang walked over and patted his head. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how big the sea is. You don’t feel it from the shore, but now I see it’s so big,” Xiang Luan came back to his senses, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m thinking.”

He fell silent rather abruptly, was quiet for a moment, then chuckled. “I’m thinking, thank goodness.”

Xiang Luan didn’t say any more, and Fang Hang didn’t ask. He just walked to his side and placed his hand on top of his head.

Xiang Luan felt like shouting at the top of his lungs. He peeked his head out and looked at the balconies on either side, too embarrassed to shout. In the end, he took off his guitar.

He took the guitar out of its case, cherishly touched the special signature, found a place to sit down, and strummed a few chords.

The sound of the guitar scattered in the sea breeze, and the seabirds flying alongside immediately responded.

Humans always have a self-protection mechanism. The more uncomfortable they are, the more they grit their teeth and endure. The more scared they are, the more they refuse to admit it. They can’t let that breath go, no matter what, they have to push through.

It was probably only when they were at their most relaxed and at ease that the lingering fear finally surged up like a tide.

Xiang Luan strummed his guitar for a while, grinned, and rubbed the back of his head with a laugh.

…Thank goodness.

If it had been like one of his most feared scenarios, and he was singing at sea now, he would probably be howling from the first string to the last, his mouth wide open.

He would be crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, unable to speak clearly, let alone sing. His tears would probably drown the guitar.

Thank goodness they could be here, chatting and laughing, singing for his brother.

Thank goodness.

The sea was so big.

Xiang Luan buried his head and practiced his guitar there.

His first song was finished. He was very satisfied with the melody, but he still felt the arrangement and lyrics were too immature. At least now, he was completely too embarrassed to sing it for his brother and wanted to polish it a bit more.

He was a little too focused on polishing it—by the time Xiang Luan realized that Manager Fang was constantly kicking him on the sly and giving him meaningful looks, and then discovered that his brother was actually on the deck right below the balcony, it was already too late.

Xiang Luan jumped up with his guitar, stood at attention on the balcony with a bright red face.

Fang Hang cleared his throat, then stood at attention beside him, acting as if it had nothing to do with him.

Ming Chi was dressed completely differently today.

He wasn’t wearing a windbreaker or casual clothes. Like the other people on the cruise ship, he had changed into a seaman’s uniform.

It was currently break time. Ming Chi, according to his schedule, was arranged to be sunbathing on the deck, waiting for Mr. Ming to return from his ship inspection to have lunch together.

The early autumn wind and sun were both hot and cool, especially at sea. The wind would bring a rather cool airflow, while the sun warmed people up so much they didn’t want to move.

Ming Chi leaned back in the rattan chair. His well-tailored shirt was neatly tied with a tie, and the reserved navy blue uniform jacket was draped over his shoulders. His peaked cap was casually tucked under his arm.

There was nothing much to do at the moment. He was focused on writing something on a notepad, head down. It was hard to tell if, being so close, he had heard the obvious sound of the guitar that had been playing for a while.

Xiang Luan’s heart itched just watching. He squeezed out a few words to his Manager Fang through his teeth, “Bro-bro-brother Fang, do I still have a chance to be the resident singer on the ship…”

“No!” The Artist Department Manager could listen to anything but this, which gave him an instant headache. “Has your windbreaker arrived yet! It hasn’t, has it? How come you’ve set your sights on something else again!”

“It’s because it hasn’t arrived!” Xiang Luan was so anxious he was jumping up and down. “Brother Fang! Look at my brother! Look at how handsome my brother is!”

Of course, Fang Hang had seen it. For a few seconds, he had almost grabbed the entertainment and publicity department to take pictures, and had managed to resist the urge to go for a camera only with great difficulty. “That’s our company’s pillar! Look at those few from our department, do they look decent in windbreakers?”

Xiang Luan deflated in a second. He hung his head and held his guitar, both embarrassed and unable to resist peeking down a few more times.

“Former pillar!” Fang Hang remembered that Ming Chi had retired from the industry and corrected himself. “When you can reach this level, we won’t have to watch the General Manager’s old videos to satisfy our craving every day.”

Of course, Xiang Luan wanted that too—when he learned that Ming Chi didn’t plan to be an artist again, he, a hardcore fan, had indeed been upset for a good few seconds, but had immediately felt it was completely fine.

His brother could, of course, do whatever he wanted. No one was allowed to say anything, and everything had to be based on his brother’s happiness.

…Moreover, this decision sounded a bit abrupt to them, but anyone who had met Ming Chi would couldn’t help but feel it was appropriate.

Ming Chi’s guitar should not only be heard by the audience under the spotlight, but also by the mountains, the clouds, the wind, and the waves.

Xiang Luan’s competitive spirit was aroused. He didn’t want to embarrass his brother no matter what. He was tiptoeing, preparing to find an inconspicuous place to continue practicing, when he was suddenly kicked again by Fang Hang.

Ming Chi had finished writing on the notepad and suddenly looked up in their direction.

Their room was on the second floor, not far from the deck at all. From this distance, even the clear smile in his eyes was particularly obvious.

“Quick, quick,” Fang Hang urged him in a low voice. “Seize the opportunity, play it now!”

Xiang Luan hadn’t finished revising it yet and was sweating anxiously. “No! I’m not satisfied with this version yet. There are a few bars that just feel awkward. I need to readjust them, and I don’t have any ideas…”

Xiang Luan was holding his guitar, his face red, thinking about whether to run away, when he suddenly saw Ming Chi make a gesture and was taken aback.

Ming Chi took out an empty conch shell, tore off the piece of notepad paper and stuffed it inside, then found a piece of milk candy to seal the opening.

He weighed it in his hand a couple of times, felt the weight was about right, and tossed it up.

Seeing Ming Chi’s action, Xiang Luan immediately thrust his guitar at Fang Hang, rushed to the balcony, and steadily caught the conch shell.

Fang Hang held the guitar for him, watched Xiang Luan preoccupied with unwrapping the candy and happily popping it into his mouth, and urged anxiously, “Quick, quick, what does the note say?”

Xiang Luan had the candy in his mouth, his hands nimbly taking out the note and opening it. His eyes suddenly widened.

Fang Hang looked over his shoulder, completely confused. “What is it, a secret code?”

Xiang Luan looked at the note back and forth several times, then took the guitar with delight. “A song! My brother helped me revise the song!”

“So it could be revised like this, how could I be so dense!” Xiang Luan slapped his forehead and immediately sat on the bed and played it a few times. “This flows much more smoothly!”

Fang Hang saw his excitement and was happy along with him. He crossed his arms and leaned to the side, listening to Xiang Luan bury his head and practice back and forth.

He was almost a complete amateur when it came to music and could only simply distinguish between what sounded good and what didn’t. He had actually already thought Xiang Luan’s song was good just now and that it was completely fine to sing it as it was.

But with this revision, those few bars changed almost immediately. After Xiang Luan had played it a few times, Fang Hang could already hum along with him.

“How did he do it?”

Xiang Luan couldn’t figure it out at all and pulled at Fang Hang, asking, “I understand music theory, I just couldn’t think of this. When can I be this amazing?”

“It requires experience,” Fang Hang knew the answer to this and explained to him calmly. “It requires rich experience and abundant emotions…”

Xiang Luan jumped up excitedly and rushed to the balcony to thank Ming Chi, only to find that the rattan chair under the balcony was already empty.

Mr. Ming had returned from his ship inspection and was having lunch with his little mister.

The two of them walked away, chatting. Who knows what they said, but Mr. Ming took off his peaked cap with the captain’s insignia and placed it properly on the little mister’s head.

…

The Manager Fang who had chased after him to the balcony and the artist from his department witnessed this scene together.

This scene was too cool.

If it were a movie, it would be very suitable for the final scene just before the credits, the one used for farewell.

Sunbathing, casually revising a song, then leaving without a trace after the deed is done.

Xiang Luan also wanted to have experience. He held his guitar and murmured, “…Brother Fang.”

“No!” Fang Hang roared. “Wait until you’re twenty to even consider it!”

Xiang Luan sighed a long, super regretful sigh, returned to his original spot to continue practicing his guitar, and was reminded by Fang Hang patting his head to pay attention to protecting the guitar from moisture. There was a special place on the cruise ship for them to store and maintain their instruments.

Xiang Luan agreed dejectedly. Actually, the piece of milk candy he was chewing was incredibly sweet, and the corners of his mouth had long since curved up to the sky.

When Fang Hang finished packing and came back to call him for lunch, he saw that Xiang Luan, for once, was not playing the guitar. He had his arms spread out in a very dramatic pose, his eyes closed contentedly, letting the sea breeze hit his body.

…Thank goodness.

Thank goodness.

Fang Hang himself also felt the lingering fear. He patted his chest, shook his head, and smiled.

Thank goodness their General Manager was so amazing, so wonderful.

Thank goodness Ming Chi was willing to come back.

They also finally had the mood to relax and be happy. The sun was beautiful, the clouds were beautiful, the sun in the waves was like shattered gold sand, and even the wind seemed sweet.

…

Ming Chi and Ming Wei Ting were in the restaurant on the top floor.

The view here was very good. The sea stretched out boundlessly, and the boundary between the sea and the sky seemed close enough to be right in front of them, yet also seemed so far as to be unreachable.

The passengers on the deck were enjoying the most comfortable afternoon. The sunlight was lazy and gentle, the wind was still, and the water was calm. The Zhao Lan couple had already become quite familiar with their friends from Huaisheng Entertainment and were listening to a few young musicians play music together. Kuang Li and Fang Hang were chatting by the ship’s rail.

Uncle Lu had already sent out all the invitation letters. The dinner party was set for the last day before the end of this journey. They would have dinner with all their friends together.

Each invitation letter was handwritten. At the signature spot, the handwritten signatures and seals of the two of them were placed side by side.

Ming Chi finally found a suitable time, set up the easel on the spacious and bright terrace, and began to work on the oil painting he had painted before his surgery, the one that no one could understand and was suspected to be a piece of postmodern art.

Ming Wei Ting helped him mix the paints and wash the brushes. The two of them were already very coordinated. Ming Chi was looking for the brush he wanted, and Ming Wei Ting had already handed him the small weasel-hair brush.

A smile flowed from Ming Chi’s eyes. He thanked the professional assistant with a straight face, held his breath, and focused on outlining the shapes.

Ming Wei Ting watched him paint a corner and had already guessed, “It’s us.”

“It’s us,” Ming Chi nodded. “I was thinking at that time, if I could still understand this painting after the surgery.”

—The color blocks were not randomly distributed.

They formed a base, just like the month of recuperation before the surgery. Sometimes his mind was clear, sometimes not so clear, and sometimes he was walking in a daze, as if in a fog.

But no matter which one, they all laid down a new, rich, and colorful base color. These vibrant base colors eventually dispersed that dazed fog.

He walked out along these base colors. He had set a small goal for himself after the surgery.

At least after the surgery, he should still be able to understand this painting.

Ming Wei Ting propped one hand by his side, his shoulder leaning on Ming Chi’s, watching the brush in Ming Chi’s hand.

“This is us in the rain, our first reunion.”

Ming Chi carefully finished that stroke. “Mr. Shadow is touching my head.”

He then gestured to the other part that was already finished. “This is the bonfire party that day. I saw the silhouette of the ship.”

These were all important nodes of reality.

Next, there would be some slightly surreal elements.

Ming Chi continued to outline the third small block of the painting. “This is Mr. Shadow getting off the ship, picking me up, and running away.”

“This is Mr. Shadow knocking on the door, inviting me onto the ship to make the four seas our home.”

Ming Chi explained, “And then being beaten by Auntie with a broom.”

Ming Wei Ting very much approved of the image but still gave an objective evaluation. “I’m running with the little mister, and also being beaten by Auntie. The silhouette should be hard to maintain such a cool look.”

The little mister was quite arbitrary on this matter. “It is that cool.”

Ming Wei Ting took the iced fruit wine and touched it to his forehead.

Ming Chi laughed out loud, took two sips through the straw, and continued, “This is me traveling back in time, taking Auntie to get a check-up, and then we get cruise tickets together and go to the cruise ship to block the little Mr. Shadow who doesn’t know me yet.”

“It won’t happen,” Ming Wei Ting said.

Ming Chi blinked his eyes. “It won’t?”

He guessed that the rigorous Mr. Ming was about to say that there was no relevant scientific basis and was about to explain to him that this was a form of artistic expression, but Ming Wei Ting had already nodded. “The scientific basis is not important.”

“Not considering theory,” Ming Wei Ting said. “If time travel exists in principle, I will definitely go back with you.”

The paintbrush in Ming Chi’s hand paused for a moment. A warmth surged in his chest, and he smiled and closed his eyes, holding the hand resting on his shoulder.

Ming Wei Ting turned his hand over and intertwined their palms.

“Mr. Shadow.”

Ming Chi suddenly remembered something. “Your name is very special.”

Ming Chi asked softly, “Have you ever asked why you were given this name?”

“No,” Ming Wei Ting thought for a moment. “My name is special?”

Chinese was not often used on the high seas, and there were few domestic channels that could be received.

Ming Wei Ting had learned Chinese from Uncle Lu and the news broadcast. His grammar was correct, but his communication would often be overly standard, to the point of sounding stiff.

Before, when Ming Chi was recuperating on the cruise ship, it was because of this that Ming Wei Ting had repeatedly practiced what he would say to greet him, wanting to sound as natural as possible when he spoke.

“It was given by my mother. Mother didn’t have time to explain it to me.”

Ming Wei Ting asked, “Does it have a special meaning?”

Ming Chi nodded. He held Mr. Shadow’s hand and wrote out the two characters. “I don’t know if this is the meaning.”

But Uncle Lu had said that although Mrs. Ming was the one who gave her family the most headaches, she was from a scholarly family, and her family produced literary figures in droves.

“There’s a line of poetry I’ve read before,” Ming Chi said. “On the perilous peak of a pavilion, one is without neighbors on all four sides, having seen all the spring of three thousand worlds.”

At that time, Ming Chi couldn’t help but think that perhaps this name contained Mrs. Ming’s most heartfelt expectation for her child.

Even if it was on a high mountain peak, at the ends of the earth, even if he was destined to be a “mister” who lived on a ship forever, he could still see the vibrant spring colors of three thousand worlds.

Ming Chi spoke as he wrote. When he got to the last stroke, his finger paused on the horizontal line of “spring” (春) and was suddenly turned over and warmly wrapped in a palm.

Ming Wei Ting held his hand and looked at the painting with him. “Three thousand worlds.”

Ming Chi hadn’t thought of the connection between these two things before. His eyes lit up. “It’s true.”

He took out a fountain pen from his pocket. Ming Wei Ting took it, held his hand, and signed the painting with him.

The sea breeze freely passed by them. The sunlight was clear, the seawater warm, and their shadows overlapped in one spot.

“Three thousand worlds.”

Ming Wei Ting lowered his head and looked into Ming Chi’s eyes. “I want to meet you in all of them.”

Ming Chi’s gaze was clear. He smiled, the smile wrapping around the shadow reflected in his eyes. “No problem. I’ll go practice mountain climbing right now.”

A blank space was left in the center of the painting. Ming Chi mixed the colors and filled in the color block there.

He had run out of inspiration when he had painted up to this point before and hadn’t thought of what to fill in here, so he had temporarily left it blank, wanting to fill it in after the surgery was over.

Now, his inspiration was quite abundant.

“Perilous peak, with a neighbor.”

Ming Chi explained to him, “In every world, there is a little mister who has moved in.”