With three superpowers at his fingertips, he could dominate the 1970s.

After Song Yanzhou stepped out of the tent, his pace unconsciously slowed down.

He told himself he had to hurry; a two-hour break wasn't long, and the round trip would take up most of it. If he dawdled any longer, he'd be late. But his legs wouldn't obey him; each step felt heavier than the last, as if they were made of lead.

He looked back again.

Her drab gray tent stood out among a bunch of other drab gray tents, nothing special, but he recognized it at a glance.

So what if they recognize me?

He turned around and kept walking.

The jeep bumped along the potholed dirt road. Song Yanzhou leaned against the window, watching the wilderness rush past, but his mind wasn't on the scene before him.

He was thinking about Jiang Zhiyu.

To be precise, he had been thinking about Jiang Zhiyu constantly. It had been almost a year since he met her, and it seemed like there hadn't been a single day that he hadn't thought about her.

But what's the use of thinking about it?

Song Yanzhou, a dignified regimental-level officer, never hesitated to lead troops into battle and never showed mercy to the enemy. But when he encountered this girl, all his skills were like punching cotton – he couldn't use his strength.

It's been like this since the first day I met her.

In the port city, she saved him in a life-or-death situation. The first time he saw her, she was standing in front of him, calm, composed, looking down at him.

He thought to himself, "How can this person be so good-looking?"

I later learned that her good looks were her least noteworthy advantage.

Later, he chased after them to Northeast China.

It was hard to say whether he was chasing a mission or chasing a person, maybe both. He only remembered the first time he saw her after arriving at Kaoshantun; she paused for a moment when she saw him, and then her eyes briefly lit up—

It's the kind of radiance you only see when you see a good-looking face.

不是爱。

He can tell the difference.

Jiang Zhiyu's gaze towards him held more amazement than attraction, more joy than liking. He knew from the beginning that she was satisfied with his face. So he shamelessly took advantage of this, making sure he was impeccably dressed in front of her, his military uniform never wrinkled, even the cuffs were buttoned up neatly.

Then she nodded in agreement.

He reported his relationship status.

Her eyes curved slightly, and there was a smile in them.

Getting her to nod was enough. As for why she nodded, whether it was because her face made up 80% of it—he dared not think too deeply about it. Thinking about it too deeply made him feel like an imposter who had gotten in by virtue of his appearance, someone who could be exposed at any moment.

But then, he went on another mission. He went to the United States and almost didn't make it back.

She came to save us.

She didn't send someone; she came in person. She flew over from the other side of the world and rescued him from that heavily guarded underground laboratory in a foreign country.

To his delight, she actually traveled halfway around the world to save him.

He later asked her why she had come.

She rolled her eyes and said, "How could I not come when you're practically dead?"

The tone was dismissive, as if it were a trivial matter that was taken for granted.

But it was those four obvious words—"I can choose not to come"—that completely ruined him.

He was completely ruined and never got back up.

Song Yanzhou had never submitted to anyone in his life. He trained relentlessly against those stronger than him in the army, and gritted his teeth to endure those more ruthless than him on the battlefield. But Jiang Zhiyu was different; she was so strong that he didn't even have the right to fight her. The things she did, the burdens she carried, the things she faced—he couldn't even begin to grasp them.

Even his most respected former leader praised her highly; Grandpa said the former leader's eyes were full of admiration.

And him? He was proud; she was the person he loved, and of course he was proud to be recognized. But beneath that pride lay something else, a sour, stifling feeling, like a stone he couldn't swallow or spit out.

He couldn't catch up with her.

He could never catch up with her.

She walked so fast that he could only see her back. Every time he finally managed to catch up with her, she would be busy with something else.

She's so independent and clear-headed; she doesn't need him anywhere.

Sometimes he even wondered if, if he didn't go to her, she would think of him even for a moment?

I dare not ask. I'm afraid the answer won't be the one I want to hear.

And her secret.

He knew she had secrets. Many secrets.

It's not that I'm not curious.

It's fear.

He was afraid that if he asked, he wouldn't be able to bear the consequences.

He would rather not know than have that outcome.

-

When news of the earthquake reached the troops, his first thought was—she was there.

No need to confirm, no need to inquire.

This is also what he likes most about her.

They were the same kind of people at heart, both carrying this land and its people in their hearts. It's just that she had gone much further and carried much heavier burdens than him, while he could only follow behind her, trying his best to get a little closer and closer.

But just as he caught up with her, she was about to leave again.

He didn't ask because she wouldn't tell him even if he did.

She didn't tell him so he wouldn't worry.

He didn't ask so as not to put her in a difficult position.

"I've always been waiting for you behind you."

What he said before leaving wasn't actually romantic.

That's the truth.

He was indeed always behind her. When he couldn't catch up, he watched from afar; when he did, he stayed by her side; if she wanted to leave, he waited for her to come back. The only thing he could do was let her know—no matter how far she went, when she turned around, he would be there.

The jeep stopped at the entrance of the camp, and Song Yanzhou jumped out and strode towards the dormitory.

Before he even reached the door, he was stopped by several soldiers.

"Hey, Commander Song!" A burly, dark-skinned man jumped up from the steps, shoving him on the shoulder. "You haven't even eaten! Where have you been?"

"Something's come up." Song Yanzhou continued walking without stopping.

"What's up?" the man drawled, winking at his comrade beside him.

Another tall, thin man leaned over and whispered, "Don't you understand? Did you see that woman at the airport the other day? The prettiest one—"

"Oh, oh, oh!" The burly man slapped his thigh, suddenly realizing, "That's our regimental commander—"

"Fiancée!" the tall, thin man replied.

"She's not his fiancée," a young soldier in the corner interjected, wiping his gun. "They're not engaged yet. They've submitted their relationship report, but the engagement hasn't happened—"

"Isn't that her fiancée? Just submit a report and that's it!"

"No, no, that's called a partner—"

What's the difference between a boyfriend/girlfriend and a fiancée?

"The difference is huge!"

The group laughed and joked around, their laughter echoing loudly in the evening camp. The rescue operation was nearing its end, but the search and rescue team hadn't given up. The soldiers had been working non-stop for two days, and this was a rare moment of relaxation, so they seized every opportunity to gossip about their regimental commander.

Song Yanzhou ignored them and pushed open the dormitory door.

"Hey, are you still being shy?!" Another commotion came from behind.

The door closed behind them, shutting out the laughter and chatter.

The dormitory room contained only a cot, a table, and a chair—very simple. A young soldier pushed open the door carrying a tray and said, "Commander, your meal."

Song Yanzhou took the plate and started shoveling food into his mouth. Rice, stir-fried cabbage, and half a piece of salted fish—after staying in the disaster area for so long, being able to eat a hot meal was already a blessing. He ate quickly, stuffing large mouthfuls into his mouth.

He only ate one can of food at Jiang Zhiyu's place, which wasn't even enough to fill a tooth gap for him.

He ate while looking down at his hands.

Right hand.

The hand that held hers.

The warmth of her fingertips seemed to linger faintly in my palm.

He put down his chopsticks and stared at his hands for a long time.

Then he sighed.

He sighed again.

The young soldier stood at the door, watching his commander hold up a tray and sigh twice, looking as if he wanted to say something but couldn't. In the end, he silently withdrew and thoughtfully closed the door behind him.

He didn't see anything.

The dormitory fell silent again, with only the muffled sound of chopsticks tapping against plates.

Song Yanzhou shoveled the last bite of rice into his mouth, put down his plate, lay back on his military bed, and stared blankly at the ceiling.

There was a crack in the ceiling, I don’t know when it appeared, it lay there crookedly, like a road that couldn’t be walked.

He turned over, buried his face in the pillow, and spoke in a muffled voice, as if talking to himself:

"This wife is leaving again."

Outside the window, the camp's loudspeaker blared, announcing another search and rescue team's departure.

Song Yanzhou closed his eyes.

In the darkness, all he could see was her face.

Row.

Then wait.

Song Yanzhou may not be good at everything in his life, but he is good at waiting.

—Even though waiting is a fucking awful experience.