Chapter 64: Traverse (5)
64 – Traverse (5)
His teeth bit into the lemon, its juice seeping out slightly and spreading across the tip of his tongue.
A lemon given by his idol—no matter how sour, he had to eat it.
Regardless of how sour the lemon was, he continued biting into it expressionlessly.
Then, the other side of the lemon slice was taken hold of by Dong Jun.
“Don’t eat it anymore.” Dong Jun pulled the lemon away.
As he spoke, he smiled, his eyes curving, pupils sparkling like stars.
Lin Xun thought, this person was definitely doing it on purpose. After hearing the line “You seem to take care of people often,” Dong Jun was now mocking him with the lemon.
This Dong Jun—beneath his idol’s exterior hid a mischievous soul.
Lin Xun released his teeth.
Since his true nature was already exposed, he had nothing left to fear.
“See,” he said, “you’re very skilled at this.”
Dong Jun stuffed another piece of fruit into his mouth to shut him up.
“Not skilled,” Dong Jun replied, “I’ve never been on a trending search with anyone else.”
That was true. Lin Xun had been in his fan group for so many years and had never seen even the slightest hint of a romantic scandal emerge. Flies don’t bother with unbroken eggs—his idol’s private life over the years had been as clean as a blank sheet of paper, flawless from every angle. All his schedules were transparent and public, and the only person he frequently worked with, Ruan Zhi, was already married.
However, it could also be that Galaxy’s PR team had a tight grip on public opinion, controlling the narrative at all times—Dong Jun had just said it himself: if you don’t want to be on a trending search, then you won’t be.
So Lin Xun wouldn’t let it go.
He said, “Then why did you insist on being on a trending search with me?”
Dong Jun: “I already told you, you’re fun.”
Lin Xun: “That doesn’t make sense… I still feel like this isn’t real.”
Dong Jun smiled.
Lin Xun watched him smile and secretly pinched himself to confirm whether he was dreaming. After all, everything that had happened today felt like a dream—progressing extremely quickly and lacking sufficient logical support.
“This is a probability problem.” Dong Jun grew slightly more serious. “On GitHub, I posted some code… and you commented on it. I happened to click on your profile, saw your algorithm, and thought you might be… the kind of person I’m interested in.”
Lin Xun looked into Dong Jun’s eyes.
Dong Jun looked back at him: “Is that acceptable?”
Lin Xun felt as if he had been transported back to his student days, sitting in a math class.
Every time the teacher explained a key step in a proof, they would ask, “Is that acceptable?”
Yes.
Suddenly, he felt grounded.
If Dong Jun had said, “I decided to pursue a deeper relationship with you because you’re good-looking or because your personality is fun,” Lin Xun might have accepted it, but deep down, he wouldn’t have believed it.
But now, Dong Jun was saying—I’m very interested in your algorithm. There couldn’t be a more reasonable explanation than that.
Dong Jun wanting to get to know someone because of an algorithm he happened to see was the same principle as Lin Xun noticing someone because of code he happened to see—the logic was self-consistent.
Lin Xun: “I…”
He spoke one word, then stopped, simply looking at Dong Jun and smiling.
Dong Jun: “Hmm?”
Lin Xun: “So, is my algorithm good-looking?”
Dong Jun: “Very beautiful.”
Lin Xun: “Your code is also beautiful.”
Dong Jun didn’t say anything, leaning in to share a light kiss with him.
Lin Xun’s mood had felt surreal all day, as if floating in the clouds, but now it was slowly settling back to earth. Still, kissing his idol made his heart race.
After opening it, Lin Xun took a sip of iced milk and continued the earlier topic. “I… have been hopping around your GitHub for a long time.”
“Perhaps you hopped too much,” Dong Jun said. “I noticed you. Your username is quite unique too.”
Lin Xun: “…”
His GitHub ID was the same as his old WeChat ID: “Happy Lemon Spirit.”
Pretending nothing had happened, Lin Xun said to Dong Jun, “But you stopped writing code two years ago.”
“I finished what I wanted to write,” Dong Jun replied calmly, serving him food before adding, “I was waiting for you to appear.”
Lin Xun couldn’t handle it again.
He realized Dong Jun’s way with words far exceeded the average programmer’s level. For instance, what should have been “I was waiting for an algorithm I wanted to write to appear” was phrased as “I was waiting for you to appear,” sounding almost like a romantic confession.
“So from the very beginning, you wanted to come to Goddess of the Luo River to write code. You were never an investor,” Lin Xun said, his eyes widening.
Dong Jun remained expressionless. “You only just realized.”
“I…” Lin Xun nearly choked.
Dong Jun.
The CEO of Galaxy.
A man worshipped by countless programmers.
One day, this person finds you and expresses great interest in your algorithm.
Could the subtext possibly be—”I want to come write code”?
Well, yes, it could.
Strip away all the glamour, and Dong Jun was, at his core, still a programmer—one who had reached the pinnacle.
Masters in martial arts novels feel loneliness, and so do programmers. This loneliness stems from the fact that coding is a part of their lives, yet they no longer wish to immerse themselves in endless repetitive work. They want to write something interesting but lack that sudden flash of inspiration.
Then he saw a fascinating algorithm.
At that moment, his first thought would never be “I want to invest in it” or “It can make me money,” but rather “I want to write it.”
At his core, Dong Jun was no businessman.
“Then… what about the two hundred thousand?” Lin Xun asked.
The two hundred thousand was the most baffling part. Lin Xun couldn’t figure it out and was too afraid to ask.
“A budget,” Dong Jun said, feeding him another bite. “Your team lacked a programmer, and two hundred thousand happens to be enough to hire an excellent programmer for a month. Technically, I believe twenty is the cap. If I gave more, you’d waste it hiring so-called senior engineers.”
Lin Xun: “I did use that two hundred thousand to hire a very suitable programmer. He didn’t have extra skills, but his technical abilities were excellent.”
“Hmm… but over the course of that month, you’ll gradually realize his usefulness is limited. In reality, only Dong Jun can write the core code for Goddess of the Luo River.”
Lin Xun said expressionlessly, “So you waited for me to come to you and eventually invite you to join. You just didn’t want to directly admit you wanted in because of pride. You…”
Only one thought remained in his mind now.
Jiang Lian, Jiang Lian, you really were just a backup.
Dong Jun: “Then I realized… you seemed quite afraid of me. Expecting you to take the initiative and invite me was almost impossible.”
Lin Xun: “I’m fine now.”
Ever since realizing he should treat Dong Jun with the attitude of looking at a programmer rather than a capitalist, he hadn’t felt as awkward.
Damn it.
He saw a deep smile in Dong Jun’s eyes.
Lin Xun: “You’re trying to give me a myocardial infarction tonight.”
Dong Jun’s voice showed no trace of apology: “I thought you’d welcome me.”
Lin Xun, weak and listless, looked up at Dong Jun.
Tonight had been a rollercoaster of highs and lows, and his heart couldn’t take it.
Dong Jun leaned down and gently touched his lips.
He stuck out his tongue and licked them.
Dong Jun’s lips were thin, slightly cool.
—What happened next was beyond his control. In any case, the meal was eaten intermittently.
On the way back, he added Dong Jun to the Goddess of the Luo River group chat.
The smart system installed on Dong Jun’s phone was also cutting-edge tech. He was focused on driving, both hands on the steering wheel, but a series of operations were still completed—not only did he join the group, but it could also speak on its own.
“Lin Daima” has joined the group chat.
Lin Xun: “?”
Lin Daima: Hi.
Zhao Jiagou: ?
Wang Anquan: ?
Jiang: ?
Zhao Jiagou: @Lin Suanfa, did you pick someone up? Fished out of the amusement park lake?
Wang Anquan: And he shares the same surname as Suanfa.
Zhao Jiagou: Could he be the full-stack engineer of my dreams? The kind who can translate Suanfa’s nonsense into human language.
Lin Daima: Possibly.
They continued chatting on their own.
Lin Xun looked at Dong Jun and his lit-up phone, which was independently sending WeChat messages in the group chat: “Why Lin Daima?”
Dong Jun smoothly guided the car around a turn, his movements elegant and fluid.
He glanced at his phone screen and said calmly, “Dong Daima doesn’t roll off the tongue.”
Fine.
He’s a linguist too.
He couldn’t very well ask Dong Jun why he didn’t choose another surname and went with Lin instead.
After all, the person who had been hugging and kissing this Mr. Daima tonight wasn’t surnamed Wang or Zhang.
Lin Suanfa: Um… let me introduce.
Zhao Jiagou sent an obedient listening emoji.
Wang Anquan chose to copy it.
Jiang Lian followed suit.
Lin Suanfa: This is Dong Jun.
The group fell silent.
Lin Xun felt something was off and scrolled up through the chat history, only to see them frantically withdrawing their previous messages one by one.
Half a minute later, the chaos ended, leaving only a lonely “Hi” and “Possibly” in the entire chat interface.
Zhao Jiagou: Greetings, God Dong.
Wang Anquan: Greetings, God Dong.
Jiang Beitai: Greetings, God Dong.