Poetry and the Distant Horizon

On Highway 318, inside a brand-new Mercedes G500, gentle music played as Jiang Bei, cigarette in mouth and a cheerful smile on his face, gazed into the distance.

Poetry and the horizon.

It was a sentence he’d read in a book, still vivid in his memory.

So, was there poetry in the distance? Jiang Bei didn’t know. He only knew that the horizon held mountains, rivers, blue skies, and white clouds.

The off-road vehicle pressed forward.

The wind howled, the sun roared—but what of it?

Just keep moving forward.

Thus, Jiang Bei journeyed alone, just man and machine, for three days.

On the fourth day, he spotted a girl sitting by the roadside atop a hiking backpack. She wore white sneakers, faded jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and her long hair flowed. She extended her slender arm, thumb raised in a “You’re awesome” gesture.

She looked like an interesting girl.

Jiang Bei slowed the car and stopped in front of her, lowering the window without a word, simply smiling at the girl who swiftly shouldered her backpack and approached the door.

She smiled back, her grin sweet and charming. “Hello, handsome! My name’s Mao Xiaobai. May I hitch a ride?”

Ah, so she wasn’t complimenting him, but asking for a lift.

“Mao Xiaobai—what an interesting name,” Jiang Bei remarked, genuinely amused. It suited her perfectly. “Hop in.”

“Thank you!” Mao Xiaobai grinned playfully, unceremoniously tossing her hiking pack onto the back seat before settling into the passenger side.

The journey resumed. Jiang Bei wasn’t one for idle chatter, except when something piqued his interest or he met someone intriguing. Mao Xiaobai, by contrast, was a chatterbox.

Without Jiang Bei even asking, she volunteered the story of how she ended up by the roadside, chattering away.

It was reminiscent of a student reciting a lesson—having finally memorized it, she was eager to recite before she forgot.

Time flew by amid her lively words, and soon Mao Xiaobai had successfully aligned her route with Jiang Bei’s: traveling Highway 318, heading for Tibet to see yaks, grasslands, and the unique Tibetan scenery.

“Brother Jiang, isn’t this fate? I just finished the college entrance exam too. What’s your score?”

“Hehe, mine’s about the same as yours. Which university did you apply to?”

“Huaqing? Me too! If nothing goes wrong, we’ll be classmates. How wonderful.”

“……”

“Brother Jiang, do you eat snacks?” she asked during a roadside break to stretch their legs. Mao Xiaobai opened her treasured hiking pack, revealing an assortment of snacks and drinks.

“I’ve got spicy strips, chicken wings, drumsticks, oh—and pig’s trotters. What do you like, Brother Jiang?”

Jiang Bei rubbed his forehead.

Looking at this confirmed foodie, he felt a strange sense of familiarity—vague, indescribable.

“Tell me, you carry all these snacks when you travel? Isn’t it exhausting?”

“Not at all,” Mao Xiaobai replied with a shake of her head and a smile. “Eating along the way keeps me energized. You can only keep walking if you’re full!”

Hmm, that made sense. No argument there.

So, they continued their journey, with Mao Xiaobai munching away, genuinely enjoying her snacks—not just pretending.

Jiang Bei, who never cared much for food, was perplexed. Were these supermarket snacks really that tasty?

He tried a bag of potato chips—crisp, flavorful, surprisingly enjoyable.

On the seventh day with Mao Xiaobai, they reached the scenic province of Sichuan, renowned for its cuisine. Mao Xiaobai, now very comfortable around Jiang Bei, was excited.

“Come on, my treat! Let’s start with hotpot, then skewers, and tofu,” she said, scrolling through her phone to bring up a list of Sichuan delicacies she’d researched.

“Brother Jiang, you’re not in a hurry, are you? How about we try every restaurant on this list?”

Jiang Bei lit a cigarette and smiled.

“I’m not in a rush, but if you try to eat your way through all these places, I doubt the owners will be pleased.”

-----------------

Fang Yuan parked her newly purchased purple Bentley at the airport, grabbed her simple luggage, then entered, checked in, and boarded.

It didn’t take long before she was seated in first class on a flight to London, waiting for departure.

Thanks to Jerry, her exclusive lifestyle consultant through the Black Gold card, she’d smoothly secured a spot at London’s Saint Martin’s College of Art.

She was going to study fashion design.

Though two months felt a bit short, she trusted her learning ability to handle it.

First class was spacious, and the few seats gradually filled. Fang Yuan paid no mind, instead opening a fashion magazine and reading quietly.

Time seemed to pass; her neck grew stiff, so she put down the magazine and twisted her neck slightly, only then noticing the blond man beside her.

He was watching her—had been for some time, it seemed.

“Hello, is there something I can help you with?” Fang Yuan asked proactively. As the nationwide top scorer in the humanities for this year’s college entrance exam, her fluency in English was hardly a surprise.

The blond, blue-eyed man smiled. “Forgive me, I couldn’t help but be captivated.”

With fair, handsome features, clean and elegant attire, and the charming London accent considered the world’s most enchanting, he was the epitome of gentlemanly allure.

These were killer traits for any woman.

For this very reason, Dracula had sent him. Originally, considering Fang Yuan was only nineteen, it seemed more reasonable to dispatch a vampire of similar age.

But after some advice, Dracula realized that wasn’t wise.

A woman’s psychological maturity is generally higher than a man’s at the same age. This meant that boys of the same age often seemed immature to girls—an unfavorable first impression that inevitably lowered chances of success.

Dracula couldn’t afford such a mistake, having managed to seize the first move—and invested several billion dollars in the venture.

Losing money was minor; reputation mattered more.

After careful consideration, taking into account Fang Yuan’s upcoming study at Saint Martin’s, and the fact that Eric, recently a professor of fashion design there, was available, he was the perfect choice.

Apparent age: twenty-six.

Handsome, stylish, an English gentleman.

Most importantly, the youngest professor in Saint Martin’s history—a genius designer.

“Perfect!” Dracula thought, brimming with confidence.