Chapter 89 The thin air on the plateau seems to still...
The thin air of the plateau seemed to linger deep within her lungs, carrying a crisp yet austere memory. When Ren Xiyao returned to the training base in Beijing and threw herself into the final preparations for the new season, her body possessed a lightness and power that came with pushing her limits. Her hard work in Xinjiang had paid off; all her indicators had reached new peaks, and her feel on the ice was smoother and more effortless than ever before.
Everything seemed to be going in the best possible direction. She was focused, dedicated, and full of anticipation for the upcoming season.
However, the world doesn't revolve solely around the ice rink. Subtle, initially insignificant signals, like pebbles thrown into a calm lake, begin to ripple silently, foreshadowing a disruption of the balance.
The first to feel the changes were probably Kwon Ji-yong, who was at the center of the storm.
"Our market share in China has dropped by 37%." The CFO's voice was flat and emotionless: "The original tour plans need to be reassessed."
"What are your thoughts on this data?" The CFO pushed up his glasses.
Silence fell over the meeting room.
“Other regions can fill the gap,” the head of the artist management department broke the silence: “Box office revenue in Japan and Southeast Asia has remained very stable.”
“But the profit margins are different.” The CFO shook his head: “The sponsorship standards and ticket prices in the Chinese market are 30% higher than in Southeast Asia.”
The conference room was deathly silent.
Kwon Ji-yong glanced down at his phone. It was a message from Ren Xiyao sent a few hours earlier: "The external training agreement has been terminated."
There was no explanation, no extra emotion, just a statement of a trivial fact. He stared at the message for a long time, until the sun kicked him under the table.
"Zhilong," Yang Xianshuo's voice came from the head seat, "what do you think?"
Kwon Ji-yong looked up and slowly closed his phone: "Act according to the contract."
Yang Hyun-suk squinted: "I'm asking about your plans for the members' service period."
"Those who should leave, leave; those who should stay, stay." He said calmly, "The military service law won't change because of stock prices."
The air in the meeting room grew even thicker. He knew, of course. With the members' enlistment dates approaching, BIGBANG, this massive machine that brought the company enormous profits, would temporarily grind to a halt. And he, as the soul of the group and currently the artist with the highest commercial value, naturally became the most important pillar, perhaps even the only pillar, supporting the company through this "downtime." Especially in the current… delicate "market environment." But what could he possibly think at this moment? He wasn't really God. Once the military notification came, no one could reverse it.
When the meeting ended, Yang Xianshuo kept him behind and said, "If you don't want to break up with your girlfriend, then keep her hidden. Don't do anything out of line, and don't cause any trouble at this time." After saying that, he left without looking back.
On the other side, Ren Xiyao pushed her luggage cart out of customs, her phone vibrating in her pocket. It was a message from Lin Shan: "I just overheard the coach say that all of us who won World Championship medals last season will be returning to the team and starting training with the national team next week. The higher-ups will be very strict."
She looked up in Lin Shan's direction, and Lin Shan was also giving her a wink. She replied with an "Mm," and looked up to see the national team staff holding up signs to pick her up at the airport, her face showing a hesitant expression.
"Xi Yao," the other person took their luggage, "The General Administration requires all personnel who have recently gone out for training to return and report on their work."
"knew."
The terminal's televisions were playing financial news, with a brief mention of a certain entertainment company's stock price crashing. Ren Xiyao paused, took out her phone, snapped a photo, and sent it to Kwon Ji-yong: "We've arrived."
Three seconds later, a reply popped up: "I'll call you back when my meeting is over."
She stared at the "meeting" for two seconds, then put her phone back in her pocket.
After finishing a day of training, Ren Xiyao lay in bed scrolling through the news. In the corner of the sports section, there was an inconspicuous news flash: "Some sports exchange projects between China and South Korea are suspended, with ice and snow sports less affected."
Her phone suddenly vibrated; a video call request from Kwon Ji-yong popped up. She answered it. The man on the other end of the screen had messy hair, and the background looked like a sofa in a studio.
"Is the meeting over?" she asked.
"Hmm." Kwon Ji-yong rubbed his eyes. "Why did you suddenly come back?"
"The coach informed us that the national team has ended its training camp early this year." Ren Xiyao propped her phone up on her pillow: "He didn't say why."
A subtle silence fell between them. Kwon Ji-yong stared at her slightly tired face on the screen, recalling the hesitant reports from the meeting earlier that day: the Chinese partner suddenly withdrawing its investment, several endorsements being replaced at the last minute, and even his personal brand's overseas production lines being affected.
“I might…” he carefully chose his words: “I will be going to China less often in the future.”
Ren Xiyao hummed in agreement, her eyes calm: "I guessed it."
Kwon Ji-yong felt a tightness in his chest. She was always like this, frighteningly perceptive, yet so understanding that it was heartbreaking.
"Ren Xiyao".
"Um?"
"We'll be fine."
She looked at him for a while, then suddenly said, "Do you know what the first thing short track speed skating taught me was?"
Kwon Ji-yong shook his head.
"No matter how much the athlete tilts, or what kind of external forces or interference they encounter," she said softly, "the athlete must maintain their own balance."
Two thousand kilometers apart, on opposite sides of the screen, the balance began to sway, but the clenched hands never loosened.
Time slipped by, and it was Kwon Ji-yong's birthday. He sat cross-legged on the studio floor, a dozen or so design drafts for his new album spread out in front of him. His phone vibrated as he was drawing an "X" on a logo with a red marker. The phone lay beside him, its screen displaying his chat with Ren Xiyao: "In South Korea."
"Yes, the studio."
The message showed as read, but there was no reply. He stared at the ceiling for a while, then reached for the cigarette pack on the coffee table, only to find it empty.
The sky outside was gradually darkening, but the studio was brightly lit. The light fell on the dark jade ring on his left ring finger. Since the incident, their contact had become cautious and restrained. They no longer easily mentioned meeting, no longer discussed future plans, and even their phone calls had become brief, as if they were deliberately avoiding a sensitive topic. Suddenly, his phone vibrated: "Come to your place."
Kwon Ji-yong frowned: "?"
"Take the things out from the very back of the top cabinet in the kitchen."
He stared at the message for a few seconds, then suddenly jumped up from the sofa, grabbed his car keys, and rushed out.
Back in their apartment in Gangnam, a place filled with countless memories, Kwon Ji-yong stood in the kitchen. It had been a long time since he'd been back, and a faint smell of dust lingered. He opened the top cabinet, revealing neatly arranged spare cutlery and several unopened bottles of red wine. Deep inside was a palm-sized velvet box, hidden behind a stack of napkins. A folded note was pressed against the bottom. Kwon Ji-yong unfolded the note; it bore Ren Xiyao's neat handwriting:
Happy 28th birthday, may you have more freedom.
Ren Xiyao sat in the corner of the physical training room, a towel draped around her neck, staring at her phone screen.
Kwon Ji-yong sent a series of question marks and exclamation marks, ending with a voice message: "When did you hide it?!"
She gently pressed the voice button: "Before I went to Jeju Island last time."
It was mid-May, the last week of her training trip. She went to his house for a nice meal, but he went to answer a phone call. She hid the gift because she knew then that they might not be able to see each other on his birthday.
My phone vibrated again; this time it was a video call request.
Ren Xiyao looked around; only two young team members remained in the training room, tidying up the equipment. She put on her headphones and connected to the video call.
Kwon Ji-yong's face filled the screen, against the backdrop of the warm light from his kitchen. His hair was slightly disheveled, but his eyes shone with an astonishing brightness: "Can I take it apart now?"
"what ever."
"Wait a minute," he said, propping his phone up on the counter and opening the velvet box with both hands. "...What's this?"
Ren Xiyao watched him hold up the brass key, examining it closely under the light. The key was old, with worn teeth, and a small ice skate pendant was attached to the end.
"The key to my old home in Harbin," she said softly. "The house I lived in when I was a child."
Kwon Ji-yong's hand suddenly stopped in mid-air.
"No one lives here now, but the lock hasn't been changed," Ren Xiyao continued. "What if one day..."
She paused, not finishing her sentence. But Kwon Ji-yong understood: if we ever get separated, you should look for me there.
Silence fell on both ends of the screen. The air conditioner in the training room hummed, and the kitchen faucet on Kwon Ji-yong's side wasn't turned off properly, the dripping sound like some kind of countdown.
"Ren Xiyao." He finally spoke, his voice a little hoarse: "This gift is too precious." She never gave gifts easily, but he cherished every single one of them.
"There's only one key."
"You know what I'm talking about."
“My grandma said,” she changed the subject, “that key can open all the locks in the world.”
Kwon Ji-yong laughed: "You're just kidding, aren't you?"
"Hmm." She smiled and said, "I didn't believe it when I was ten."
Kwon Ji-yong hung the key on his keychain, huddled together with his car keys and studio keys. The ice skate pendant swayed gently, shimmering in the setting sun.
Sun called: "Seven o'clock tonight, same place, don't be late."
"knew."
"The cake you ordered is one you like," Sun suddenly lowered her voice, "What did she send?"
Kwon Ji-yong touched the key in his hand: "Pass."
"ah?"
"It's nothing." He changed the subject: "Has everyone arrived?"
"There's traffic on the road. Some people haven't arrived yet." The sun paused. "...Aren't you really going to go find her?"
The metal edge of the key pressed against his palm, and Kwon Ji-yong remembered what Ren Xiyao had said, "What if one day..."
“Not now,” he finally said.
It was past 11 p.m. Ren Xiyao finished tidying up and lay in bed when her phone vibrated. It was a message from Quan Zhilong: "I tried the key."
"?"
"Indeed, not all locks can be opened."
"......"
"But you can drive my house."
The attached photo showed the key to his front door in the lock, the door ajar, and warm yellow light shining through, as if waiting for her.
Ren Xiyao stared at the photo for a long time until the screen automatically turned off. The night sky over Beijing was starless, but the stars over western Sichuan and Jeju Island were enough for her to remember for a long time.
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