Future Love Contract (GL) - Chapter 16

Although she said that, Zhao Xinyun couldn’t help getting nervous. This nervousness was mixed with excitement—like the feeling of entering a competition in a subject one excelled at back in school, filled with anticipation and tension.

Although that comparison might not be entirely appropriate, since Zhao Xinyun didn’t even know what qualities she might possess that would make her “good at” something and be selected. So the tension weighed more heavily than excitement.

“You know, Luo Peichen isn’t particularly busy because of this,” Gresya said reassuringly. “She even said a couple of days ago that we should still find time to talk about the four-person double date. So you really don’t need to worry—about anything.”

“So what are the selection criteria exactly?” Zhao Xinyun was most curious about this.

“No idea. Aside from the usual qualifications, it seems like there’s something special involved.

I asked Luo Peichen, and she told me it’s confidential—even she doesn’t know what it is. And I don’t think she’s just being coy,” Gresya replied, falling into thought. “What could it be, though?”

Thinking of Luo Peichen’s serious and no-nonsense demeanor, Zhao Xinyun had to admit—she really didn’t seem like the type to play coy. “No use overthinking it. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Although the official announcement hadn’t been released yet, word that the interstellar exploration program was about to begin spread rapidly through the grapevine.

Communication technology in this era was already extremely advanced. Even between different planets, information transmission was lightning-fast.

Messages between Earth and Venus took only about two minutes to transmit (roughly the distance between the planets divided by the speed of light). Earth was a little farther from Mars—transmissions could take three or four minutes at best, and under half an hour at worst.

This might pose some inconvenience for real-time communication like “phone calls,” but it didn’t hinder the spread of gossip at all.

Just as Zhao Xinyun expected, discussions on forums across Earth, Mars, and Venus quickly exploded. In this era, forums might seem like outdated relics long overdue for retirement, but they still hadn’t disappeared.

The reason was simple: a group chat app similar to 21st-century QQ would be difficult to use across planets.

A group chat spanning Earth and Mars would be nearly impossible to use smoothly because of message delays. This wasn’t a problem current technology could solve—only faster-than-light transmission could.

So forums remained widely used across planets. Just one caveat—comments like “+1 to the reply above” weren’t very convenient anymore. You couldn’t be sure whether someone else had jumped in during those few minutes of message travel.

However, what surprised Zhao Xinyun was that despite the heated discussion online and offline, people didn’t seem particularly eager to actually participate.

In fact, many were focused on how dangerous this program might be for ordinary civilians. By now, most people on Earth and Mars were accustomed to a stable, uneventful lifestyle—even though their ancestors might’ve been the pioneers who once boarded far more primitive spacecraft to colonize Mars.

Zhao Xinyun didn’t bother with any of that. In her opinion, the fewer people signing up, the better—it meant less competition.

As for the danger?

She had already transmigrated from another life and survived just fine. Could space really be more dangerous than transmigration? She knew that logic was pretty flawed, but it helped calm her nerves.

Gresya didn’t seem to be using the same kind of flawed reasoning to comfort herself, but she appeared just as calm.

“How do you manage it? Don’t you worry about the risks?” Zhao Xinyun asked.

Gresya clearly had thought about this.

After a brief moment, she replied with careful analysis. “The danger is definitely exaggerated.

First, people’s perceptions are heavily influenced by various media. Those tragic love stories separated by the stars really tug at the audience’s heartstrings, and adding outer space exploration into those plotlines has become a popular and reliable formula for writers.

That’s why we see that kind of narrative on screen so often. On the other hand, the authorities actually like this kind of fear-mongering, because it filters out the timid and leaves behind only those with both courage and competence.”

“To leave the solar system within my lifetime—that’s been my dream for years,” Gresya nodded firmly. “So I’m not giving it up. But what about you? I know I’m probably overthinking this, but I still have to say it—don’t risk your life for me. If you don’t want to go, I would never pressure you.”

“Me? Ha, you are overthinking it. I want to go. I long to go. It’s that simple,” Zhao Xinyun said with a smile. Her resolve hadn’t changed—transmigration had handed her this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and she was going to seize it.

A few days later, the official promotional campaign began in full force. The program’s website went live too.

It wasn’t as overwhelmed as some had expected—not like those jam-packed train ticket sites from the 21st century—but it still saw plenty of traffic.

Zhao Xinyun noticed from the forums that some people were actively hyping up how dangerous the mission was, clearly trying to scare off potential rivals.

She and Gresya waited for the website to stabilize and quickly signed up. Just as they were getting ready to prepare for the selection process, something unexpected happened again.

Jiang Yongxi reappeared.

To be fair, he wasn’t entirely hopeless. It seemed he had learned from his last encounter—this time, he didn’t try to force Zhao Xinyun to go with him.

Instead, he used a much softer, more persuasive tone. But the content of his persuasion only made her more irritated.

“Xinyun, here’s how I see this interstellar exploration program…” Zhao Xinyun lazily lifted her eyelids and glanced from her straw to the collar of Jiang Yongxi’s shirt.

The guy had already been rambling about all sorts of nonsense. If it weren’t for her manners and a bit of curiosity, she would’ve walked out a long time ago. Now it looked like he was finally getting to the point.

Initially, Zhao Xinyun didn’t even plan on entertaining him. She wanted to turn down the invitation.

But after thinking it over, she decided to go anyway. On one hand, she might be able to recover more of her memories—at least partially. On the other, she was a little curious to see what tricks Jiang Yongxi might try this time.

Of course, she wasn’t going in unprepared. When Gresya heard about it, she immediately offered to go with her, and Zhao Xinyun agreed—it was her idea, after all.

Surprisingly, Jiang Yongxi agreed to let Gresya come along. Zhao Xinyun hadn’t expected that. She figured he probably knew she’d refuse if he didn’t agree.

“I heard people say this interstellar mission is extremely dangerous. So I really hope you’ll stay on Venus. Or if you don’t like it here, I can go with you to Mars—or even back to Earth. As long as you say the word,” he said.

“How about I say this: stop bothering me, will you?” Zhao Xinyun was getting fed up.

“Xinyun, I’m just thinking about what’s best for you,” Jiang Yongxi replied, his expression serious—but with that same condescending tone.

“I don’t need you to think for me.” Zhao Xinyun’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know I even signed up?”

“You don’t remember? Back on Earth, you mentioned it several times.”

Zhao Xinyun rubbed her forehead in frustration.

She didn’t remember. But she quickly looked back up, making it seem like she was facepalming out of exasperation. “Maybe I changed my mind. Let me make it clear—first of all, we have nothing to do with each other, so I don’t need to consider your advice.

Second, I haven’t even decided whether I’m going. Since the registration info is confidential, and the website only shows the total number of applicants, I doubt you have the means to check. So if you’ve got nothing else to say, sorry—we have things to do. We’ll be going now.”

She emphasized the word “we”, and before Jiang Yongxi could respond, she took Gresya by the arm and stood up, leaving the café. As they passed the counter, she didn’t forget to scan her fingerprint to pay for her drink.

“Every time something like this happens, I end up troubling you… I really—thank you,” Zhao Xinyun said once they were in the car.

“Oh please, it’s my mess—I’ll clean it up,” Gresya replied, as if it were only natural.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zhao Xinyun raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, I’m the one who suggested pretending to be a couple in the first place.”

“We never agreed you’d help clean up this kind of mess… though I guess I didn’t really expect this kind of mess either,” Zhao Xinyun said, starting to feel a bit guilty.

“Oh right,” Gresya suddenly remembered. “You said you lost your memory—was it because of him?”

“Yeah, that’s what triggered it,” Zhao Xinyun sighed. She figured that even if she didn’t spell it out, Gresya would probably guess most of it anyway.

So she decided to come clean. “When I first met you, I had no memory of him. But that day at the sunrise—when I first saw him again—I passed out because part of my memory came back. Even now, although I remember him, there are still some specific memories that I can’t piece together.”