Star Eyes Beyond the Shores of Time - Chapter 11 

An idle afternoon left Tong Youxun utterly bored. Wandering down the pedestrian street, she passed rows of dazzling jewelry, clothes, and handbags. Her girlish love of pretty things began to stir. She wanted to shop too—but realized she had no one to go with. Watching groups of girlfriends laughing arm-in-arm, she couldn’t help feeling envious. She wondered if Qi Yuwei might someday become a real friend…

At the next corner, she looked up at a street sign and blinked in surprise.
Sweet Love Road.

“What a name,” she mused. “No wonder couples come here for photos.”

Sure enough, the quaint moss-covered pavilions around her were lined with lovers’ names carved into the turquoise walls—each punctuated by a little heart. A few steps farther stood a small arched stone bridge, its age showing in the faded surface and the traces of past repairs. Behind it, a ring of willow trees had been trimmed with artistic precision, concealing a heart-shaped lawn where couples were camping, laughing, and taking pictures.

The bridge was crowded with people striking romantic poses for photos.

Time flies, years pass, taking away people and things—but never memories…

Under a willow tree, a couple cuddled together whispering.
“Ah Jun,” the girl asked softly, “where do you think Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai went after they turned into butterflies?”

“To Pluto, of course,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “It’s gray and misty there—just like the underworld. Not great for living things, but perfect for spirits.”

She smacked him. “You have no sense of romance! Why not say they became immortal lovers, happily together in heaven?”

“Then Neptune,” he countered. “One day in heaven equals one year on Earth. The time axis there probably matches the celestial realm.”

“Could you try to imagine something beautiful for once?”

“Beyond the eight planets, the universe is infinite,” he said seriously. “Fish in a bowl don’t know about ponds, fish in ponds don’t know about rivers or oceans—and none of them know there’s land, or sky, or space. We only exist inside what we understand.”

The romantic girl and the realist boy—their philosophies clashing in the most dramatic way.

As the boy kept rambling, the girl turned away in a huff. He ran after her.
“Baby, baby! Let’s go get a portrait done together, frame it, and hang it in our new house! Isn’t that romantic?”

“You finally learned some sense of charm!” she laughed, punching his chest.

“There—just ahead.”

A small crowd had gathered beside a bright flowerbed, murmuring quietly, careful not to disturb the person at the center of attention.

Through the gap, Tong Youxun saw a man’s back—black leather jacket, one leg casually crossed, a paintbrush dangling from his mouth as he concentrated under the shifting light.

He looked… familiar.

In front of his easel sat the couple, locked in a dramatic near-kiss.
“Almost done?” the girl pouted.

“If you don’t hurry, I’ll lose control of my saliva!” the boy complained.

“Art takes time,” the painter muttered. “If you don’t kiss, how am I supposed to capture the emotion? I’d rather not earn a cent than paint nonsense.”

The girl huffed, stomped over to peek at the canvas—and instantly melted. She ran back, whispering into her boyfriend’s ear with a blush, “It’s so beautiful… so sensual… let’s hang it in our wedding room.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. Tilting her chin up, he said, “Let’s keep posing then.”

The two resumed kissing—completely oblivious to everyone around them.

Good grief… my eyes…

Tong Youxun was old-fashioned at heart. Sure, dramas did this all the time, but real life? It felt improper—like something that would’ve been scandalous in ancient times.

Then the painter suddenly stood up, tossed his brush aside, and declared, “I can’t do this. Their mouths look like suction cups—it’s an insult to art!”

The crowd burst into laughter.

“Just a second ago, we were all holding our breath watching him work!”

“Artists are really something, huh? He tells them to kiss, then gets offended when they do.”

“Still, that’s a master’s hand. Look at the technique!”

Tong Youxun looked closer—and nearly choked. The painting was exquisite: vivid colors, flawless composition… except the lips weren’t finished. Right before the kiss—blank space.

Then, suddenly, a paintbrush was shoved into her hand.

She looked up—Guān Nuòyǐn. Again. He really was everywhere.

“I took a commission I don’t care about,” he said casually. “You finish it. The pay’s good—four digits. I told the client you’re my little sister.”

“Little sister?” she echoed blankly. “You’re almost done—why—”

He leaned close, whispering, “He’ll pay you directly. Don’t worry.”

Before she could protest, he’d already shoved her onto the stool and disappeared—bag slung over his arm, walking away without looking back.

Always vanishing like smoke, leaving chaos—or opportunity—in his wake.

Well, she thought, if I do this right, maybe I could make some money too.

The hardest part was done anyway; only a few finishing touches were needed. She’d spent plenty of lonely days on the island painting, and even Old Xing had praised her as a “born artist.”

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the brush. A few deft strokes later, the portrait came alive—the figures radiant, the emotion captured perfectly. The couple, lost in their kiss, hadn’t even noticed.

When they finally took the painting, they were thrilled—paid generously, even left a tip.

As they walked away hand in hand, Tong Youxun sat there wondering—why had Guān Nuòyǐn done that? How had he known she loved painting, that she needed money—but still found a way to help her without wounding her pride?

Teaching a man to fish rather than giving him one, she thought, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Still… “sister”? If he were truly as old as he claimed, shouldn’t that make her his granddaughter?

Later that evening, a few more couples came for portraits. Lovers, she discovered, were generous clients. By nightfall, her little box was full of cash, and her heart full of joy.

When she finally packed up, Aunt Lu—the plump dumpling vendor next door—beckoned her over.
“You’re his sister, right? You both look alike. This storage room’s his—he rents it. You can keep your art stuff here.”

“Thank you, Aunt Lu.”

“Hungry?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Nonsense. Sit, I made dumplings.”

As she sat down, Aunt Lu leaned in, eyes glinting.
“So… does your brother have a girlfriend?”

“I… don’t know. We’re not that close.”

“Oh, but he’s such a hardworking young man,” Aunt Lu sighed dreamily. “You know, some people never age. I’ve seen him here ten years—no wrinkles, not a single gray hair. Maybe he’s one of those immortal types you hear about.”

Tong Youxun almost choked on her dumpling. “That’s impossible! He’s not that old!”

Aunt Lu waved her hand. “Who knows? The world’s full of mysteries. Science can’t explain everything—just look at the legends in the Classic of Mountains and Seas.”

“…You’re not planning something weird, are you?”

“Well…” Aunt Lu blushed. “I’m not young anymore, but I still believe in soulmates. My dumpling shop does well—I could support him if I had to. That young man works too hard, my heart aches watching him.”

Oh my god… She wanted to keep Guān Nuòyǐn? As a—pet lover boy?

Tong Youxun spat out her half-chewed dumpling. No wonder he’d run off so fast—he was fleeing a sixty-year-old romantic!

Escaping the dumpling shop, she muttered, “No wonder he dodged that job. He wasn’t lazy—he was running for his life.”

On the way home, she passed the North Sea Aquarium. Mascots in colorful costumes waved at passersby; kids squealed, couples laughed.

Then someone shouted, “Everyone line up! Final show of the night!”

She fished out a crumpled old free ticket—almost cried at the coincidence.

Just then, a giant pink Patrick Star waddled over, handed her a fresh ticket, and said, “Go on, get in line!”

She stared. “You’re… Guān Nuòyǐn, aren’t you?”

Pulling off the mascot head revealed that same familiar face.

“I’m working here now,” he said dryly. “Another part-time gig.”

“Isn’t it hot in there?” she asked, feeling a pang of sympathy.

He shrugged. “Go watch the show.”

Inside, the stadium-sized hall was packed. Streamers glittered overhead; the final act was about to begin.

A whistle blew—

The sea lion trainer appeared, tossing fish into the pool.

The animal, Bubu, wasn’t in a cage—it leapt freely from the water, responding to his calls with happy clicks.

Their performance was flawless—spins, hoops, arithmetic tricks—every move seamless, the audience cheering wildly.

Tong Youxun watched, mesmerized. But when the trainer turned, she froze.

It was him again.

Guān Nuòyǐn.

Painter, mascot, sea lion trainer—was there any job in the world he couldn’t do?

Three hundred sixty-five trades in the world, she thought, and he excels at every single one.