At nine in the morning, Zeolite Beach lay beneath thick fog rolling in from the sea, dimming some of the sunlight. The boundaries between light and shadow on the beach were blurred, as though viewed through frosted glass, instinctively making people feel that perhaps many details would be lost at this moment.
And so, at this very moment, the hundreds and thousands of eyes around the world desperately fixed on this private beach were like hundreds and thousands of searchlights. Though each person had different motives and thoughts, in that instant, they had truly achieved a moment of perfect coordination:
They wished they could illuminate every detail here, especially within the tiny space of Ronan's palm, with absolute clarity.
The emotion was so intense that even Shi Xinhe's and Zhang Yingying's cameras seemed unable to bear it, shaking violently—though from another perspective, this perfectly matched the state of mind of the vast majority.
In fact, Shi Xinhe, who stood facing Ronan on the beach, had no idea where his camera had tilted off to. Fortunately, Zhang Yingying was still there, coordinating with him to project this absurd, incomprehensible scene into people's view.
Zhang Yingying's camera showed that Shi Xinhe now resembled an old machine soaked in seawater, every joint rusted solid. He remained in the pose of reaching out, the Format Fire above his hand flickering faintly in reluctant reflection of the flame in Ronan's palm, yet making no further move.
He had no idea what to do next.
Shi Xinhe did not move. Ronan did.
The latter extended his "flaming" hand a little farther, bringing the edge of his palm into contact with Shi Xinhe's thumb, nearly level with it.
The two clusters of Format Fire burning separately swayed a few times in the sea breeze. Then their flames