Chapter 6: Chapter Six: Success and Withdrawal

As Wang Yan studied day and night, time passed slowly.

In a flash, a month had passed; Peng Hao had been observed enough and was finally cleared to be discharged for rest.

During this period, under Wang Yan’s instructions, Peng Hao had also reached an agreement with Zhang Changlin: Zhang would pay 3.5 million yuan in cash to buy out the domestic agency rights—limited solely to the agency rights; how he imported or sold the drugs was entirely his own business.

The contract also stipulated that its effective date would be August 2002—the same date Wang Yan signed his own agency contract.

Zhang Changlin understood this: from now on, bridges were bridges, roads were roads; if there was money, it was his; if there was trouble, the blame was his. After years of swindling north and south, was he afraid? Of course not—he agreed without a second thought.

To be honest, Zhang Changlin’s ability to raise such a sum surprised Wang Yan. This old fox had ruined countless people over the years—truly, he had done nothing but evil.

With this arrangement, Wang Yan had effectively helped him retire, sparing him the daily grind, exhaustion, and constant fear of harming others.

Now that Zhang Changlin was out to take the blame, whether Cheng Yong and Peng Hao would end up in jail was uncertain—it all depended on how Wang Yan manipulated things.

After discharge, Peng Hao met Zhang Changlin to re-sign the contract with A-san. Under Wang Yan’s massive financial pressure and relentless threats and inducements, the owner of A-san’s pharmaceutical factory cooperated fully, promising to keep silent and arranging everything smoothly—it was done quickly.

Zhang Changlin stared at the signed agency contract, his fat face twitching with delight, grinning ear to ear: “Hah! Peng brother, from now on, you’re free to relax—I’ve got a busy schedule ahead!”

“Oh, where, where? Brother Zhang is risking his life for the patients’ well-being—this is a meritorious deed of immense virtue. We’re counting on you now,” Peng Hao replied solemnly, as if presiding over a solemn handover ceremony.

This was because Peng Hao’s level had improved, and with Wang Yan’s occasional half-baked advice, he was no longer the same fool he used to be.

If Wang Yan were a native of this world, he wouldn’t be a match for an old fox like Zhang Changlin. Zhang had evaded capture for so many years not because no one tried to catch him, but because the pursuit had been insufficient. Even so, that took serious skill—who else could stay free for years like that? Ordinary people simply couldn’t manage it. Wang Yan certainly didn’t have that kind of ability—he was still far behind.

That’s why Wang Yan kept studying—if in the real world he’d had this drive back then, he might have even gotten into Tsinghua or Peking University. He didn’t want to end up in some future world being manipulated and toyed with—that would truly cost him his life. Though the system never specified what happened after death, he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Back to the matter at hand.

Long before Wang Yan thought of Zhang Changlin, he had begun investigating him, and immediately used all his cash—plus the 3.5 million from Zhang—to buy nearly 20,000 bottles of A-san’s Gleevec.

In the past six months, Wang Yan had sold drugs furiously, earning about 20 million yuan. But he wasn’t a professional and had no channels—he dared not involve others. He could only slowly move the drugs through two factories and a few other minor routes, and even then, after extreme caution, he’d only laundered less than 10 million. He didn’t know how to do fancy tricks, and he dared not let anyone who did teach him—he could only be cautious, only steady. That’s why no major problems had emerged until now.

Of course, his protagonist status was the main reason.

Speaking of protagonists, Cheng Yong was truly a talent—he ran things with perfect order. Originally, he had only one port channel; as his operation grew, he expanded into multiple parallel channels and found new ones from scratch. More and more drugs flowed in, prices kept dropping—from an initial 1,200 yuan down to under 800 yuan. Wang Yan truly admired Cheng Yong’s ability, but even more so, his boldness.

He hadn’t been unaware of these ways—after all, folk tales were everywhere; he’d surely heard them. But only after experiencing it himself did he truly understand…

The two A-san men parted ways; Peng Hao returned home to rest.

Zhang Changlin, meanwhile, rushed headlong, without pause, leading his men on a nationwide drug-selling tour. He was selling real medicine now—patients across the country knew its efficacy well; he was no fool to sell fakes.

Meanwhile, Wang Yan no longer wanted to wait—he stopped playing useless games. He launched his actions in sync with Zhang Changlin, first fulfilling his earlier promise by selling off part of the stock at 4,000 yuan.

Then, subtly, he arranged for people to casually spread rumors among patients, openly and covertly promoting Zhang Changlin as a good man, a true benefactor to countless fellow sufferers.

Wang Yan’s channels were extremely powerful. There were only tens of thousands of patients with this disease in China; his own patient base was already substantial, and when you added their families, the number was incalculable—vast beyond measure. With these people spreading word of mouth, nearly every patient soon knew.

In any era, rumors spread at an astonishing speed. Zhang Changlin didn’t realize his reputation among patients and fellow sufferers had reached its zenith.

Though unaware, he clearly sensed a difference—after all, even real medicine didn’t warrant such enthusiasm. He was puzzled: “Is my medicine really this effective? Why are people buying so eagerly?”

Not understanding why, he simply kept traveling with his men, making a fortune at 5,000 yuan per bottle. Since Wang Yan was selling at 4,000, some patients knew and complained to him, wondering why there was a price gap. Zhang Changlin paid no mind—he was the seller in a seller’s market, and it never occurred to him that Wang Yan had orchestrated it all.

He no longer gave lectures—the efficacy had been proven; why bother? Though his channels weren’t as solid as Cheng Yong’s, his cost was under 1,500 yuan—why waste time on speeches when he could earn so much more?

Wang Yan watched him host banquets, waiting for the house to collapse.

Through Wang Yan’s propaganda, Zhang Changlin’s good days ended in less than a month. Too many people knew—secrets that aren’t kept lead to ruin—and the crackdown intensified sharply. Fortunately, patients remained grateful, helping him escape repeatedly.

He’d faced such situations before—minor affairs—but this time, the pressure was unusually intense.

With no choice, he resorted to hiding his whereabouts, giving remote orders, and evading police pursuit.

Meanwhile, Wang Yan took advantage of Zhang Changlin’s exhaustion and distraction to impersonate him and slash prices.

3,800, 3,500, 3,300, 3,000…

Under Wang Yan’s massive cash flow, in A-san’s words: “Forget the contract—we’re best friends. Shouldn’t friends help each other?” He kept using incoming money to restock, and Gleevec prices plummeted wildly—patients rejoiced.

Norma Corporation couldn’t hold out. Finally, they fired Zhao Lizhong and sent over a foreigner. Someone had to take responsibility. They also offered A-san certain concessions, directly shutting down the factory and halting production.

Wang Yan had no fondness for Zhao Lizhong—perhaps because the actor portrayed him too well. Earning money was understandable; even kneeling to earn it was forgivable. Whoever reached that position, aside from other factors, clearly had ability.

Hearing the news about such people, Wang Yan just heard it—he didn’t care.

Alongside the steep price cuts, Wang Yan continuously spread propaganda about Norma Corporation’s cruelty, paid for articles in major media outlets criticizing leukemia treatment, and relentlessly promoted Zhang Changlin’s image, building his fame.

Zhang Changlin had also sensed something was off—the prices were crashing; even pigs could tell something was wrong. He considered whether Peng Hao had betrayed him, but dismissed the thought immediately—he’d thoroughly investigated Peng Hao before approaching him; logically, Peng Hao had no motive. That would be dogs fighting each other—no one escapes unscathed; the result would only be mutual ruin.

Moreover, Peng Hao had helped him a great deal during this period, even giving him 500,000 yuan to flee.

He could never have imagined Wang Yan was orchestrating everything behind the scenes.

Now that Zhang Changlin was elevated and the market controlled by Wang Yan, he had no choice but to follow the price cuts.

Each price drop, combined with Wang Yan’s relentless praise, cemented the fact that Zhang Changlin was the organizer of counterfeit drug sales—he had no defense.

The police closely monitored everything; once they gathered this information, they launched a multi-regional joint operation. Yet Zhang Changlin was still giving remote orders—no doubt he’d gone mad. It took nearly two more months before he was finally captured.

Thus ended Zhang Changlin’s three most glorious—and perhaps most carefree—months.

As in the film, unlike Cheng Yong, Zhang Changlin admitted all charges against him and accepted full responsibility.

The legal process moved swiftly—this case was too big; by the time Zhang Changlin was arrested, Wang Yan had already turned it into a national sensation.

Zhang Changlin was ultimately sentenced to life imprisonment. Many patients had petitioned and pleaded for leniency, but eventually, the police released his full list of crimes. Seeing those charges, the patients lost their will to defend him—they couldn’t understand how someone so utterly evil could do such things.

Still, many patients held Zhang Changlin in gratitude; thousands came to see him off. This was perhaps the most glorious moment of Zhang Changlin’s life—later, in prison, when he chatted, boasted, or spun tales, he’d leave listeners stunned.

Why Zhang Changlin never implicated Peng Hao remained unknown—perhaps due to some sense of honor? A conscience awakened? Or perhaps years of this trade had made him indifferent to debt—he knew the law well enough to understand that life plus life was still just life?

Who cared why he stayed silent? Whether it was conscience or giving up, Peng Hao, Cheng Yong, and Wang Yan had all escaped perfectly—everyone was happy. This was how it worked: if you’re not life, I’m not life—so let it be you.

But relying on one person to carry all hope was naive and unrealistic—especially when that person was no good. Wang Yan had little experience with such matters. Morality and law were hard for police to navigate; they were human too, and didn’t want more trouble. If they truly dug deep, there were enough loopholes to implicate every one of them—Wang Yan included. Did they really think the state’s long-tested violent apparatus was just for show?

Perhaps they’d already noticed traces—but they saw some sense of responsibility, no outright evil, and chose not to pursue further.

Wang Yan had long prepared to sacrifice Cheng Yong and Peng Hao—luckily, the outcome was ideal.

Cheng Yong and Peng Hao could finally rest easy, living peaceful lives. Wang Yan wasn’t stingy—both now had millions in assets. As long as they didn’t act foolishly, running small businesses with their past skills, they’d live comfortably, with food and shelter assured.

Of course, the smugglers met no better fate. The police launched a sweeping crackdown on smuggling crimes, reaping rich results. When they said they’d get you, you simply couldn’t escape.

But the matter wasn’t over yet—that wasn’t Wang Yan’s desired outcome.

During this time, Wang Yan’s media blitz intensified—newspapers, the internet, even TV news carried the story. With cheap drugs gone, patients across the country united in protest, submitting petitions en masse.

The uproar grew larger, quickly reaching the highest levels. Soon came mountains of documents and endless meetings.

After several discussions, “Opinions on Deepening Medical and Health System Reform” was proposed—but conditions and timing weren’t ripe, so it was shelved.

But the problem had to be addressed; soon after, a speech was issued outlining a phased plan for pharmaceutical industry reform, including the resolution to gradually include Gleevec in the medical insurance system—a clear message to the patients.

As for deeper issues, Wang Yan’s level simply couldn’t reach them.

National trends couldn’t be shaken by one man alone.

But Wang Yan’s involvement made this incident’s impact greater and more far-reaching, significantly accelerating the state’s resolve for reform.

Though he didn’t know exactly how far it would go, he was certain it would advance history’s timeline—and every day of advance meant countless lives saved.

“I Am Not a God of Medicine” had reached its grand finale; Wang Yan had played the unseen hero.

But Wang Yan’s mission wasn’t just to reach the finale—how could he ensure Lv Shengyi survived?

He had no idea what to do—he could only take one step at a time.