Chapter 7

Time flies, years pass like a shuttle.

This was the phrase Wang Yan used most often when writing essays in his memory.

The older he grew, the more he understood what “flies” and “shuttles” truly meant.

More than three years had passed since the notorious Glivec incident. Today was January 28, 2006, New Year’s Eve.

On this annual day of joy, amid the loud crackling of firecrackers, the long-absent system finally notified him that the task was complete: he had 24 hours to leave this world—perfect timing for the New Year.

He had undergone stem cell transplant surgery a year ago; after a year of recovery, his health was excellent. Plus, he now had more than enough money—no fear of illness, no worry about treatment, full security. Also, Wang Jia and Lv Shengyi’s son was now four and a half years old, the same age as Wang Yan’s stay in this world. The boy had grown up sturdy and lively. Wang Jia had nothing left to worry about—her wish had been fulfilled.

Liu Tiantian, who suffered from the same illness, had also undergone surgery. The little girl, nearly ten years old, bounced around all day, nothing like the child she used to be.

Wang Yan’s heart was filled with excitement. In the blink of an eye, he had been in this world for over four years. He had originally planned to take things one step at a time—never imagining he’d look back and find three years already gone.

Wang Yan deeply missed his parents at home, and that group of true and false friends.

Over the past three years, Wang Yan finally experienced the joy of having endless money, a lifestyle he had never known in thirty years of his life. These years were incomparable to the few-second videos online—video content was too limited. Besides, most billionaires were either too old, or spent all their time figuring out how to make more money, hide wealth, or transfer assets—none had the leisure to show off.

He had only glimpsed a fraction of it. Poverty truly limited imagination—just enjoy it, that’s all.

Wang Yan had not been corrupted. Throughout these years, he never slackened. Besides occasional indulgences, most of his time was spent exercising and studying, making decisions, negotiating deals—busy, fulfilling.

Over these years, Wang Yan’s businesses grew rapidly. Lv Shengyi’s logistics company expanded to major cities nationwide, employing tens of thousands. Domestically, it competed fiercely with SF Express, its strength undeniable. Liu Sihui’s clothing factory also grew rapidly, now forming a complete industrial chain from raw materials to processing, finished garments, and sales, with its own branded products and solid sales.

Wang Yan also founded a tech company that aggressively poached talent, trying to be first in developing smartphones. He established research labs for chips, new materials, and more. He partnered with top universities and hired high-paid experts internationally. In the past two years, they had achieved some results—but high-tech required deep accumulation. Top talent was tightly held; Wang Yan had gone through immense effort to bring in just a handful.

Wang Yan also made huge profits in the stock market, using his memory of future events to quietly harvest from the U.S. market.

Of course, he never forgot his suffering compatriots. In 2003, he donated five million yuan, and in subsequent years, he donated continuously. He didn’t care about the corruption within—his brain wasn’t big enough to handle it—but at least the aid reached those in need.

After years of relentless effort, Wang Yan’s net worth totaled tens of millions of dollars, including substantial real estate and stocks in companies that would later skyrocket. All of it was under Wang Jia and Liu Sihui’s names. He could not take it with him—he had never been overly attached.

He had kept in touch with Cheng Yong and Peng Hao.

Two years ago, both got married—Peng Hao was newlywed, Cheng Yong remarried. Peng Hao’s son was born this year, a boy; Wang Yan attended his hundred-day celebration and gave a gift. Now both ran small businesses, living very happily.

They were truly grateful to Wang Yan. One no longer faced death, his illness was treated, he married and had children. The other now had money and didn’t have to sing “Iron Bars and Tears.” Wang Yan had truly changed their lives.

Wang Yan was quite satisfied with this. But he was limited by his own abilities—if he could have done more, he would have. Ultimately, his level was too low.

He stopped daydreaming and continued celebrating the New Year, enjoying himself.

For years, the New Year had been spent together with Wang Jia, Lv Shengyi, Liu Sihui, and Liu Tiantian—this year was no different.

Wang Yan and the others chatted and laughed. The children ate little; Liu Tiantian played with little Lv Ping nearby.

“Life keeps getting better—this is what living truly means,” Lv Shengyi sighed, raising his cup.

“Come on, big brother, I toast you—no need to thank you.”

Over the years, Lv Shengyi’s logistics company grew ever larger, and so did his confidence. His every gesture now carried a certain aura—he was no longer the hunched, desperate man of the past. But as his business expanded, his time with wife and child shrank—this was the burden of success.

Wang Yan raised his cup, clinked it with his, and drank: “You thank me every year—endlessly. Do you think I’m the one you’re thanking?”

“I’m thanking my little sister. If you’ve got time, spend it with your wife and kid—that’s better than all this nonsense.”

As time passed, Wang Yan truly saw Wang Jia as a little sister—none of the awkwardness from their first meeting remained. He genuinely cherished her. In real life, he was an only child; as a child, he envied friends who had older or younger siblings. Now, having no older sister to dote on him, he had a younger sister to love him—it felt like a dream come true.

Wang Jia just smiled beside them, pouring wine, saying nothing.

She had nothing left to desire. As life improved, she had grown into a woman of noble bearing. Not surprising—Lv Shengyi’s social circle was what it was.

She had a loving brother, a devoted husband, and a cherished child—what greater happiness could there be?

Watching their affection, Wang Yan instinctively took Liu Sihui’s hand. Sensing his touch, she turned and wrapped her arms around him, leaning against his side.

Wang Yan smiled faintly, patted her, and they continued eating and drinking.

The New Year’s bell rang. Wang Yan saw off Wang Jia and her family.

Liu Sihui settled the already-sleeping Liu Tiantian, then stepped out and met Wang Yan’s gaze.

Without a word, Wang Yan picked up Liu Sihui and carried her to the bedroom.

His physical improvements from training were reflected in the system, evenly enhancing his organs, bones, muscles, endurance, and more. After over four years of training, Wang Yan was no longer the same man.

He was about to leave this world—likely never to return.

They had spent years together; Liu Sihui knew Wang Yan well. She sensed his inner turmoil—but she never asked. This was precisely what Wang Yan found most attractive about her.

Wang Yan watched Liu Sihui sleep. She was so captivating—in every aspect of life.

The movie never revealed Liu Sihui’s fate; Wang Yan assumed it was grim.

Though the film ended by saying Glivec would be covered by medical insurance, that was a long process. Even Wang Yan’s interventions accelerated changes, but implementation took time—during which countless people still died. Liu Sihui’s original fate was obvious.

Initially, Wang Yan’s motives weren’t pure. But as time passed, Liu Sihui grew heavier in his heart.

Wang Yan thought of every moment over these four years—his heart filled with longing. Though he knew this was merely one stop on his journey.

“In the end, one must leave.” He sighed.

Wang Yan gently kissed the sleeping Liu Sihui. She stirred slightly, frowning.

He gave her one last lingering look, then called up the system panel and selected “Leave.”

A flash of blue light—and Wang Yan vanished.

With a flash of blue light, Wang Yan reappeared in his bed at home.

He felt the system repairing his body—years of training-induced injuries were fully healed.

The healing process lasted a while, then followed a flood of memories intertwining in his mind—a wave of dizziness.

After a long while, Wang Yan sat up, rubbing his head.

“Only four years and I’m already like this—what’ll happen when I spend longer, experience more?” Wang Yan hesitated.

He shook his head hard, got out of bed, poured himself a glass of water, and checked the time.

5:05.

“Adding my adjustment time and pouring water—that means, no matter how long I spend in the film world, only an instant passes in reality?”

This was good. Ignoring the mystical notion of souls, it simply extended his lifespan and broadened his life experience—he’d benefit endlessly.

“I’m afraid that too many experiences will overwhelm my thirty-year memory. Even my childhood home now feels unfamiliar.”

Thinking of this, Wang Yan resolved to strengthen his mind. Mental strength could enhance memory—even achieve photographic recall—and expand memory capacity. But too much memory was painful—he suffered more the more he experienced.

“I’ll need to elevate my mindset—otherwise I’ll go insane.” Wang Yan made a silent vow.

He opened the system panel.

Wang Yan

Attributes: Strength 12

Agility 12

Constitution 13

Spirit 13

Unallocated points: 4

Storage space: 1m³

Skills: English LV3

Combat LV2

Management LV2

Sales LV2

Japanese LV1

... (numerous zero-level skills omitted)

After years of study and training in “I Am Not a God of Medicine,” Wang Yan’s gains were abundant.

Through relentless training, he was no longer sub-healthy. His constitution, strength, and agility had improved to the level of a regularly active person. He now weighed 160 pounds, but externally looked little changed—without clothes, he was lean and muscular. Perhaps due to the system, his muscles weren’t bulky like a bodybuilder’s, but resembled those of street athletes—better-looking, a perfect balance between the two.

His skill improvements were even greater.

First, his English skill reached LV3—professional level. Though entry-level, he could now work as a translator. Second, his combat skill reached LV2—proficient. He devoted the most effort to combat, hiring numerous domestic and international martial arts masters and nutritionists over the years—this was why his physical condition and English improved.

He studied everything: Sanda, Chinese martial arts, boxing, MMA, judo, Muay Thai, and more. If he had focused on one, he could have reached professional level in it by now. But he spread himself too thin—that’s why he remained at LV2. Still, he had plenty of time to learn, and eventually synthesized his own system.

What he lacked now was real combat experience. Combat is about knocking someone down with minimal cost, least effort, and highest efficiency. He was far from mastering it—but he believed he’d get many chances in the future, even killing.

Of course, he might get lost and become a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. But that was far in the future. One must set goals—success comes later. At least his goal was good—he might even become a grandmaster.

Other skills—management, finance, and more—were numerous. He had dabbled in many miscellaneous areas.

Notably, his sales skill reached LV2—his livelihood skill. Wang Yan guessed this was because he had never handled large-scale sales before.

In the “God of Medicine” world, he operated at a higher level, negotiating many deals. After all, any business needs sales. Amounts ranged from millions to hundreds of millions. Compared to Dalian’s housing prices—each house worth millions—the scale difference was enormous, so the system didn’t recognize his sales ability.

These years of experience also greatly improved his ability to read people and understand human nature. He believed his life in the real world would only get better.

Overall, Wang Yan’s progress was visible. He was extremely satisfied. What greater joy than seeing your own “daily renewal”? This was an unspoken, personal sense of accomplishment.

Wang Jia’s wish was fulfilled, rewarding him 4 free attribute points—nothing else. Wang Yan had no complaints. He had learned so much already—what more could he want? Most important was gratitude.

Wang Yan didn’t rush to allocate points—he’d wait for the next wish task to see the situation.

The memory shock had left him exhausted. He lay down and fell asleep immediately.