Chapter 22: Douluo

It was dusk again, the dismissal bell echoing through the campus.

Han Letian, who had taken several days of sick leave and returned to school today, yawned, slumped over his desk, and sighed heavily with a listless expression.

"What's wrong with you?"

Li Cheng stretched, stood up, and began packing his bag.

"I'm so tired."

Han Letian, head buried, answered in a muffled voice: "That Gen-Sys Biotech fever reducer works, but the side effect is it makes you sleepy."

GS Biotech, established four years ago through joint investment by over a dozen multinational pharmaceutical corporations (Pfizer, Novartis, Roche, Johnson & Johnson, etc.), operates across pharmaceuticals, medical devices, diagnostic products, agriculture, forestry, and genetically modified foods—it is the world's most technologically advanced pharmaceutical company, often compared to Umbrella Corporation from Resident Evil.

Of course, GS Biotech is far superior to Umbrella Corporation.

The latter went bankrupt and liquidated under U. S. sanctions; the former is itself a global monopolistic interest group, long embedded in every corner of America's high echelons, with connections in both major parties.

"So that's your excuse for sleeping in math class?"

Mu Yulu, sitting in front of Li Cheng, heard their conversation, packed her bag, and complained: "I can hear your snoring from here. You didn't stay up all night reading novels or manga again, did you?"

"Cough, you caught me."

Han Letian stopped pretending: "Lying at home was too boring, so I just reread all the old novels. You know what? Classics really are classics.

Too bad flowers bloom again but youth never returns; the author's life experiences and personal circumstances at different stages shape different mindsets.

Once you pass that mindset, you can never recreate the same work again.

Just as Jiang Nan, now successful and famous, can no longer write the youthful passion of Dragon Raja;

Meng Ru Shenji, obsessed with martial arts, can no longer write the fury and bitterness of Dragon and Snake Legend;

Tang Jia San, who has gained both fame and fortune—

Wait, he actually still can!"

Han Letian suddenly perked up, slammed his palm, and listed: From Douluo Continent, to Douluo Continent II: The Ultimate Tang Men, Douluo Continent III: The Legend of the Dragon King, Douluo Continent IV: Ultimate Douluo, Douluo Continent V: Reincarnated Tang San, plus the spin-offs Douluo Continent: Divine Realm Legend, Douluo Continent: Tang Men Hero Legend, and Douluo Continent: Douluo World.

"You can recite all these works so fluently—you're the one who's black to the core and naturally turned into a fan, aren't you?"

Mu Yulu, tired of hearing "Douluo" over and over, rubbed her temple in exasperation.

"Hahaha, impossible—I'm not interested in hydrogen people."

Han Letian waved his hand and started packing his bag too; before leaving the classroom, he ruffled the hair of Yang Ling, the homeroom teacher's daughter, who sat in the right assistant seat by the podium, and said goodbye to her.

Yang Ling just started elementary school this year, adorable as if carved from powder and jade. When she's in a good mood, she politely says goodbye to older siblings; when she's not, she puffs up like a kitten and refuses to let anyone touch her head.

"Goodbye, Brother Han, Brother Li, Sister Mu."

Okay, looks like she's in a good mood today.

The three walked out of the campus together; Han Letian's mother waited outside in an Audi to pick him up.

Han Letian climbed into the car and asked casually: "Where's Dad?"

"Your dad went fishing this afternoon and hasn't come back yet."

Han's mother, young-looking and fashionably dressed, spoke with clear annoyance: "We agreed you'd take me to the movies today—he better get back in time."

Han Letian replied helplessly: "Mom, I just got over being sick—how could you two ditch me to go see a movie?"

Han's mother waved it off: "As long as your temperature dropped, you're fine. Back when you were little, you weren't this delicate—any headache or cold, just drink more cough syrup and sleep soundly."

"Was that sleeping soundly? Or were you just knocked out by the sedatives? I'm starting to wonder if I'm even your biological child."

Han Letian wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. Some cough syrups contain sedative and calming ingredients that cause drowsiness and dizziness.

"You're only starting to wonder now? We've been wondering for a long time."

Han's mother rubbed her chin, putting on a wise, thoughtful expression: "After all, according to your attribute panel, you didn't inherit your dad's 【Glutton】, 【Thick Fat】, 【Drive】, or my 【Charming Body】, 【Super Luck】 traits."

"What the hell are these 'traits'?" Han Letian groaned, exasperated: "So our whole family are Pokémon now?!"

Han's mother ignored her son's complaint and turned to Li Cheng and Mu Yulu: "By the way, Xiao Cheng, Xiao Lu, want a ride home? I'll take you."

"No thanks, we've got to go to the hospital—it's not far, no need to trouble you, Auntie."

Li Cheng and Mu Yulu waved off the offer; after seeing off the Audi, they exchanged a glance, sighed together, and rode their bikes toward Yin City Sixth People's Hospital.

Han Letian's mother is a fashion designer; his father is a software architect. Both were hardcore nerds in their youth, deeply immersed in light novels, anime, animation, galgames, AVGs, and visual novels—the Brahmins of the otaku world.

Now, with money, free time, and youthful minds, they still frequently attend anime conventions around the country.

Their lifelong dream is to plug into the virtual world via Prometheus Lab's brainstem interface once it hits the market.

In a certain sense, they're quite enviable parents.

At least they're far healthier than Li Cheng and Mu Yulu's family atmospheres—Mu Yulu's mother suffers from heart disease and is hospitalized year-round; Mu Yulu goes to care for her.

As for Li Cheng, besides visiting Mu Yulu's mother, he also needs to visit Aunt Zhao, his former employer at Zhao's Cake Shop.

————

Airports have witnessed more sincere kisses than wedding chapels; hospital walls have heard more prayers than churches.

After finishing their visits and walking downstairs, Li Cheng sat on a bench in the hospital's flower bed rest area, gazing at the bright moon in the night sky, and unexpectedly thought of this phrase.

He didn't really like coming to the hospital—not because of the faint, ever-present smell of disinfectant, but because of certain examples.

The children of elderly patients always bickered over who paid less, contributed less, or took more of the inheritance;

A middle-aged worker with lung disease lay on his bed while his family and the factory owner negotiated a settlement amount and decided to abandon him;

Parents, seeking compensation, wheeled their already-dead children into the hospital demanding doctors revive them;

Li Cheng didn't consider himself a saintly, compassionate soul, but sometimes he wondered—if there were a universal cure that could heal all diseases and erase all suffering, how wonderful that would be.

"Move over."

Uncle Zhao, wearing a baseball cap, sat beside Li Cheng. His face had grown thin, exhaustion unmistakable; he held a pack of cheap cigarettes, reached for one, then remembered something and put it back.

"Urban redevelopment is moving so fast. I went to take a look yesterday—just a few days, and the cake shop was completely torn down."

He sighed: "Back then, buying equipment, handling paperwork, renovating—it took nearly three months. Now it feels like another lifetime."

Perhaps when people grow old, they start longing for the past.

As Uncle Zhao rambled on about the past—how he and his wife had met and come to know each other, how they had gained a foothold in Yin City, and the joy and anxiety that came after having a child.

A life's story is neither short nor long; the paper shell of the cheap cigarette was crumpled and wrinkled, and the story too had reached its end.

Li Cheng, who had been listening quietly and chiming in from time to time, was silent for a moment, then said slowly, "Uncle Zhao, you didn't used to wear a hat."

"…You noticed?"

Uncle Zhao gave a wry smile and took off the baseball cap on his head. The hair, which had once been fairly thick, was now especially sparse, with some blotches scattered across the yellowish scalp.

"And here too." He rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a ring of red rash around his arm.

Li Cheng hesitated. "This is…"

"The doctor said your aunt's cancer is very tricky—even cutting out most of her liver won't cure it. The best treatment plan is the gene therapy from gen-sys Biotech. Four courses, several hundred thousand each."

Uncle Zhao said calmly, "I scraped together whatever money I could, but it still wasn't enough, so I signed up for this company's experimental new drug.

Every shot, ten thousand yuan. If the side effects are severe, thirty thousand. After five shots, every additional shot pays more and more."

A breeze blew past, the sparse strands of hair fluttering, like tumbleweeds drifting through a Western.

"…"

Li Cheng was silent for a long time before saying hoarsely, "…I thought this kind of human experimentation only happened in India,"

"Haha, people from different regions have different genes. If gs wants to make a domestic specialty drug, of course they need domestic test subjects."

Uncle Zhao laughed a little. "As it happens, I'm a rare panda blood type, so they pay me more than the others."

If it were some "moral model" or "social elite" standing here, they would surely condemn Uncle Zhao for his foolish ignorance.

Is a medical experiment of unknown risk something a sane ordinary person should do? God knows what those big companies put in their drugs.

What if, ten or twenty years from now, the side effects suddenly appear—senile dementia, stroke, hemiplegia all hitting at once—and the small amount of money earned now isn't even enough to see a doctor. And if you want to sue, the contract clauses those big companies provide have long since sealed off every possibility.

Li Cheng started to speak several times, but in the end said nothing—there is only one kind of illness in this world. Poverty.

Uncle Zhao patted Li Cheng on the shoulder, put his cap back on, and went upstairs.

(End of chapter)