Chapter 22: Douluo

Again, it was dusk; the school bell echoed through the campus.

Han Letian, who had taken several days of sick leave and only returned today, yawned and slumped over his desk, sighing 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 buried his head and answered in a muffled voice: “That fever-reducing drug from GS Biotech works, but the side effect is extreme drowsiness.”

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 was liquidated under U.S. sanctions; the former is itself a global monopolistic interest group, long embedded in every corner of America’s elite, with connections in both major political parties.

“So that’s why you slept through math class?”

Mu Yulu, sitting in front of Li Cheng, heard their conversation, packed her bag, and complained: “I could 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 entirely different mindsets.

Once you’ve passed 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;

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 Gate, 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.”

“With such intimate knowledge of so many works, aren’t you the kind who turns into a fan after going too deep into the dark?”

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 a porcelain doll. When she’s in a good mood, she politely says goodbye to her 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.”

Well, looks like she’s in a good mood today.

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

Han Letian got in 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: “He promised to take me to the movies today—he better get back in time.”

Han Letian replied helplessly: “Mom, I just got better from being sick—how could you two leave me behind 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 never were this delicate—any headache or cold, just drink more cough syrup and sleep soundly.”

“Was that sleeping soundly? Or were you just drugged into unconsciousness? Now I’m starting to doubt if I’m even your biological child.”

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

“Only now are you starting to doubt it? We’ve suspected it for years.”

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: “Are we all 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, would you like a ride home? I’ll take you.”

“No thanks, we need to go to the hospital—it’s not far, no need to trouble you, Auntie.”

Li Cheng and Mu Yulu declined with waves. 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 otakus in their youth, deeply immersed in light novels, anime, animation, galgames, AVGs, and visual novels—the Brahmins of the otaku world.

Now, with money and leisure time—and minds still youthful—they frequently attend anime conventions across the country.

Their lifelong dream is to plug into virtual reality once Prometheus Lab’s neural interface launches, and keep wandering in the digital world.

In a certain sense, they’re enviable parents.

At least far healthier than Li Cheng and Mu Yulu’s home environments—Mu Yulu’s mother suffers from heart disease and is hospitalized year-round; Mu Yulu must go 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, Li Cheng sat down on a bench in the hospital’s flower bed rest area, gazing at the bright moon, and unexpectedly recalled that 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 factory owner negotiated a settlement amount and decided to abandon him;

Parents, seeking compensation, wheeled their 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 moves so fast these days. I went to check 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 reminiscing.

Uncle Zhao chattered on about the past—how he met his wife, how they settled in Yin City, the joy and anxiety after having their child.

Life’s story is neither short nor long; the cheap cigarette pack was crumpled, and the tale reached its end.

Li Cheng, who had listened quietly and occasionally murmured in response, fell silent for a moment, then said slowly: “Uncle Zhao, you never used to wear a hat.”

“. You noticed?”

Uncle Zhao smiled bitterly and removed his cap. His once-thick hair was now sparse, his yellowing scalp dotted with patches.

“And here.” He rolled up his right sleeve—his arm was covered in a ring of red rash.

Li Cheng hesitated: “This is…”

“The doctor said your aunt’s cancer is too advanced—even removing half her liver won’t cure it. The most effective treatment is GS Biotech’s gene therapy. Four courses, each costing hundreds of thousands.”

Uncle Zhao spoke calmly: “I scraped together every penny I could, still not enough, so I signed up for this company’s new drug trial.

Each injection pays ten thousand. If side effects are severe, thirty thousand. After five injections, the payment per shot increases.”

A light breeze blew, lifting his thin strands like tumbleweeds in a western film.

“.”

Li Cheng remained silent for a long while, then spoke hoarsely: “I thought human trials like this only happened in India…”

“Haha, different regions have different genes. GS wants to develop special drugs for China, so naturally they need Chinese test subjects.”

Uncle Zhao smiled: “And I happen to have rare panda blood, so they pay me more than others.”

If a “moral paragon” or “social elite” stood here, they’d surely condemn Uncle Zhao as foolish and ignorant.

Is a rational person supposed to join a medical trial with unknown risks? Who knows what’s in those big companies’ drugs?

What if side effects appear ten or twenty years later—dementia, stroke, paralysis—all at once? That small amount of money won’t even cover treatment. And the company’s contract? It’s already sealed every possible avenue for compensation.

Li Cheng opened his mouth several times, but said nothing in the end—there is only one disease in this world: poverty.

Uncle Zhao patted Li Cheng’s shoulder, put his cap back on, and walked upstairs.

(End of Chapter)