The System suddenly went haywire, screaming in Shen Qiu’s mind: “Host, help! Save Meng Xinghui! He’s in trouble, he’s about to die, he’s bleeding so much, ahhhhh! This is terrible, we’re both going to be screwed!”
Meng Xinghui’s health bar plummeted, closing in on 25%. This meant Meng Xinghui already had one foot in the grave.
A thin line between life and death, an inescapable calamity—
Shen Qiu shot up from his bed, his mind reeling as he heard the System’s frantic, disjointed cries about Meng Xinghui’s accident.
Bzzzt, crackle.
The System short-circuited, its voice glitching and stuttering.
Shen Qiu’s heart pounded relentlessly, unable to stop. His mind flooded with images of Meng Xinghui’s gruesome death.
Lying on the cold ground, a nail driven into his skull, piercing the bone. Blood gushed out, staining his hair crimson. His lips were pale, his shirt and pants soaked in blood.
I had already warned Meng Xinghui about his boyfriend’s cheating. How could this still happen?
If I’d known… I should have kept Meng Xinghui tied to my side.
Shen Qiu had failed at the final hurdle. He had lost the battle.
There was no time to dwell on his mistake. Shen Qiu quickly dialed a number. “Yang Wenlun, send an ambulance to 98 Penglai Street, Anyang District, immediately. Someone has collapsed on the stairs with a severe head injury. They’ve lost too much blood and are unconscious.”
Yang Wenlun had been joking around with the nurses, a playful grin on his face. The smile vanished instantly, his expression turning grave as he snapped into professional mode.
He leaned over the reception desk, grabbed the landline, and dialed the emergency department. “Brother, get an ambulance ready. Go to the address I’m sending you. Patient has a head wound, acute blood loss, and is in hemorrhagic shock. Unconscious.”
He typed out the address and sent it to his phone.
Still not satisfied, Yang Wenlun sprinted to the hospital entrance, his white coat billowing in the cold wind as he waved the ambulance forward. He yanked open the door, climbed in with nimble movements, buckled his seatbelt, and fought to steady his ragged breathing.
The road was choked with cars, a cacophony of horns blaring and drivers shouting in frustration.
Shen Qiu slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Damn it! Not now! Why the hell is there a traffic jam at a moment like this?”
A long line of cars stretched ahead, their horns honking in an endless, maddening chain.
The red light refused to turn green.
The air was thick with noise, anger, and frustration.
Damn it!
Shen Qiu gripped the steering wheel, veins bulging on his hands.
The light finally changed. The tires screeched, burning rubber as the car surged forward.
By the time he reached Meng Xinghui’s rented apartment, blood was already trailing down from the second floor to the ground below.
The wail of the ambulance had woken the neighbors. They stood in the open space, pointing and whispering among themselves.
“I heard two people fighting late last night. Sounded like a couple, arguing over something—a breakup, probably.”
“If they’re breaking up, so be it. But look at this mess.”
“Have they no shame? Waking everyone up with their drama, keeping us all up.”
“Have a heart. The person’s still unconscious.”
Their voices were low, yet every word carried clearly.
Accusation. Disgust. Pity. Indifference.
Shen Qiu turned his head away, a sharp pain piercing his chest. His hand clenched into a fist against the seam of his trousers, blocking out their idle chatter.
He strode toward Yang Wenlun, who was walking toward them. “How is he?”
Yang Wenlun patted his friend’s shoulder. “His vital signs are temporarily stable, but he needs emergency treatment at the hospital.”
As Meng Xinghui was carried out, his hand dangled, swaying with the motion. His fingers were stained crimson with blood.
A medical worker held Meng Xinghui’s head steady with both hands, keeping it immobilized to prevent further injury during transport.
Shen Qiu stepped forward and grasped Meng Xinghui’s hand. His own hand, rough and lean with hard calluses from years of hard labor, met Meng Xinghui’s. The other man’s skin was bone-chillingly cold, devoid of any warmth.
The stretcher was quickly lifted into the ambulance.
Meng Xinghui lay unconscious on the stretcher, his small face a ghastly, bloodless white.
The medical staff worked swiftly, disinfecting the wounds with alcohol and povidone-iodine, then applying pressure bandages and securing them with elastic wraps to stop the bleeding.
A needle pierced a vein, and saline solution immediately began to flow into his body.
An oxygen mask was strapped to Meng Xinghui’s face. On the EKG monitor, his heart rate slowed to a nearly flat line, as if it might cease to beat at any moment.
Shen Qiu lowered his head, carefully wiping Meng Xinghui’s hand with a handkerchief. The cloth was soon stained a shocking, gory red.
The rest of Meng Xinghui’s body was even worse, drenched in blood that had matted his clothes into stiff, dark clumps.
The System clutched its glass heart, wailing in despair, “Little White Flower, you absolutely cannot die!”
“What will we do if you die? What will Shen Qiu and I do?”
“Oh, you wretched World Consciousness! How could you do this to your own protagonist shou? Doesn’t his life matter? You big villain, you stinking villain!”
“The World is an invincible, super-villain!”
“Waaaah—” the System wailed.
The Little White Flower’s figure appeared.
His thin lips pressed into a straight line, his voice softening. “Don’t cry.”
You idiot—
His fingertips gently brushed Meng Xinghui’s cheek.
Live, Meng Xinghui. I want you to live.
In the frigid emergency room, Meng Xinghui was transferred to the operating table.
Experts from neurosurgery, emergency medicine, and the ICU began the procedure.
The lead surgeon was Yang Wenlun’s mentor, a renowned expert in neurosurgery known as “Wang the One-Cut.”
Yang Wenlun served as the assistant, briefing his teacher on the patient’s condition.
The shadowless surgical lamp flared to life as the scalpel moved with precision.
Suddenly, the multi-parameter monitor blared an alarm. “Heart rate, blood pressure, and SpO2 have exceeded the set thresholds.”
Cardiac arrest.
The ECG line went flat.
Yang Wenlun turned to the monitor and took a deep, sharp breath.
Damn it, no! Little brother, you’d better not let anything happen to you.
“Wen Lu, use the defibrillator. Administer epinephrine.”
The defibrillator was plugged in and placed on Meng Xinghui’s chest.
Thump—thump thump.
Meng Xinghui’s body jolted with each shock. His life hovered on the razor-thin line between existence and oblivion.
Death swung its scythe, aiming to reap Meng Xinghui’s soul.
The “In Surgery” light above the operating room door glowed a steady red.
The high-stakes surgery had dragged on for thirteen hours, stretching nearly to noon.
Shen Qiu leaned against the white wall, having waited there until midday.
Secretary Lin sat beside him, glancing at President Shen with concern.
Shen Qiu hadn’t touched a drop of water. When the secretary had arrived, he found President Shen sitting there, frozen in place, still wearing his pajamas.
“President Shen, perhaps you should go back and rest. I’ll wait here for Mr. Meng to come out.”
Shen Qiu shook his head, his gaze fixed on the indicator light above the operating room door.
Seeing this, Secretary Lin said no more. He went to the emergency stairwell to make calls, notifying the Group about the situation and putting all other unimportant matters on hold.
The operating room doors swung open.
The body inside was not covered with a white sheet.
Meng Xinghui had returned safely.
Shen Qiu felt a weight lift off his shoulders as he watched Meng Xinghui’s bed being wheeled away.
Dr. Wang walked up to Shen Qiu and remarked, “The patient suffered a cardiac arrest midway through. Fortunately, we old bones pulled through and managed to save him.”
“He needs to see an ophthalmologist for an emergency; I’ve already had Wenlu arrange it.”
“By the way, is he your friend?”
“Yes, he is,” Shen Qiu answered the elder.
“I thought Yang Wenlun was your only friend. Your mother misses you—go see her.”
Looking at Shen Qiu, Dr. Wang spoke earnestly. He knew that saying any more would only deepen the young man’s sorrow.
“Okay.”
The entrance to the operating room was now empty and silent.
Standing there, Shen Qiu realized he was just as lonely as Meng Xinghui.
He had no home.
“Ugh—”
His head throbbed with a pain so intense it felt like a saw was cutting deep into his skull.
Meng Xinghui struggled to crack his eyelids open, but his vision was a blur. His eyes were covered in medical gauze, and the ointment applied to his lids felt icy cold.
He had no sensation in his sprained ankle, which was now resting on a support frame and bound tightly in a plaster cast.
The pungent scent of disinfectant stung his nostrils. It seemed a kind soul had found him—his luck wasn’t too bad, after all.
The memory of Jiade walking away without a single backward glance flooded back, and tears streamed down his face, their dryness causing a sharp, stinging pain.
Shen Qiu watched every moment of the other man’s awakening. Once Meng Xinghui seemed to realize where he was, he began to weep in a daze.
“You’re awake. What are you crying for?” Shen Qiu was utterly exasperated. Crying the moment he wakes up… If he really doesn’t want those eyes, I’ll carve them out for him right now! The small knife sliced sharply through the skin of an apple.
“If you don’t want your eyes, you should have said so earlier. I’ll cut them out for you right now!”