1: Chapter 1 Only I can save your grandfather.

The ECG monitor emitted a rhythmic electronic sound. Beep—beep—beep—

Xinghai Private Hospital, top-floor VIP ward.

Liu Yuyan stood by the bed, staring at the increasingly weak waveform line on the monitor.

Her grandfather's face was gray.

Not the paleness of illness, but the gray decay of organs shutting down one by one.

Like an oil lamp whose wick had burned to the very end.

Her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood, yet she felt no pain.

Three days ago, Nobel Prize in Medicine laureate Henry Bernstein flew fourteen hours from Zurich to Jingzhou.

After reviewing the full set of imaging reports and remaining silent for a long time, he said four words: "Prepare for the funeral."

Liu Yuyan did not cry, left only with the despair of having been sentenced.

What she had traded all of the Liu Group's connections in Europe for was merely these four words.

A commercial empire worth 130 billion could not buy back one more day of life for an old man.

Just then, the hairs on the back of Liu Yuyan's neck stood up.

Something was wrong.

There was an extra person in the ward.

She had not heard the door open, heard no footsteps, and had not even felt any change in the airflow.

Someone was standing three steps behind her.

Liu Yuyan turned around.

Black clothing.

A shattered bronze mask covered only half of his face.

The patterns on the mask were ancient and unfamiliar, not belonging to the style of any civilization she knew.

Liu Yuyan could not see the face clearly.

But she saw those eyes.

They were very calm.

Not the calm of feigned composure, nor the calm of a killer suppressing emotions before striking.

It was the silence after all emotions had burned out—no wind, no waves, no joy, no sorrow.

Liu Yuyan had been floating in the business world for eleven years and had seen too many people.

Politicians holding power had desire hidden in their eyes.

Tycoons with trillions in assets wore calculation between their brows.

Desperadoes who licked blood from the edge of a knife exuded malice in every movement.

The person before her did not belong to any of the above categories.

Liu Yuyan could not find a known label to define him.

This realization caused cold sweat to seep from her back.

"Only I can save your grandfather."

The voice was not loud, the tone flat, as if stating an axiom that required no proof.

"Whether to save him or not, the choice is yours."

Liu Yuyan's first reaction was to call security.

This ward was located on the top floor of Xinghai Hospital, with an independent elevator, iris access control, and twenty-four-hour, three-shift security rotations.

Even a fly flying in would trigger an alarm.

Yet this person had appeared out of thin air behind her.

Liu Yuyan did not press the emergency call button by the bedside.

Not because she didn't want to, but because—her intuition told her that the existence before her was not something security could handle.

"Who are you."

"It is unimportant."

"How much money do you want."

Liu Yuyan's voice was steady.

A skill honed in business warfare; the more critical the situation, the flatter her vocal cords.

But her right hand was trembling slightly.

"I can give you money, give you resources, name your price."

The other party did not reply.

He took something from his sleeve.

A pill.

Dark gold, only as big as a pinky fingernail.

The moment he held it between his fingers, Liu Yuyan smelled a faint fragrance, not the scent of any medicine she knew.

The instant that fragrance entered her nasal cavity, her migraine, which had lasted for a full seventy-two hours, vanished.

Just like that, from one whiff. The headache was gone.

Liu Yuyan's pupils constricted.

"Have your grandfather take this pill."

He said, "He will wake up tomorrow."

"The price—"

Liu Yuyan began.

"I will come to find you tomorrow."

Su Chen interrupted her, his tone still without ripples, "Rest assured, for you, it will be easy."

Silence.

Liu Yuyan stared at the pill, her brain running at high speed.

Terminal cancer, multi-organ metastasis.

Henry Bernstein, the absolute authority in global tumor immunology, had handed down a death sentence.

She had utilized all the medical connections accumulated by the Liu family over three generations, from Jingzhou to Boston to Zurich, and every reply had the same meaning—there was no saving him.

And now, a person of unknown origin handed her a "pill."

Her reason told her it was a scam.

But her intuition—the intuition that had taken over the near-bankrupt Liu Group at sixteen and carved out a 100-billion-dollar empire in eleven years—was telling her something else.

This person was not lying.

Liu Yuyan took the pill.

She turned and walked to the hospital bed.

Her hand was shaking.

She used her left hand to grip her right wrist, forcibly suppressing the tremor, and placed the pill into her grandfather's slightly open mouth.

The pill dissolved upon entering his mouth.

There was no swallowing process.

The moment it touched his tongue, that dark gold pill was like a drop of water melting into the sea, disappearing instantly.

Then Liu Yuyan saw a scene she would never forget in her life.

A layer of halo shone from within her grandfather's body.

Pale gold, warm, flowing slowly along some veins she could not see, wrapping around that withered, thin body.

The smell of disinfectant in the ward was suppressed, replaced by an indescribable, reassuring aura.

The numbers on the monitor were jumping.

Heart rate: 43... 51... 58... 67.

Blood oxygen: 89... 93... 96... 98.

That weak and chaotic waveform line was becoming steady and powerful, second by second.

The halo lasted for about thirty seconds.

After it dissipated, her grandfather's complexion changed from gray decay to a healthy ruddy color.

His breathing changed from weak and rapid to deep and even.

Liu Yuyan was stunned.

She was a thorough materialist.

She believed in financial reports, believed in data, believed in every clause in a contract.

Her entire worldview was built upon quantifiable, verifiable, and repeatable logic.

And at this moment, this worldview was shattering into dust before Liu Yuyan's eyes.

Liu Yuyan turned around abruptly.

The ward was empty.

There was no sound of the door opening.

The windows were tightly closed, the locks intact, and the curtains were motionless.

Just like when he arrived, that person had disappeared into thin air.

Liu Yuyan walked quickly to the door and pulled it open.

In the hallway, a caregiver was looking down at their phone, and security was leaning against the wall yawning.

"Has anyone come in just now?"

"No, Ms. Liu, no one has come by for this past hour."

Liu Yuyan closed the door and leaned against the door panel.

The cold sweat on her back had soaked through her shirt.

A cough.

She shuddered.

Her grandfather opened his eyes.

Those eyes, which had been cloudy for three months, were now unbelievably clear.

"Yuyan..."

The old man's voice was hoarse but strong, "Where am I?"

Liu Yuyan rushed to the bedside.

She grabbed her grandfather's hand—it was warm and strong, no longer the cold, soft touch of the past few days.

Tears fell.

Liu Yuyan had been called the "Iron Lady" in the business world for eleven years.

She had been threatened by people slamming tables during merger negotiations and had never shed a tear.

She had seen her stock price plummet by ten billion after a commercial ambush and never shed a tear.

At this moment, she was crying like a six-year-old child.

——

Xinghai Hospital, first-floor garden.

Under the shadows of the plane trees, the air rippled like the surface of water.

Su Chen appeared beside a bench.

He took off the mask and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

Sunlight shone on a twenty-five-year-old face—delicate, ordinary, with a bit of exhaustion from lack of sleep.

No abyss, no millennial accumulation, just a young man who looked like he could be swallowed by the big city at any moment.

"Act one, wrap."

He took out his phone.

The screen lit up, and he habitually tapped on the banking app.

Balance: 217.35 yuan.

Next month's rent is 2200, still short 1982.65.

Su Chen put the phone back in his pocket and twitched the corner of his mouth.

Just twenty-four hours ago, his previous book had a maximum subscription of 37, and the editor's last message was, 'Xiao Su, why not consider another path?'

He had stared at that message for twenty minutes, turned off his phone, and went to sleep.

Then, in the middle of the night, he was woken up by a beam of light.

Something calling itself the "Script Manifestation System" had locked onto him without warning.

Immediately after, the system told him one piece of news.

In three years, horrors would descend, and human civilization would be completely erased.

Su Chen looked at the moon overhead, his gaze falling on the worn-out notebook in his hand.

The cover was frayed, the corners curled, and he took up his pen to write eight words.

Civilization will not be extinguished, Kindling will burn forever.