Chapter 9: Quack Doctor Sun Miao, Rebirth

Ren Zhong opened his eyes in a daze.

A hazy white lamp hung above him.

Around the lamp, dozens of dark mosquitoes and flies flitted up and down, occasionally smashing into the light with a series of sharp crackling sounds.

Lowering his gaze, he saw walls painted white above and pale green below.

All sorts of unfamiliar instruments were piled up haphazardly.

The corners of the room were littered with empty packaging boxes and glass containers.

A man stood with his back to Ren Zhong, rummaging noisily through something. He wore a ragged tank top, his arms and legs thin and pale as if drained of blood, his mid-length hair tangled and greasy, sticking together like a bird’s nest. On his left wrist was a watch—unlike Ren Zhong’s simple fitness tracker, this one had a seamless circular dial and a Kevlar fiber band, clearly a higher grade altogether.

Ren Zhong guessed that this uniquely disheveled man must be Doctor Sun Miao.

He carefully examined his body and realized that all his pain and sickness had vanished without a trace. In the past, even after his worst bouts of agony eased, he would always feel distinctly unwell all over.

Am I cured? So quickly? How did he do it?

He couldn't believe he’d missed witnessing a Nobel Prize-worthy medical miracle simply because he’d passed out!

He was both elated and frustrated, quickly checking himself for wounds—only finding a tiny needle mark on his arm, nothing else.

The room didn’t look like it contained any gamma knife equipment.

Well, in any case, it seemed he was cured now, and that was what truly mattered.

Though he still lacked a definite answer, hope—absent for who knew how many years and three and a half months—once again filled the heart of this terminally ill man.

I should... perhaps... maybe I really will survive.

He had no idea what treatment Dr. Sun had used, and was filled with both amazement and gratitude.

Since his “rebirth,” he’d imagined countless times the level of medical technology in this new world, desperately hoping and speculating what means might save his life.

Now, all his guesses seemed as laughable as a farmer picturing the emperor plowing his fields with a golden hoe.

“Doctor Sun, thank you,” Ren Zhong said.

The man spun around at his words.

A square-jawed face, a scruffy beard, and eye gunk the size of corn kernels—he looked more like a butcher than a doctor, though far too scrawny.

He strode over in three quick steps, glaring and placing his hands on his hips. “Thank me for what, huh? Damn it, you finally woke up. If you’d stayed out ten more minutes, I’d have tossed you out on the street. If you’d died then, don’t come blaming me!”

Ren Zhong stammered, “I just... wanted to thank you for saving my life.”

“Don’t thank me! I hate being thanked more than anything. Thanks don’t pay the bills! What, you come here with only eighty cents to your name and expect treatment? Look at you, sick as a dog—where did you get the nerve?”

Ren Zhong fell silent.

This man was born in the wrong era. If he’d lived in the twenty-first century, he’d be the king of fish market squabbles.

Doctor Sun tossed over a paper box. “Alright, quit playing dumb. Here’s your bill. See for yourself what I gave you, then get lost. And write me an IOU—by hand! Don’t just record it on that cheap wristband. People like you, it means nothing.”

Ren Zhong picked up the box. Inside was a palm-sized brown glass bottle and a printed slip of paper.

There was no label on the bottle—its purpose unclear.

He read the slip:

[Nerve Blocker, one dose — 1 point.]
[Nutrient Paste, one bottle — 1 point.]
[Abnormal Cell Devourer Injection — 100 points (my cost price, total loss!)]

“Let me explain,” Sun Miao said. “Frankly, your cancer didn’t even need all these meds. The nerve blocker’s normally for trauma patients, to block pain by tricking the neurotransmitters. But your organs were so wrecked, you needed it just to get by. That’s one contribution point. Any objection?”

“None,” Ren Zhong replied.

“Good. Now, the nutrient paste. It’s in the bottle—after every meal, take a spoonful, finish it in two days. Your body’s a battlefield, riddled with holes. The Abnormal Cell Devourer will stay in you for two days, wiping out the remaining cancer cells. It’s a huge strain—you’re too weak, you need nutrition. Another point. Any issues?”

“No issues.”

“Look at you, answering so fast. Now, about that Abnormal Cell Devourer. I can’t believe it. People still let a trivial cancer get this far before seeing a doctor? Are you mad or just sick of living? Should I praise your luck or curse your stupidity? Most people with cancer this bad are already under the sod. Yet here you are! What could’ve been fixed with a single bionic nanobot, and you drag it out this long? What’s your deal? Are you a masochist? Does pain amuse you?”

Ren Zhong could only offer an awkward smile.

What could he say? Should he explain that what Sun Miao called a “trivial issue” was once a death sentence in his own time? The gap was too wide—no point in discussing it.

“Whatever, die if you want, I’m only saving you this once. That one hundred points for the drug is expensive, but you have no complaints, right?”

“None.”

“So, in total, that’s 102 points. You only had eighty cents, I took it. You still owe me 101.2 contribution points.”

“I’ll do my best to repay you. Give me the IOU!”

Ren Zhong wrote one out by hand and handed it over.

He used simplified Chinese characters, but wasn’t worried—after all, the “Miraculous Hands Rejuvenation” sign was in simplified script too, albeit written in a childish scrawl.

Sun Miao glanced at the note, raising an eyebrow. “Huh, didn’t expect a broke guy like you to have such nice handwriting.”

“You flatter me. Thank you, really.”

“I told you not to thank me! I’ve explained everything. If you’ve got nothing else, get out—I need to sleep,” Sun Miao said, making a shooing gesture and muttering to himself, “Damn, had to break out my last supplies for this. Now I need to restock. Really don’t want to deal with those lunatics again.”

Ren Zhong’s ears perked up.

A group Sun Miao didn’t want to deal with? They must be the producers of the Abnormal Cell Devourer, wielding advanced biotech.

Were they locals or outsiders? Why did Sun Miao call them lunatics and want to avoid them?

“Why are you still here? I warn you, once I get in my sleep pod, the auto-defense system goes on. If you get yourself fried, that’s your problem, but don’t ruin me! Out, out, out! Move it!”

Sun Miao had already popped open a two-meter-long capsule, climbed in, and was glaring at Ren Zhong.

Ren Zhong hurried out.

More clues. A metal sleep pod? An automatic defense system? Was it dangerous to sleep here—threats from outside? That explained why the wastelanders all went to communal sleep pods at night.

Exiting Miraculous Hands Rejuvenation, Ren Zhong checked his watch—ten minutes left before his meeting with Zheng Tian. He picked up the pace toward the town center.

As he walked, he opened the brown bottle, scooped out two pieces of nutrient paste that resembled black sesame balls, and swallowed them.

Warmth spread through him, and his fatigue melted away, leaving him energized.

His steps grew lighter and faster.

He looked up at the clear sky where twin moons shone—one large, one small, one fast, one slow, one silver, one white.

The silver moon was bright as frost, the white gentle as jade.

Thin clouds drifted lazily across the night, painting a scene out of a fairy tale.

For the first time in ages, Ren Zhong found the night sky so beautiful.

At last, I’ve survived.

He clenched his fist gently.

Thank you, Doctor Sun.

You’re a good man.