Chapter 2: Reopening the Apothecary
When he awoke, it was already the golden hour of dusk. Li Xin had intended to tidy up his house first, but his stomach grumbled incessantly, forcing him to head to a nearby restaurant for a meal.
He glanced at his phone; the promised half a million had arrived in his account as scheduled. To outsiders, the club manager Zhang Yuan might seem trustworthy, but the bitterness and pain behind this transaction were known only to Li Xin.
For years, he had believed he would stay at the club forever. He’d received only the salary and bonuses from the first few years; after that, Li Xin never bothered to collect his dues. Considering himself a rough, practical man, he thought the money he had was enough and preferred to settle everything in one lump sum upon retirement, hoping it would bring his parents a tremendous surprise.
But fate is cruel.
An accident six months ago shattered his beautiful, honor-filled life.
Click!
Time rewound, and Li Xin’s memory drifted back to half a year earlier.
New Year’s Day had just passed.
Early that morning, as usual, Li Xin slipped into the dedicated practice room to hone his marksmanship. A versatile champion for nine years, his moments of glory on stage were underpinned by tears of hardship and countless hours of toil.
His keyboard malfunctioned, so Li Xin got up to fetch a new one from the shelf. Just as he turned to go back, the door opened.
Lin Guo burst in, worry etched on her face. “Li Xin, stop practicing! Your parents were in a car accident.”
The new keyboard slipped from his hands, scattering black keys across the floor like strands of a broken curtain, each one telling a tale of grief and sorrow. Li Xin hurriedly took leave and rushed back to Wujiang City.
But he was too late.
When he arrived at the hospital, the doctors had already declared his parents dead. Funeral staff were busy preparing to move their bodies to the rest area. Overwhelmed by immense grief, Li Xin fainted on the spot.
He kept vigil for seven days. The traffic police investigation revealed that the driver of the truck was drunk. The verdict—three hundred thousand yuan for two lives.
On the day of the funeral, Li Xin fainted again. When he awoke, he found himself in the hospital, sent there by relatives and friends.
Bad news awaited him: his health had deteriorated. He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
How could this be? Despite years in isolation, Li Xin had earned a college degree through self-study; he knew the incidence of Parkinson’s among those under forty was only 0.1%. He shouted to be discharged, only to realize his left hand and leg felt stiff. His brain issued commands, his consciousness was clear, yet his left fingers refused to obey.
Regrettably, he became one of the rare “lucky” few.
According to the doctor, he’d had the disease for some time; it just hadn’t shown symptoms until now. The car accident was the trigger, the last straw breaking his resistance.
Li Xin refused to accept it and never told the club. He believed in his own abilities—if he trained hard enough, he could stay at peak form.
But reality had other plans. The news eventually spread, and the club found out. In the spring league, he lost to his longtime rival, Fang Xiang, captain of the Tiger Team.
From that point on, Li Xin’s health deteriorated daily, and his skills declined rapidly. He held on desperately until the latest WCA World Championship, which led to yesterday’s events.
“Sir, may I take your order?” The gentle voice of the waitress interrupted Li Xin’s reverie. He looked up; she was a young woman, about twenty, fresh and lovely.
“A bowl of beef noodles, please.”
“Certainly, please wait a moment.” The waitress hurried off, glancing back mid-stride and catching Li Xin’s gaze. She paused, a hint of panic flashing across her face.
“Is there gold on my face?” Li Xin wondered, touching his cheek. Aside from a bit of stubble, nothing seemed amiss.
The portions were generous, the taste excellent—no less than the club chef’s offerings. Yet soon, Li Xin noticed a peculiar atmosphere: several patrons kept sneaking glances at him.
“Why are they all staring? Are they nuts?” He finished quickly and rushed back to the pharmacy. Li Xin was a reserved man, rarely speaking much even when he won nine consecutive championships. Now, with everyone watching, he felt utterly exposed.
He spent nearly three hours cleaning, finally making the pharmacy spotless. Then he took a cold shower, settled comfortably on a lounge chair beneath the grape arbor in the backyard, and gazed up at the stars.
Brilliant, dazzling, deep, and vast.
“The night sky is so beautiful. It’s a pity that we humans, no matter how long we live, can never set foot up there to see it ourselves.”
“Heh, I never liked studying as a child—too obsessed with games. If I’d been more diligent, maybe I could have become an astronaut. Then I wouldn’t have ended up with this damned Parkinson’s.”
“My body’s ruined, and games hold nothing for me now. I might as well use what time I have left to run this Mingran Pharmacy. At least it’ll be worthy of my parents' memory.”
He chuckled at himself, picked up the thick ledger his parents had prepared, and leafed through it. It detailed years of supply and sales channels, prices of various traditional medicines, and prescription ratios.
Li Xin felt a headache coming on—he knew nothing about managing a pharmacy. As the saying goes, every profession is a mountain to climb, and this was a daunting peak before him.
Fortunately, all his parents’ experience was recorded in the ledger. It was his sole secret weapon in the trade.
“I still have more than two million, and with my parents' inheritance and compensation, over a million more. Three million should last me for a while. Starting tomorrow, I’ll prepare to get the pharmacy up and running again. It’s been closed for half a year; time to open up.”
“If it’s too much, I’ll hire a few experienced professionals to help out. Over time, I’ll learn.”
Li Xin was confident; he never admitted defeat.
On September 18, 2031, the centenary of the September 18th Incident, after three months of preparation, Mingran Pharmacy reopened. Li Xin hired several experts at high salaries and took on two young apprentices, one male and one female. It seemed promising.
On opening day, the shop attracted many customers—mostly old patrons of Mingran Pharmacy, coming to honor the memory of the Li Ming couple, to support the store’s honest reputation and fair prices.
Naturally, everyone in the local neighborhoods and alleys soon knew that the fair-faced, slightly chubby young proprietor was none other than the long-absent son of the Li Ming couple, Li Xin.
It had been nearly ten years. Li Xin only returned home during holidays, so some thought he had died long ago.
No one knew what he’d been doing all these years—not even his relatives, friends, or those loyal fans who’d followed him for over seven years. He used to sport a full beard and rugged features; now he looked neat and presentable.
Some old friends of his parents and childhood companions came by, listening to his tales of “life on the outside” and offering advice.
A week passed, and business began to pick up. Li Xin applauded his own wise decision to spend big on hiring experts—if he’d hesitated, he would have been utterly clueless and lost.
The Mingran Pharmacy sign would have eventually ruined him.
It was the weekend.
By five in the afternoon, Li Xin gave his employees an early break so they could rest. After tidying up, he was about to lock up when a thin, shifty-looking middle-aged man rushed in with his head down.
“Hey, hey, uncle, stop right there!”
“Sir, we’re closed for the day.”
“Hey, what’s with you? Can’t you hear me?”
No matter how Li Xin tried to persuade him, the man kept his head buried and sat motionless in the corner on a rosewood chair. At last, tired of Li Xin’s nagging, he looked up and chuckled.
“What’s this—good grief.” Li Xin frowned but remained courteous.
“Who are you? What brings you here?”
“What brings me here? Nothing, really.” The man gave a silly laugh, making Li Xin’s heart ache with frustration. He didn’t look like a beggar, judging by his clothes.
“I’m here to see Li Ming.”
The man’s sudden statement stunned Li Xin.
“Sir, my father passed away in a car accident.”
“What? When did that happen?” The man was genuinely surprised, jumping to his feet and wringing his hands as he paced in circles, sighing loudly.
“Is this guy crazy? Who in the neighborhood doesn’t know my father is gone?” muttered Li Xin, pouring a cup of tea for him. Clearly, the man knew his parents but hadn’t visited in a long time.
The man gulped down the tea and wiped his mouth with satisfaction. “Not bad—the flavor hasn’t changed, though the tea leaves are a bit younger.”
A simple comment, yet it struck Li Xin like thunder. These tea leaves were purchased from his father’s supplier, just as the ledger instructed. Since they hadn’t been in contact for half a year, Li Xin ordered the best available, though the supplier didn’t have the usual vintage.
Who would have expected that this unremarkable, shifty-looking man possessed such keen taste and observation?
Despite his physical decline, Li Xin’s years as a professional had left him with sharp instincts and quick thinking—far beyond ordinary people. He immediately realized: this man was someone extraordinary.