Wen Zhengchang stayed at the hospital without leaving for a moment, and was moved directly to the ICU next door.
With red and swollen eyes, white hair, and a hunched back, he sat outside the huge glass window, looking at his grandson in the ward, whose body was covered in tubes. He was filled with remorse; he shouldn't have let the boy run wild.
Duan Peng couldn't help but advise, "Uncle Wen, the young master is a lucky man, he will be alright."
Wen Zhengtian thumped his cane, thinking, "That brat always loves to cause trouble. He's gotten himself into this state for a woman. See? She doesn't care about him at all. It's been so many days, and she hasn't even glanced at him once!"
Duan Peng was speechless. He thought that if the young master knew about the slap he gave Zhao Xiaoyue, he would probably hate him to death.
Duan Peng did not speak again.
Situ Ming, lying on his sickbed, was plunged into a deep vortex of darkness, a vortex that was even deeper and faster than the last one.
Just as he was about to sink into the abyss in panic, a withered arm wrapped in a white Taoist robe reached out to him.
The hand at the end of the arm, skin covering bone and meridians, is as old as withered tree bark.
When he opened his eyes again, he was inside a magnificent building.
People came and went, rushing into the building.
At the top of the building, he followed his secretary into the spacious office, where the secretary bowed respectfully and reported on the itinerary.
The person being reported to was a man in a wheelchair whose face was completely disfigured.
When Situ Ming and the person in the wheelchair looked at each other in the void, everything vanished like a bubble, turning into fragments.
On his ICU bed, Situ Ming struggled to open his heavy eyelids without warning.
"Where...am I?"
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