It hadn’t been long, but the entertainment industry had already seen two car accidents involving prominent figures—both of them from the same circle, both from the same production. The accidents had happened on the same mountain road, but one man was dead, and the other had survived.
After more than ten hours of surgery, Xu Zhen was out of danger and sent to the ICU. Along the way, reporters crowded into the allowed areas, snapping photos non-stop.
The driver’s quick decision to crash into the mountain had saved both their lives. There were no inclines on Pan Mountain Road—once the car started heading downhill, it would only pick up more speed, and the traffic at the base of the mountain was much denser. Had they kept going and caused a chain collision, the scale of the disaster would have been far worse than it was now.
The car’s safety features had held up well. When the crash happened, the driver instinctively used the passenger side to absorb some of the impact, and with the combined protection of the airbags and seatbelt, she wasn’t severely injured—though her legs and several bones in her body were fractured. Xu Zhen, however, was a different story. Whether out of concern for his suit or simply not thinking, he hadn’t worn his seatbelt while sitting in the back. When the crash occurred, he was thrown toward the impact zone, nearly being flung out of the vehicle entirely.
His injuries were by far the worst, and it was a miracle he survived at all.
The driver woke up first. When questioned by reporters, the first thing she said was: “There was something wrong with the brakes!”
Journalists, eager for a bigger scoop, immediately jumped on this. A regular car accident due to poor driving versus a brake failure—there were so many ways to spin the story. And let’s face it, a murder plot is far more intriguing than a mere traffic accident. Speculation ran rampant, with every outlet trying to outdo the others. By the time the later reports came out, the narratives had become increasingly wild.
A simple “the brakes failed” was transformed into “someone tampered with the brakes.”
The difference was enormous.
Xu Zhen woke up six days later. His body was covered in tubes and sensors, the room silent, as if he were already dead. All around him were baskets of flowers and fruit. The pain was excruciating, radiating from his bones like a saw grinding through his flesh. He tried to lift his hand to see what condition he was in, but aside from tilting his head slightly, he couldn’t move any other part of his body.
The doctor expressed his regret: “Mr. Xu, your spine was severely damaged. Your lower limbs and left hand may never regain function. You’ll also need to avoid prolonged sitting and strenuous activity in the future. Considering how serious the accident was, you’re lucky to have survived.”
Xu Zhen’s only movable right hand didn’t even have the strength to lift itself. All he could manage was a guttural growl of rage: “Get out! Get out!”
The doctor, startled by the beast-like sounds from his throat, quickly left, feeling somewhat helpless. The emergency room staff had worked tirelessly for over ten hours to save his life. Though they knew the patient would likely be ungrateful upon waking, it still stung.
If he didn’t want this outcome, why hadn’t he worn a seatbelt? The woman in the driver’s seat had buckled up and had the protection of the airbags. Now, she had a few fractures, but her long-term damage might only be some scars from her large wounds. Celebrities—they might have money, but their common sense wasn’t always that great. Sometimes, they weren’t even as practical as the driver.
Paraplegia didn’t just mean the loss of his legs.
By the nth time Xu Zhen had wet himself, he lay staring at the ceiling, his face drained of color. Numbly, he felt the new nurse turning him over and cleaning him up. His legs hurt terribly. He could still feel all his limbs, but the doctor’s words weren’t wrong—after all this time, the only part of him he could move was his right hand.
A catheter, an oxygen mask, constant cleaning.
This torment only made him want to leap out of bed and strangle Su Shengbai when he appeared at the door.
Su Shengbai entered carrying a bouquet of white lilies, their strong scent filling the room the moment he stepped in. He stood by the door, his eyes shining with tears, sweeping over Xu Zhen’s entire body, as if afraid to come closer.
Tears dripped from his lashes, falling down his pale face and gathering at his sharp chin before dropping onto the floor.
“Xu Ge…”
Xu Zhen glared at him, eyes blazing with fury. “It was you!!!!”
Su Shengbai seemed completely oblivious to what he was saying and rushed over, crying out, “It’s me! It’s me! I’ve come to see you! Xu Ge, I’m here to see you…”
Xu Zhen felt him throw himself onto him. He wanted to push him away but didn’t even have the strength for that. He could only weakly raise his right hand to block his approach.
Su Shengbai grabbed his hand and pressed it to his cheek, crying even harder. “How could you be so careless?!”
Xu Zhen was convinced that Su Shengbai was the one who tampered with the brakes. Who else could hate him enough to go this far? Su Shengbai held the evidence of his crime—evidence of him killing someone. The film deal he had been promised was gone. Of course, he hated Xu Zhen for that. After Cao Dingkun’s death, Xu Zhen hadn’t slept with Su Shengbai again. The thought that he had once shared a bed with a man capable of pushing someone off a mountain, only to sleep peacefully afterward, sent shivers down his spine. If Su Shengbai could kill Cao Dingkun, what made him think he wouldn’t do the same to someone else?
Now, seeing Su Shengbai pretending to know nothing, Xu Zhen was filled with rage—but utterly powerless.
“You tampered with the brakes!” His tone was absolute.
Su Shengbai froze in fear. “Xu Ge, what are you talking about? How could you think that? You’re the most important person to me! We fight sometimes, but I could never do something like that!”
Xu Zhen glared at him, spitting each word slowly: “Su Shengbai, there’s no one else here. Stop acting.”
Su Shengbai broke into sobs, crying pitifully. “Xu Ge!!! How could you think this about me!!!! I know I’ve done some terrible things in the past, but that was out of necessity. You’re making me sound like a monster!!!”
Xu Zhen stared at him.
Tears streamed freely from Su Shengbai’s eyes. He knelt beside the bed, holding Xu Zhen’s hand to his face, his voice full of emotion.
“Xu Ge, whether you believe it or not, you should know my heart by now.”
Xu Zhen kept staring at him.
“I know you hate me. I feel guilty about everything that happened. I understand why you didn’t let me join the crew. I’ve been reflecting on the past these days.”
Xu Zhen didn’t stop staring.
Su Shengbai seemed drained of all his energy, his face growing dark and lifeless. “If you suspect me, I won’t argue. I’ll admit to the things I’ve done wrong, but not to something I haven’t done. You can call the police to investigate me if you want. I’ve been on set this whole time. Now that *The Assassin* is gone, I have to focus on other opportunities.”
Xu Zhen took a deep breath, and his expression finally softened a bit.
Seeing this, Su Shengbai seized the opportunity: “Xu Ge, I can’t control whether you believe me or not. I made one mistake, and if you want to sentence me to death for it, I’ll accept that. I just can’t stand the thought that the one person I care about most would think of me like this.”
After kneeling for a while, Su Shengbai stood to leave, loosening his grip on Xu Zhen’s hand.
But just as he was about to let go, Xu Zhen grasped his hand tightly.
Su Shengbai looked at him hopefully, still crying.
“Alright, I get it.” Xu Zhen sighed deeply, shaking his head. “Since the car accident, I’ve been thinking about all the enemies I’ve made in my life. Suspecting you is only natural. But you came here to visit, so I’ll believe you.”
Su Shengbai leaned in to kiss him, like a dutiful wife, then left.
The moment the door closed, the warmth in Xu Zhen’s eyes vanished without a trace.
Believe Su Shengbai?
What a joke!
When it came to playing innocent, few could outdo Su Shengbai. But who couldn’t act? Xu Zhen hadn’t clawed his way back from the brink of death just to waste his energy on a pointless fight with Su Shengbai. He wasn’t a fool. If Su Shengbai fell, all the old secrets would come to light, which wouldn’t do him any good. At least, not for now, when there were still things left undone.
I’ll wait.
Xu Zhen swallowed his anger and bitterness, raising his only functional hand to stare at the lines on his palm.
The figure he had seen on the operating table was gone now, nowhere to be found.
Ah Kun…
Xu Zhen’s heart was barren with regret, with only the cold autumn wind whispering in the emptiness. As he thought about everything he had been through, he took a deep breath, but it couldn’t stop the tears from sliding down his face.
This is retribution.
******
And karma wasn’t finished with him yet.
After his body, the thing he valued most was about to be taken from him too.
Triumph Media sent representatives to discuss *The Assassin* with Xu Zhen. Because the original funding from Cao Dingkun had been funneled through Universal with the stipulation that Xu Zhen be the director, Xu Zhen had considerable control over the film. Even if they wanted to replace him, they would need his consent.
The doctor’s orders clearly stated that he had lost the use of his lower limbs and left hand, and that he couldn’t handle stress or long periods of sitting. His health was seriously compromised. But Triumph Media was a commercial enterprise; they couldn’t keep the production on hold indefinitely just because the director had an accident. They approached Xu Zhen to discuss replacing him.
The terms they offered were generous—Xu Zhen would receive a share of the box office, his name would remain on the film, and he would retain some script editing rights. But Xu Zhen refused to agree to any of it. He had clung to life just to finish this film. Now that he had survived, Triumph wanted to snatch it away?
“I won’t agree,” he said firmly, his voice sharp and unwavering, leaving no room for compromise.
The Triumph employees were exasperated. “Director Xu, your health won’t allow you to participate in the filming. We all know how much heart and effort you’ve put into this project. Would you really want this film, which you’ve spent so long preparing, to fall apart in your hands? We promise to use the utmost care and professionalism to bring this film to life. The director we choose will not disappoint you and will showcase the best qualities of this project.”
The wrinkles on Xu Zhen’s face seemed on the verge of splitting open. His skin sagged, half covering his eyes, making his gaze cold and sinister. “No one can do it. This is my film.”
“But you’re not physically able to—”
“I can!” Xu Zhen turned to stare at them, his eyes blazing with intensity, the crazed look in them enough to make anyone shudder. His words were resolute, “I can!”
“But your health—”
“I know my health. This isn’t about being selfish or stubborn. I really can do it.”
No matter how many people tried to reason with him, his stance remained the same, leaving them with no way forward.
Yu Shaotian, losing his temper, threw his cup against the wall. “What is he, a mule? Get Universal on the phone and tell Jiang Changfeng to deal with this!”
“I already called. President Jiang said he can’t help. Xu Zhen’s temper won’t allow him to care about anyone’s face. They even fought before. Jiang Changfeng said that if it hadn’t been for Cao Dingkun speaking up for Xu Zhen, he would have destroyed him long ago.”
Yu Shaotian’s eyes darkened. Even though this matter didn’t directly affect the company’s interests, he had made a promise to Duan Xiubo, and he wasn’t one to quit halfway. The one thing he couldn’t stand when handling business was people like Xu Zhen, who acted like a giant roadblock—someone you couldn’t scold, couldn’t beat, and couldn’t shake off, like a piece of gum stuck to your shoe.
“What’s his health situation?”
“It’s not good. With proper recovery, he might regain some use of his left hand, but the chances are slim. His lower body is completely paralyzed. His spine was seriously damaged, in a critical area. Sitting for long periods or working too hard won’t kill him, but the aftereffects will be extremely painful.”
“Damn it.” Yu Shaotian cursed, sinking back into his chair. After a moment of thought, his expression eased. Xu Zhen’s fate wasn’t his problem—it was his own choice.
“Tell him Triumph is willing to let him stay on the project,” Yu Shaotian said, mostly concerned about public backlash for appearing inhumane. “But there will be conditions. Make them tough. See if he’ll back down. And keep an eye on the director’s team—bring in some capable people. If Xu Zhen insists on staying, we’ll turn it into a selling point. Spin the story about his determination to direct, and make it as tear-jerking as possible.”
The assistant hesitated. “Xu Zhen’s in this state… exploiting him like that might seem… wrong…”
Yu Shaotian raised his eyes. “Am I running a company or a charity? Am I taking advantage of him? He’s the one asking for it.”
The assistant had no choice but to follow orders.
***
They agreed to keep his name on the project, to allow several assistant directors, and to limit Xu Zhen’s control over the film. This meant that even if the movie was nominated for awards, his chances of being in the running for Best Director were slim.
Xu Zhen lay in his hospital bed, the sharp scent of disinfectant now familiar. His eyes stung from the chemical, and tears slid down his face with ease.
Even he didn’t know what he was still holding on to. His body was crippled, his life shattered, and this film, which had once been his treasure, was something he and Cao Dingkun had poured all their effort into creating.
He had dreamed of seeing this project come to life, transformed from words into images, brought to the screen by the best actors, taking the stage in a grand presentation. He dreamed that when people mentioned this film, they would immediately think of the name Xu Zhen.
He had dreamed of this day, and that dream had kept him going all this time.
But things were getting worse, the future slipping farther and farther away. How had something so close become such a distant hope?
*The Assassin… The Assassin… The Assassin…*
The name echoed in his mind, flashing on a screen, displayed in bold, grand lettering, black and white, filling his entire consciousness.
Xu Zhen broke down in tears, his mouth open wide, but no sound emerged, only a silent scream from deep within his throat.
No matter how far this dream seemed, he was determined to grasp it, no matter what it took. He would not give up!
Frantically waving his right hand, he slammed it against the bed, yelling at the top of his lungs, “Where is everyone?! Where?! Someone come in!!!”
The group that had been waiting outside rushed into the room along with the nurse. Xu Zhen’s face was still streaked with tears, but his expression was wild. His whole body was stretched taut like a string, and he glared at them with wide eyes, his hoarse voice filled with anger, yet strangely triumphant: “I agree to your terms.”
This was the final dream. If he was going to do it, he would do it with a bang.
******
For the first time in his life, Xu Zhen tasted what it was like to be completely ruined in the media.
Reading the newspaper articles that detailed his tragic state, paired with pictures of him lying half-dead in a hospital bed, covered in bandages, his once proud spine bent and broken, his gaze like that of an animal awaiting slaughter, filled with the desperate hunger to live.
The sadness was indescribable.
The whole world knew he had lost control of half his body. The whole world knew he needed a catheter to urinate and frequently lost control of his bladder. The whole world knew he would never stand again. And the whole world pitied him, saying how unfortunate he was.
Xu Zhen felt like he had been reduced to a beggar kneeling at the subway entrance, bowing to passersby, laying his pride bare on the ground, begging for them to throw him a few pity coins.
Xu Zhen chuckled to himself, his mind hazy. Yet at that moment, his obsession with the film overshadowed everything else. Pride?
He didn’t need it anymore. A man with no future didn’t need pride—it was laughable.
Once the company stepped in, things started to improve. Funding for the crew came through quickly, and they began planning the casting and auditions. For the filming location… Xu Zhen still chose Taiheng Mountain, where Cao Dingkun had fallen. At this point, Xu Zhen had nothing left to fear. He felt that the only difference between himself and Cao Dingkun was that one was a dead soul, and the other a walking corpse.
The nearly completed set was finished quickly, and the cars to take them up the mountain were ready. As Xu Zhen watched everything unfold, seeing himself being exploited and used like a beggar, a faint sense of comfort began to rise within him.
The assistant director entered his hospital room, his eyes quickly scanning Xu Zhen’s face before he lowered his head.
“Director Xu,” he said softly, “the company has brought the actors to see you. Are you ready to meet them?”
With a swish, the newspaper in Xu Zhen’s hand was folded up.
His face was stiff, his emotions running high, and his fingers trembled uncontrollably.
“Invite them in.”
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thank you for the chapter 🤭🤧