The glass doors of the hospital lobby shattered inward just as I crouched in the corner of the pediatric IV area, swabbing the palms of a little girl with a fever using an alcohol pad. She was delirious with heat, clutching the cuff of my white coat. Her voice was faint: “Sister… are you the one who gave me the injection last time—the one that didn’t hurt?” I didn’t answer. Just pressed the pad even more gently. Then—screams tore through the air. “Lin Wan! You actually have the nerve to show up here?!” My ex-husband, Chen Zhe, seized his former wife’s arm. His wedding ring still gleamed on his finger, blindingly bright. “You’ve brought *him*—some random man—to steal our child?!” Behind him stood a man in an Armani suit, his gold watch catching the light as he calmly adjusted his cufflinks—her current husband, Xie Yan. “Steal?” Xie Yan smiled faintly—soft-spoken, yet the entire hall fell half a beat silent. “Dr. Chen, the third coronary bypass you performed? I stepped in and completed it. Dare you claim your daughter is standing here today because of *your* hands—hands that have trembled for three years?” A murmur rippled through the crowd. I kept swabbing the girl’s palms. The sharp scent of alcohol spread like a silent fuse. Then—she seized. Not from the fever. It was status epilepticus—the EEG report had just flashed in. The monitor shrieked. Red alarm lights pulsed across the tiled floor, like blood beating. The head nurse rushed over, shoving me aside: “Hurry—call Chief Lin!” No one answered. Because Chief Lin wasn’t in the lobby. She was inside the ICU, gowned in full isolation gear, kneeling on one knee—barehanded, steadying an ECMO pump on the verge of failure. The seventh-generation artificial heart-lung system she’d personally modified. The only person in the hospital qualified to recalibrate its parameters. Meanwhile, in the center of the lobby, Chen Zhe pointed straight at me: “*Her!* That new night-shift nurse! She altered my daughter’s medication records yesterday—*in secret!*” Xie Yan turned—and locked eyes with me. Three seconds passed. He removed his watch and tossed it to his assistant. “Clear Operating Room One. Then call Director Shen—and tell him: ‘Qingluan is awake.’” Silence crashed down—absolute, suffocating. Even the monitor’s shrill beep seemed to stutter. I finally released the girl’s hand, rose, and smoothed my white coat—its hem stained with fresh, glistening alcohol, shimmering cold-blue under the lights. I pulled off my mask. At my left earlobe, a silver earring shaped like a needle caught the light—the insignia of the National Young Neurosurgeon Championship, melted down and recast by my own hands. Xie Yan walked toward me. His dress shoes crushed rumors beneath each step. He stopped before me, bent, and picked up the alcohol pad I’d dropped—his fingertip brushing mine, damp with antiseptic. Then, in full view of everyone, he gently traced the old scar running across the back of my hand—the one carved by splintered bone three years ago, in a field hospital in Africa, when I’d held open a child’s neck wound with my bare hands to extract shrapnel lodged in the carotid artery. “Dr. Lin Wan,” he said softly—yet the chandeliers above hummed in resonance. “It’s time you returned to the operating table.” The LED screen mounted high in the lobby flickered once. Then switched automatically—to live surgery feed. The surgical lamp flared. A pair of gloved hands lifted the titanium neuro-dissector—the only three such instruments in existence. The camera panned slowly upward. Revealing a face calm to the point of austerity. And eyes—washed clean with alcohol, yet forever stained with blood.

On the basketball court, time seemed to freeze as Zayden leapt into the air for a powerful dunk. The next moment, he crashed violently to the ground, his right wrist twisted at an unnatural angle, blood dripping from his fingertips and blooming into crimson flowers on the hardwood floor. “Ahh—!” The stands erupted in screams. Some covered their children’s eyes, others frantically filmed with their phones, while most stood frozen, watching what felt like a nightmare they couldn’t pause. The wail of an ambulance tore through the dusk, its wheels rolling over the spot where he had fallen, leaving behind a smeared trail of blood. In the hospital corridor, the stench of disinfectant choked the air. The doctor removed his mask, voice cold and clinical: “Severe blood loss, open fracture, nerve damage. Consider yourself lucky if we can save the hand.” The father slumped in his seat, eyes red-rimmed. “As long as he’s alive… I’ll find a way to pay.” Before the words fully settled, an elderly man stepped out from the shadows—silver-haired, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, gold-rimmed glasses glinting with a warmth that felt too polished to be real. “The medical expenses,” he said gently, “I’ll cover them. I’m a representative of the ‘Generous Family,’ dedicated to helping young talents like Zayden reach their full potential.” The father broke into tearful gratitude. But in the bed, Zayden lay wide awake, eyes locked onto the chain in the old man’s hand— his necklace, which should have been locked inside a locker room drawer. Now it rested calmly in the stranger’s palm, the clasp slightly ajar, as if opened by someone’s deliberate touch. [Suddenly, lines flashed across his mind like drifting danmaku:] [#003: He didn’t come here to save anyone.] [#004: Three years ago, during that championship game, the hand was broken the same way.] [#005: Same necklace. Same night. The cycle has begun again.] Zayden jolted upright, sweat-soaked hospital gown clinging to his skin. Memories surged— He’d never been injured. That day, he had won. Someone had drugged his water bottle. And the referee… wore the exact same cufflinks as this “philanthropist.” Outside, the night swallowed the world whole. The light above flickered erratically. The old man stood in the doorway, voice soft as silk: “Rest well. Don’t think about playing anymore.” “You’re not worthy… not anymore.” Zayden clenched his mangled right hand, nails digging into his palms. No. He would return. Not just to the court. But to the truth. To every stolen victory, every lost year. Yet this time, he wasn’t sure—was he the prey… or the bait?

In the late-night showdown at "Tranquility Restaurant," light sliced like knives, tearing through the silence. Jasper, the rising star chef, said nothing. With a gentle push of his fingertips against the fish's belly, he removed every bone from the East China Sea silver perch—without breaking the skin. The tail still quivered faintly, as if swimming in the deep sea. The room erupted. Old-school master Zev sneered, “Just flashy tricks. Cooking isn’t illusion.” But before the words faded, surveillance footage suddenly played on the main screen—three years ago, Zev had used his so-called “inner energy infusion” to manipulate taste illusions, secretly influencing judges and stealing the Golden Spoon that rightfully belonged to another. The evidence was undeniable. Shock rippled through the crowd. Zev leapt to his feet, eyes bloodshot. “Who do you think you are? You dare ruin my life?” He lunged at Jasper, palm blazing with fury. Yet Jasper closed his eyes—left hand drawing a circle, right hand striking like lightning. He unleashed the long-lost **Dance of the Beast, Bone-Stripping Technique**. One blade, one cut—silent, seamless. Zev froze. His knife clattered to the floor. He looked down. Five crimson lines bloomed across his apron, perfectly aligned with the projected positions of the five vital organs. The outcome was clear. Then, a dark figure stepped in through the rain. Hair white as snow, left sleeve hanging empty. Master Chef had arrived. His gaze settled on Jasper, soft but profound: “The final disciple I’ve waited twenty years for… has finally made this blade speak again.” Silence swallowed the room. Only the crackle of stove flames remained, illuminating the young man once mocked as “all show, no soul.” He turned, removed his chef’s hat—and revealed an old lotus-shaped scar on the back of his neck. The **“Crimson Flame Brand.”** A mark known only to Master Chef’s lineage. He hadn’t come to challenge the rules from the start. He had come to **burn the old throne to ashes.**

Embers glowed red, like the grip of her mother’s hand in her final moments. Ari stood barefoot on the scorched earth behind the manor, her dress flapping in the night wind like a tattered banner. The nobles formed a circle around her, their golden spectacles reflecting cold, glittering eyes. "Daughter of a traitor—unworthy of bearing the heirloom of the Wolfblood." They pointed at the silver chain around her neck, the one her mother had died to leave behind, engraved with forgotten moon-script: *Blood not cold, oath unbroken.* Ivy screamed from behind iron bars, but her voice drowned beneath the crackling flames. A man who looked like a cook approached, a boning knife in hand, a scar cutting across his face, grinning like a madman. "Heard your sister preferred her feet burned raw rather than give it up?" He hurled a ladle of hot oil into the fire. The blaze roared skyward. "Well then, let's see how much pain the little sister can take tonight." Ari didn’t turn. She only stared into the churning sparks within the coals—seeing again that night ten years past: her mother being dragged into the woods, pressing this very necklace into her palm with her last breath. "You call me the child of a traitor?" she finally spoke, her voice ragged as tearing cloth. "But tell me—who among you remembers who took the hunters’ silver arrows so you could live?" The crowd stirred. Doubt flickered. Then—a shadow cut across the firelight. A man in a tailored suit stepped from the darkness, his polished shoes treading over ash without a sound. His gaze swept over Ari—the trembling spine held unbent—and slowly, he removed his gloves. "Gentlemen," his voice low and heavy, "what you are burning is not a traitor’s bloodline. It is the last living descendant of the final Wolf Lord." He lifted his eyes, their depths dark as an abyss: "And I have come to bring her home." The wind stilled. The fire burned on. A tear traced down Ari’s cheek—but she did not step back. The game was set. Survival has always been written by the victor.

The chandelier in the ballroom glared harshly, casting sharp light over the scene. Red wine dripped down Alison's crimson dress, trailing like blood. A blonde socialite sneered, "You actually brought a fake bag to my son’s engagement party? Aren’t you ashamed?" Silence swallowed the room. Alison knelt on the floor, fingers clawing at the carpet until her nails nearly split. She looked up at her best friend—the one who once called her “sister”—only to see her quietly sipping wine, avoiding eye contact. She turned to the brand director she’d worked with for three years; he was already walking away. Even her cousin, whom she’d helped countless times, took a quiet half-step back, as if afraid of catching some contagion. Her phone vibrated inside her purse. The butler’s trembling voice came through: “Miss… Mr. Li is boarding now. It’ll take at least forty minutes…” She laughed, a broken sound, tears slipping into the corners of her mouth. “So… I really have no one after all.” Then—**the ballroom doors burst open.** The click of high heels stopped dead. A figure stood in the doorway—gray suit perfectly tailored, tie slightly loosened, eyes so cold they froze the noise in the air. He strode forward, his polished shoes silent on the carpet, yet each step pressed like weight on every heartbeat. The entire room held its breath. He dropped to one knee before her, shrugged off his coat, and draped it gently over her shoulders. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the hall like a blade: “Who gave you the right… to touch my fiancée?” He lifted his gaze to the sneering woman, lips curling in disdain. “And that bag? A one-of-a-kind piece I personally commissioned in Paris. You call it fake—so it must be?” The air turned to ice. Suddenly, the chat exploded: 【HOLY SHIT! That’s him—the elusive CEO of the Li Corporation!】 【OMG the female lead just activated her main storyline!!!】 【Don’t cry, girl—this is only the first step of your legendary comeback!!】 Alison stared up at him, stunned. And he—gently wiping the wine stain from her cheek—whispered only for her to hear: “I’ve waited five years… finally found you.”

From the very moment genius scientist Emma fires up her groundbreaking time-machine, the biggest shock isn’t the invention—it’s her sister’s brutal betrayal, fueled by a hospital mix-up that shattered their family years ago. Samantha’s attack triggers a malfunction, and both sisters are violently thrown ten years into the past, straight into a rewritten timeline where Samantha has one goal: steal Emma’s identity, her family, and even her fiancé. As Samantha claws her way toward becoming the Carter family’s heiress, Emma is left with nothing but her mind and grit, battling identity theft, dark family secrets, corporate sabotage, and the dangerous butterfly effects of time travel. When she meets Matthew, a quietly protective stranger masking his true status as a powerful chairman, Emma finds the first spark of hope—along with a love strong enough to challenge fate itself. But with every choice Emma makes, the future she remembers grows more unstable. And just when she finally believes she’s breaking free from destiny’s grip, a chilling truth about Samantha’s real motives emerges, hinting that the deadliest twist isn’t buried in the past… but racing toward them from the future.