Healing Hands and Avenging Wife
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Publish：2025-11-20
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My Farmer Dad Is Secretly an Archmage
In the opulent hall of the auction house, crystal chandeliers blazed so brightly they nearly blinded.
Ten gold coins were placed gently onto the table. A soft *clink* echoed—
Silence fell across the room.
The nobles froze mid-sneer, wineglasses still in hand. Moments ago, they had mocked the "peasant" onstage—this mud-stained fool dressed like a beggar in stolen theater rags—scribbling a crude stick-figure drawing: a tiny swordsman beneath two bold characters—**"Oracle."**
"What is this supposed to be? Art?"
"This bumpkin’s probably never even seen paint!" The countess in the front row giggled behind her fan, her pearl earrings trembling wildly.
But now, no one laughed.
Because those ten gold coins stood alone at the highest bid.
And the bidder? The reclusive Duchess of the North—cloaked in black veils, seated in the darkest corner, who had not spoken a single word all evening.
Onstage, Aidan Thorne slowly lowered his hood. No shame touched his face—only a faint, knowing smile. "You were all laughing quite heartily," he said, fingertip brushing the drawing. "Pity—what you're mocking is the future crowned Prophet-King."
Laughter erupted again, sharp and cruel.
"The Prophet-King? He can’t even ride a horse!"
"His father farms potatoes! Owed me rent last month!"
Before the echoes died, the great doors burst open.
A howling wind swept snow into the hall.
A weathered farmer in coarse linen stepped in, hoe on shoulder, straw sandals caked with mud. He walked straight to the stage, slammed the hoe down, and grinned. "Sorry, everyone. My son’s art *is* a bit rough. But you’re wrong about one thing—" He flashed a row of white teeth. "I don’t grow potatoes. I grow the fate of an entire kingdom."
Chaos erupted.
Someone spotted the copper badge at his belt—the long-lost sigil of the **Stellar Gatekeeper**, vanished for centuries.
Even more chilling—the so-called "child’s doodle" began to shift under the firelight. A second layer emerged: blood dripping from the sword’s tip, each drop becoming a star, aligning precisely with tonight’s celestial pattern.
The Duchess slowly rose. Her veil slipped slightly, revealing a teardrop mole beneath her eye. She stared at Aidan, voice raw: "...Your mother drew the same image... before she died."
At last, Aidan spoke, soft as a whisper:
"I didn’t come here to bid."
"I came to reclaim what was always mine—"
"The throne. The truth. And the name..."
"...you’ve pretended never to hear."
He raised his hand—and tore the drawing in two.
From the rift, a golden light erupted, piercing the ceiling like a beacon.
An ancient prophecy stirred in the wind:
**"When the sword-bearing Oracle comes, paper crowns shall turn to ash."**
Mistaken Surrogacy, Christmas Destiny
She gave everything for love, only to be betrayed while pregnant. Four months along, Rose is cast out by her cheating husband. But the baby belongs to Brad, a magnetic billionaire. Rose and Brad strike a deal: a flash marriage, shared revenge. Fighting side by side, vengeance turns into tender love.
Love，Lies and Christmas Surprise
After 20 years underground, secret billionaire Mark catches his wife Emily taking her ex Jamie to bed on Christmas Eve—and his kids even side with the new lover! Humiliated and cast out into the cold on Christmas Eve, Mark is finally done hiding. Now, the ruthless reckoning begins.
The Last Christmas For Daddy To Love Me
On Christmas Eve, the beeping of a heart monitor drowned out the church bells.
Theo lay in his hospital bed, counting the snowflakes drifting past the window. Softly, he asked his mother, "Dad promised he'd come pick me up with a sleigh." Ava cradled his burning cheeks and smiled gently. "Soon. He's already on his way."
What she didn't say was—his "father" had died three years ago in a car crash.
Meanwhile, at the mall’s toy section, Raymond stood frozen as a woman gripped his wrist and pulled him toward the Santa Claus costume display. “Look how much the boy wants to see you,” she pleaded, tears brimming, “He can’t even breathe his last wish unless it comes from his father’s lips.”
Raymond tried to pull away—but when that pale little face appeared at the hospital room door, he froze.
Theo, wearing a brand-new red sweater, grinned as if he’d never been sick. “Daddy! I saved you a cookie!” He pulled a crumbled gingerbread piece from under his pillow and carefully placed it by the bedside. “I was afraid you’d be hungry. I kept it just for you.”
In that moment, Raymond felt like a real father.
Not until late that night, when he found a hospital document in Ava’s bag, did everything shatter.
[Patient Theo: Congenital neurodegenerative disorder, no cure possible, life expectancy less than three weeks.]
Beneath it lay another file:
[Psychological Intervention Plan · 7th Execution Record]
Objective: Construct a "reunion with father" scenario to maintain emotional stability until patient’s end
Executor: Ava (biological mother) | Supporting Role: Raymond (temporary emotional surrogate)
He stumbled out of the room, shaking, and in the hallway collided with a nurse tearing off the calendar page.
December 24th was violently crossed out in red ink.
Beside it, a sticky note read:
"Don’t let him know tonight is Christmas Eve. And don’t let him notice… tomorrow’s date won’t be turned."
He finally understood—this Christmas wasn’t a miracle.
It was light stolen through lies, crafted by a mother’s love.
And he himself was merely a speck of dust written into her script.
Yet when he returned to the room, Theo stirred, drowsy eyes opening. He reached out weakly. “Daddy… can I have a hug? Just once… please…”
Raymond dropped to his knees, pulling the fragile child—light as paper—into his arms.
Tears fell onto the blanket, burning dark holes into the fabric.
A surveillance camera rotated silently overhead.
Behind the door, Ava pressed her face against the cold wall, sobbing without a sound.
She had won the cruelest performance in the world.
But lost to a hug that was never meant to exist.
Merry Christmas, Don Moretti
On Christmas Eve, I reserved the city’s most expensive revolving restaurant.
But she had no idea that the man sitting across from her—wearing a secondhand suit and too cheap to order wine—was the "worthless loser" her father said had squandered three billion.
"What kind of penniless trash dares to go on a blind date with me?" She flicked her manicured finger, tossing the menu into my face. "Don’t waste my time. Go back to being someone’s walking ATM."
I said nothing, just bent down to wipe invisible dust off my shoes.
Three days later, her father collapsed in a casino. The doctor said: sudden rage, cerebral hemorrhage.
The cause? A new technician from the maintenance crew had dismantled seventeen slot machines overnight—each found loaded with hidden coin-dispensing programs, the very core of her family’s money-laundering empire.
And that “technician” was now standing outside my office, sipping milk tea with a wrench in hand.
"Boss, all fixed," she winked. "Oh, and I ‘fixed’ the security footage too."
I nodded, handing her a director’s employment letter.
One week later, at the New Year’s gala in a glittering ballroom, she staggered toward me, drunk, pointing and laughing: "Look! That janitor still wears his uniform! He’ll never be fit for anything but a broom!"
The entire room erupted in laughter.
I set down my champagne, calmly shrugged off my jacket—revealing the black-and-gold tattoo on my cuff, a mark only top-tier members possessed.
Then, under the stunned silence spreading across every face, I spoke softly:
"You’re right."
"That’s why my son should never have called you Mom."
As the words fell, the entire building plunged into darkness.
When the lights returned, the giant screen flashed police wanted notices—her entire family, charged with transnational money laundering, illegal fundraising, and witness murder.
I took my secretary’s hand, stepped over scattered cash and broken glass, and walked away without looking back.
Behind me, her scream tore through the air: "Who the hell are you?!"
I paused, turned slightly, and smiled:
"Your father owes me a life."
"I borrowed your life to sleep soundly for three years."
"Now, with interest."
"The collector has arrived."
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When Lyra feigns amnesia to test her husband Marcus, he ruthlessly hands her off to his brother, Ethan, claiming he's her true spouse. Lyra then uncovers Marcus’s seven-year double life of S&M and infidelity with her best friend. Caught between a fake husband with a real heart and a real husband with a fake soul, the twisted "Husband Swap" begins.