His Goddess Won't Wait Anymore
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Publish：2026-01-15
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The instant I plunged into the pool, Isabella’s scream lodged in her throat—like a violin string abruptly snapped.
Three meters underwater, her skirt billowed like black seaweed, tangling around my wrist. I seized her ankle and hauled her upward; my fingertips brushed an old scar along the inside of her calf—the one she’d gotten at seven, when she shoved me into a glass door to snatch the strawberry cake from my hands.
Breaking the surface, she choked and coughed, curling into a shrimp-like hunch, her mascara smeared into two bruised streaks beneath her eyes. On the poolside, my mother gripped her champagne flute until it clicked and groaned in her hand. My father stood crookedly, his tie askew, his gaze locked onto the mole behind my left ear—the exact spot marked “distinguishing mole” on his twenty-year-old sperm donation records.
“Asher?” My mother’s voice trembled. “You… you were placed in foster care at five…”
“By you,” I said, wiping water from my face. My soaked work vest clung tightly to my chest, revealing an old, worm-like scar just below my collarbone. “That day, Isabella wore a new dress—and tossed candy wrappers at me through the car window.”
Sirens pierced the party music. Two officers stepped forward, cuffs glinting. Before they could speak, Isabella grabbed my arm: “Wait—he saved me!”
Before the words fully left her lips, her phone slipped from her drenched skirt pocket. The screen lit up with an unsent text draft:
[Dad, Asher broke in again today—to steal the ring. This time I caught him on camera opening your safe…]
I looked down at her. Water dripped from her jawline into the pool, rippling outward in quiet, concentric circles.
Turns out the sharpest blade is always hidden inside the sweetest wrapper.
Medical Genius Is Not Someone to Mess with
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.
Love Beyond Sight
I went blind saving an old woman with white hair.
The whole city was talking—Miss Pennington was going to repay my kindness by making me her grandson’s wife.
But no one knew the truth—it wasn’t gratitude. It was atonement.
When Luke Pennington first saw me, he sneered, "You’re a good actor. A delivery guy willing to risk your life for a hundred thousand in reward money?"
He thought I was just another poor scammer, kneeling outside the hospital, faking a sob story for sympathy.
I didn’t explain.
Because that night, the rain was too heavy, the ambulance lights too blinding—I only remembered how her falling silhouette reminded me of the old grandmother who once gave me a warm bowl of noodles as a child.
So I said, "Fine. I’ll marry you."
On the eve of the wedding, he stormed into my room with a bottle of red wine, mocking, "Name your price. How much to walk away? The Penningtons won’t let you down if you divorce quietly."
I didn’t speak.
I stepped off the bed barefoot, trembling hands sliding down his pants, fingertips brushing the tip of his leather shoe.
Then gently, I held it.
He froze.
After that, he started coming every day to put eye drops in my eyes.
His fingers always paused slightly against my eyelids.
Smiling, I asked, "What are you looking at?"
"You," he said. "Making sure you're really blind."
I replied, "You’re not ugly. You just don’t want to be seen."
Then she appeared—my so-called “mother.”
Dressed in cheap clothes, she took the check and tore up the contract in front of Luke. "This marriage is a transaction. She knew the chairman was your grandmother all along. Every move was calculated!"
Luke turned and left without a word.
The night he threw the engagement ring into the fountain, the entire Pennington family laughed at how foolish I was.
But three days later, I removed my sunglasses in court, facing the judge and the press.
"There’s something I’d like to say now."
"I’m not Joedy. The real Joedy died in a fire three years ago."
"And I… am the illegitimate daughter you abandoned in that burning house."
The courtroom erupted.
Security footage played—showing me rushing into the smoke to save someone.
And that “mother”? A nurse paid to take my place.
I stood, turning toward Luke in the gallery, his face pale.
"You said this marriage was fake."
"But tell me—of every tear I’ve shed for you, which one wasn’t real?"
Silence swept the hall.
Suddenly, he stood, walked slowly toward me, knelt on one knee, and slipped an old ring back onto my finger—the one he had secretly carved by hand when I wasn’t looking.
"Joedy," his voice cracked, "this time… let me beg you. Don’t go."
Outside, sunlight poured through the windows.
I closed my eyes—but for the first time, I truly “saw” the light.
The Goddess's Revenge: So Begins His Ruin
She was once the divine fated maiden of the celestial realm, sovereign of starry rivers and cosmic cycles, worshipped by all living beings.
Yet for his whispered promise—“Let us grow old together in the mortal world”—she severed her emotional roots, cast away her godly essence, and fell into the human realm.
In three days, her soul would scatter—mortal flesh could not contain a divine spirit; the only choices were death or madness.
But in these final three days, she had not come to say goodbye.
She had come to settle the score.
On the night of the imperial banquet, golden chalices raised beneath the moon, music filling the air,
he held his newly favored concubine close, laughing as my child convulsed on the floor. Chanting an incantation, he declared: “This child brings doom upon his father. He must die.”
The entire hall of nobles bowed their heads in silence, awaiting his command to bury my son alive as a sacrificial offering.
I rose slowly, my gown stained with blood.
“A curse? Very well,” I said, slashing my wrist and flinging crimson into the sky. “By my divine fate I summon it, witnessed by the Seven Stars—any who dare harm my child shall suffer backlash within three days: their homes destroyed, their line erased!”
He screamed in terror: “Stop! Didn’t you swear never to use your powers again?”
I laughed coldly. “Did you ever swear to never betray me?”
Before the words faded, a sword pierced my heart—
driven through by his own hand.
Blood trickled from my lips… yet I smiled.
For the heavens began to crack apart—
A beam of golden light split the sky, and the Nine Celestial Gates crashed open!
Countless divine attendants knelt in reverence as phoenix carriages descended from above. A voice echoed from beyond the cosmos:
「The Fated One returns. The rebellious shall be punished！」
I pulled the blade from my chest, letting sacred blood drench the clouds.
With one step forward, lotuses bloomed beneath my feet, and ten thousand thunderbolts followed in my wake.
“You can’t escape!” he shrieked from the pool of blood, his heart torn to shreds. “I killed the child you loved most! I burned every temple built in your name! And still, you dare return to heaven?!”
I paused, turning for one final glance.
The wind swept up my thousand-foot-long silver hair. My eyes held no more tenderness, only a final truth:
“From the moment you raised your hand against them—”
“I ceased to be your woman.”
In an instant, heavenly fire rained down, reducing the palace to ashes.
And I soared into the void, leaving behind life and death, never to look back.
When His Love Runs Out
Robert defies his family to marry Hathaway and builds her startup into a listed company. But her assistant George turns her against Robert, causing their divorce. Robert withdraws his investment, ruining her business, and moves on with his betrothed Natasha, leaving Hathaway full of regret.
Master Chef Returns
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.**