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.**

The wedding march played as he held her hand, vowing to stay together till their hair turned white. Guests raised their glasses, camera flashes blooming like a sea of stars. I sat in the front row, dressed in a simple white gown—like a ghost who never should have returned. Then the officiant asked, “Do you take Lin Chengyu as your husband?” I slowly rose. My voice wasn’t loud, yet it cut through the entire hall— “He cannot marry.” Gasps erupted. Lin Chengyu’s face twisted in shock. “Are you insane?! We’re already divorced!” I removed my sunglasses, revealing eyes once blinded by his hands—eyes that had miraculously regained sight. “You said you were cured. Three years of impotence, and suddenly you’re healed—just in time to marry a new lover?” I unlocked my phone, playing a recording aloud— “Doctor… is there truly no hope for me?” “Mr. Lin, nerve damage is irreversible. I suggest you accept reality.” His own voice. His own confession. The bride froze, her trembling body barely held up by the wedding dress. And I? I merely brushed my fingers over the small silver needle pouch at my waist. “You thought rebirth would let you rewrite history, swap partners, and fool the world?” “But you forgot—” “In the last life, it was you on your knees, begging me to save you.” “It was my ancestral acupuncture that kept you alive for three more years.” “And how did you repay me? You used that so-called ‘recovery’ as leverage… and pushed me into a well.” Silence swallowed the room. I stepped toward him, fingertips lightly pressing his wrist pulse. Three seconds later, he coughed violently—a splash of blood staining his collar—and collapsed. As emergency cries broke out, I turned, eyes meeting the man standing by the door, holding an umbrella. The rain hadn’t stopped. He stood at the end of the red carpet, gaze deep as the ocean. A faint smile touched my lips as I declared to everyone: “In four days, I’ll marry him.” As for Lin Chengyu— “Don’t worry. I’ll heal you.” “But not now.” “I want you to watch with your own eyes as I become another man’s wife.” “Just as you made me watch, helpless, while you laughed and accepted marriage vows with someone else, calling me worthless.” Thunder cracked across the sky. I walked past his convulsing body in high heels, stepping over the grave of my past life. This time, I’m no longer discarded medicinal dregs. I am the one holding the scalpel. And I—am his reckoning.

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."**

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.

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.

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.