Sigh!
That little girl's growing up, huh? What a handful.
Lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, Fang Yi let out a faint sigh.
He wasn't an idiot. Having lived two lives, how could he possibly not understand Zhao Wanqiu's feelings?
But this time around, he had decided he wouldn't leave behind any regrets. He wanted to live freely—unrestrained.
He didn't want to hurt her.
Spending a lifetime as close friends and soulmates? Honestly, that didn't sound bad at all.
…
Even though he went to bed pretty late the night before, Fang Yi still got up early the next morning.
After all, he had promised Qiu-ge last night that he'd accompany her to the hospital for surgery.
"Auntie Wang, don't worry—it's just a minor procedure," he reassured gently in the corridor outside the operating room.
"Mhm, I know…"
Wang Juan nodded. The lead surgeon had told her the same thing earlier, but she still couldn't help feeling nervous.
To her, Zhao Wanqiu wasn't just her daughter. She was her everything—her emotional anchor, her entire world.
Fang Yi, in contrast, seemed much more relaxed. He opened up his notebook and picked up his pen, continuing from where he'd left off last night.
Lung cancer sounded terrifying, sure, but from a surgical standpoint, Wanqiu's case was actually quite minor.
The cancerous tissue in her lungs was only 1.8 centimeters, and it hadn't spread to any other organs. That significantly reduced the complexity of the operation.
By the year 2000, thoracoscopic surgery had already been introduced in China.
Gone were the days of slicing open a 30-centimeter gash just to access the chest cavity.
Now, all it took was a small incision—barely one or two centimeters long. A few days in the hospital, and patients could go home.
Just then, Wang Juan suddenly asked, "Xiao Yi, I heard this thoracoscope surgery is some new kind of technique… is it really safe?"
"Auntie, don't worry. Thoracoscopic surgery is really mature technology now. It's a minimally invasive procedure and super popular overseas," Fang Yi explained.
"Oh, that's good!"
The moment she heard "overseas," Wang Juan visibly relaxed.
It was a little frustrating, but that was just how things were in the country back then—patriotism and national confidence weren't strong yet. People generally believed that anything foreign was superior.
The surgery lasted about two hours.
Just as Fang Yi was writing the part where Hu Bayi's group finally encountered the Queen of Jingjue's coffin, the doors of the operating room swung open.
Wang Juan sprang to her feet like a spring-loaded jack, rushing over anxiously. "Doctor, how's my daughter?!"
The lead surgeon, looking a little tired, offered a reassuring smile. "Don't worry—the operation was a complete success."
"Thank you, doctor. Thank you so much!"
Wang Juan was still expressing her gratitude when two nurses wheeled Zhao Wanqiu out of the room.
On the hospital bed, Wanqiu's face was pale as snow. Her eyes remained shut, but her long lashes fluttered ever so slightly.
Seeing her safe and sound, Fang Yi finally felt the last weight in his heart drop away.
He helped the nurses move her to the recovery room, and once everything was settled, he looked at the still-sedated Wanqiu and said, "Auntie Wang, I've got something I need to take care of. I'll come visit Wanqiu again tomorrow."
Wang Juan quickly replied, "Oh, goodness, I totally forgot—it's already lunchtime. Why don't you eat first before you go?"
"No need, Auntie."
Fang Yi declined with a smile. For some reason, he'd always had an aversion to hospital food.
Once he left the hospital, he hopped on his bicycle and didn't head home.
Instead, he grabbed a couple of meat buns to fill his stomach, then rode off into the scorching sun toward the old part of the city.
There stood Jiangzhen City's very first—and currently only—Internet café.
Feiyu Internet Café!
Sound familiar?
Ever since Wang Yuesheng opened the first Feiyu café in Beijing, knockoff versions had been popping up all over the country like mushrooms after rain.
Of course, these weren't actually franchises or even authorized branches. They were just borrowing the "Feiyu" name to ride the hype.
Fang Yi parked his bike and pushed the door open.
The café was tiny—barely 30 square meters. A dozen or so computers were scattered along the walls.
No air conditioning, only a rusty old ceiling fan spinning lazily, barely managing to stir the stifling air.
It felt more like a steam room than a café.
But even in this sweltering heat, it was packed.
Fang Yi scanned the room—besides two people who looked like they were doing research, everyone else was gaming.
This was the year 2000. Online games were still in their infancy. The only notable titles were Stone Age and The King of Kings, both still in beta testing.
The King of Kings had just launched a few days ago.
Fang Yi remembered the game well—it had an interesting backstory.
Everyone knew Korea imported a ton of games into China: Legend of Mir, Audition, Dungeon Fighter Online, and the like.
But what most people didn't know was that the very first cross-border success had gone the other way.
The King of Kings was the first Chinese-developed game to be exported to Korea!
After a quick glance, Fang Yi lost interest.
Having grown up on AAA titles in his past life, this level of graphics couldn't even hold his attention for a second.
He waited about ten minutes until one of the guys near the door finished his research and got off the computer.
Fang Yi immediately slid into the now-vacant seat.
Just as he sat down, the café's middle-aged manager walked over with a notebook in hand. "How long you staying?"
Fang Yi asked, "How much per hour?"
"Twelve!" she replied.
Tsk tsk…
This was exactly why even if someone secured the Legend of Mir license now, they wouldn't make much money.
Twelve yuan an hour? The average person couldn't afford that.
To put it in perspective: pork in Jiangzhen City cost only 3.2 yuan per jin, and a heaping plate of fried noodles was just 1.5 yuan—with sausage and egg, no less. Without toppings? Just a single yuan.
Of course, if twelve yuan an hour felt too steep, you could always go to a regular computer room without Internet—those only cost three yuan an hour.