The Sickly Beauty Gives Up Struggling [Rebirth] Chapter 142

It felt as though time had rewound to that fateful day. In the Ghost Eye Group leader’s office, the sunlight outside was blindingly bright, nearly dazzling enough to blind. A dragonfly perched on the screen window, its wings trembling ever so slightly, as if brushed with oil and placed on a hot griddle, ready to crisp up any second.

The sunlight served as the perfect cover—no one would have expected Cen Xiao to make a move against Du Mingli in broad daylight.

Du Mingli was a cautious man. He knew he had to be wary of Cen Xiao, so the moment Cen Xiao stepped through the Ninth District’s gates, he was subjected to a mandatory search.

Naturally, no weapons were found.

While careful, Du Mingli also had a certain arrogance about his judgments. He was certain that with the weight of the Cen and Xiao families bearing down on him, Cen Xiao wouldn’t dare make a move against him under the clear sky.

And so, he agreed to meet Cen Xiao.

He hadn’t agreed for mockery or ridicule, nor to shed any crocodile tears over Li Rong’s fate.

Rather, he knew that while he might lead the Ghost Eye Group, if Cen Xiao’s attachment to Li Rong ran too deep and led him to become a lifelong adversary, it would spell endless trouble.

Du Mingli believed he could persuade Cen Xiao.

After all, it was just an exceptionally good-looking lover.

Time is the best remedy. It’s only been six months, and perhaps Cen Xiao still can’t let go, but what about two or three years from now? Five or ten years? Maybe by then, he won’t even remember what Li Rong looked like.

This wasn’t an exaggeration from Du Mingli—it was a judgment based on human nature, a conclusion drawn from common sense.

Time has a way of eroding certain emotions, and the body has its mechanisms for self-regulation, adapting until it can function smoothly again.

It had been six months. Surely things couldn’t still feel as raw as they did when it first happened.

Besides, when it first happened—when Cen Xiao saw Li Rong’s corpse—he hadn’t been so overcome with grief that he sought to die with him. That showed he still had rationality left.

Du Mingli calmly adjusted his clothing, opened a drawer, and glanced at the compact silenced pistol inside.

Even if Cen Xiao came with hostile intentions, Du Mingli wasn’t afraid. He was fully prepared.

When Cen Xiao arrived, his expression was eerily calm. He didn’t even approach Du Mingli’s desk but simply stood there, silently gazing at him.

Du Mingli studied Cen Xiao for a long moment but couldn’t detect even a trace of aggression in him.

Hesitating, Du Mingli removed his hand from the drawer and gestured to Geng An, who had followed him inside.

Geng An cast Du Mingli a concerned look. But seeing the confidence in his demeanor, he decided not to argue. With a slight nod, he slowly backed out of the room. Before leaving, however, his wary eyes remained fixed on Cen Xiao’s back.

It was hard to describe, but Geng An had a very bad feeling. This sense of unease stemmed from his many years of experience dealing with countless students and parents at training institutions.

He had seen far more people than Du Mingli, and he knew that surface calm didn’t always reflect true peace.

Once Geng An exited, the glass door closed loosely behind him.

Du Mingli let out a soft sigh and leaned back in his chair. Sunlight streamed in at an angle through the glass window, illuminating only half of his body.

One side of him was bathed in sunlight, while the other was cloaked in shadow. The sharp boundary between light and dark bisected his face, dividing his eyes—one in shadow, the other in light.

“I knew you’d come looking for me,” he said.

Hearing Du Mingli’s voice, Cen Xiao’s eyelids finally moved slightly. Standing where he was, his voice was deep and steady. “You sent me that message.”

When Li Rong’s incident occurred, Cen Xiao didn’t hear the news until an hour later.

From disbelief to dizziness, to an all-encompassing coldness and inability to think—he endured the most agonizing twelve seconds of his life.

Then, he heard his assistant’s voice, drifting from some abyss, hollow and detached— “It was suicide. They’re saying it was suicide.”

Suicide?

Following the echo of those words, it took him what felt like an eternity to grasp the meaning of those three syllables.

He felt a buzzing in his ears and a metallic taste in his throat. His vision darkened, and he swayed before being firmly supported by his assistant.

He knew this wasn’t the time to collapse. He had to go to the scene. He was the only one in the world left who cared about Li Rong. If he didn’t go, Li Rong would be alone.

In truth, even if he hadn’t decided to go, the police would have come looking for him.

The conclusion that Li Rong had committed suicide was based on a text message found on his phone.

The message was sent just before Li Rong entered the hazardous substance room and met his end.

The recipient of the message was Cen Xiao.

It wasn’t until later that Cen Xiao, fumbling with his phone, discovered that the message had somehow been automatically categorized as spam and didn’t notify him.

The message contained only seven words. It seemed calm and resolute but carried a cruel gentleness and an inexplicable allure:

—-I’m leaving. Will you come with me?

When Cen Xiao read these words, it felt as if all the blood in his body had been drained.

Will you come with me…

Did Li Rong think he wouldn’t dare?

Cen Xiao stared at the message over and over, as if drawn into a dangerous vortex.

Death would be fine, he thought. At least everything would be quiet—no more exhausting struggles, no more tormenting one another.

But just then, the phone screen suddenly dimmed, like a heavy blow snapping him awake.

Rationality surged back to him, pulling him out of the tempting whirlpool.

As alluring as the dream was, he had to face reality with a clear head.

He loved Li Rong deeply, to his very core, but Li Rong did not love him in return.

Even in death, Li Rong wouldn’t want to take him along.

Such a proud person—how could he, in his final moments, beg for companionship out of fear of loneliness?

Unless… that text message wasn’t sent by Li Rong.

The police, however, could only follow this single clue in their investigation.

For someone as young and accomplished as Li Rong to commit suicide was nothing short of a tragic loss of a gifted mind.

The unbearable burden that led such a talent to end his life must have been an insurmountable one.

The bond between Cen Xiao and Li Rong was thoroughly scrutinized.

Cen Xiao, for his part, made no attempt to hide it. Previously, he had refrained from admitting his feelings for Li Rong to keep him away from the power struggles between Blue Pivot and Hongsuo.

But now that Li Rong was gone, there was no longer any need for secrecy.

The police pieced together a narrative based on Li Rong’s medical records, testimony from his mentors and friends, and field interviews. Their conclusion was that after the incident involving his parents, Li Rong had been under immense psychological pressure for a long time. Over time, it had become too much to bear, and Cen Xiao’s presence was the final straw that drove him to extremes under the shadow of depression.

It was a narrative that made sense and seemed flawless—except for that text message.

Cen Xiao even tried deceiving himself, imagining that the message was indeed from Li Rong, who wanted him to follow.

But Li Rong would never do that.

The person who sent the message must have known about Cen Xiao’s feelings for Li Rong.

That person feared he might become a threat and wanted him to bear the guilt and die with Li Rong.

Tracking down the Ninth District was only a matter of time. After all, with Jian Fu’s resources, Cen Xiao could mobilize all the assets of Blue Pivot’s First Division.

So, Cen Xiao came.

Du Mingli did not deny it. He merely sighed softly. “I suppose you didn’t love him enough to die with him.”

Based on the intelligence he had gathered, Du Mingli had assumed Cen Xiao capable of such a thing.

Still, it was better this way. It showed that Cen Xiao was rational enough.

Du Mingli looked at Cen Xiao. He wanted to smile—it was his most familiar expression—but he chose not to provoke him. Instead, he said gently, “This wasn’t my doing. I didn’t send the message myself, nor did I personally handle the technical aspects. Everything involved foreign expertise. Even if you trace it back, it won’t lead to me.”

He was speaking the truth. After years with the Ghost Eye Group, he knew how to ensure his hands appeared clean.

“I want to know why,” Cen Xiao said, unperturbed by Du Mingli’s confidence. His tone remained calm, as though Li Rong’s murder had occurred ages ago.

Du Mingli leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk as he stood. His upper body was enveloped in shadow.

“What if I told you it was for the greater good?”

Du Mingli’s expression carried helplessness, but he felt no guilt over his answer.

He stood boldly in the space between light and shadow, his darkened skin gleaming with an uncommon sheen.

He was telling the truth. He had no personal grudge against Li Rong.

Cen Xiao let out a soundless laugh, his lips curling faintly. Despite his relaxed demeanor, his words were sharp: “What did Han Jiang tell you?”

Du Mingli slowly shook his head, brushing his fingers over the smooth, polished surface of the wooden desk. “You’re mistaken. Han Jiang and I are not the same kind of person. Han Jiang acts out of selfishness, while I act for the greater good. It just so happens that we shared the same stance on this matter, making you think I inherited his will.”

The faint smile faded from Cen Xiao’s face, his voice growing firm and loud. He demanded, “Whose ‘greater good’ are you serving?”

Du Mingli’s face hardened. His hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white as he declared with righteous indignation, “Of course, society’s greater good—the greater good of the majority! Cen Xiao, or perhaps I should call you Vice President, whether you believe it or not, I am nothing like you privileged brats. I, Du Mingli, entered the Ninth District and climbed to where I am today not for myself, but for society as a whole!”

It had been a long time since Cen Xiao heard such self-righteous idealism.

Lightly massaging the callus near his thumb with his index finger, his eyes were dark and lifeless.

“You killed Li Rong for society’s sake. And who was Li Rong researching GT201 for?”

Du Mingli slammed the desk with his palm, teeth gritted as his facial muscles twitched. “His mistake was getting involved with GT201. Jiang Weide played with fire and got burned. If you want to blame someone, blame Jiang Weide for overestimating himself and dragging your lover to his death!”

Cen Xiao’s eyes grew colder as he suddenly took a step forward. Du Mingli instinctively gripped the drawer handle.

“So, there’s more to the death of Li Rong’s parents,” Cen Xiao said faintly.

Du Mingli stiffened, his hand tightening on the handle. With just one second, he could pull open the drawer and grab the handgun inside.

“I won’t tell you anything,” Du Mingli said, voice tense. “If you were in my position, leading the Ghost Eye team, you’d understand. You’d make the same choice.”

Cen Xiao chuckled coldly, his gaze briefly lingering on Du Mingli’s tense, gripping hand.

Du Mingli recounted the trolley problem—a metaphor to justify his actions. He believed someone as sharp as Cen Xiao wouldn’t fail to grasp his point.

He claimed he had no personal motives—Li Rong simply had to die.

Cen Xiao turned toward the bright floor-to-ceiling windows, his emotions unreadable as he stared at the clear, sunny sky.

Such weather, yet Li Rong would never see it again.

Calmly, Cen Xiao remarked, “When the Li family fell, you were still working at the finance company. You didn’t participate in framing Li Rong’s parents.”

It was both an analysis and a statement of fact.

Du Mingli hadn’t been involved in the original crime but had now chosen to align with the culprits behind it.

“Framing?” Du Mingli shook his head, a mocking glint in his eyes. “Are you seeking revenge for Li Qingli and Gu Nong? Do you think their enemies are specific individuals you haven’t identified yet? No. Their real killer was public opinion—scattered across this world in every corner: mediocrity, ignorance, and the unstoppable surge of a misguided populace. Real, living people. The ones they loved, cared for, and wanted to save. What are you going to do? Kill them all? Make them confront their own pettiness, malice, and darkness? Your revenge is meaningless. So was Li Rong’s. Should the fleeting neglect of the masses atone for your trivial personal pain?”

Cen Xiao paused the habitual motion of rubbing the callus on his hand. His fingers pressed down, and his knuckles cracked with a dull sound.

Du Mingli laughed. “But I’m not like Li Qingli. I can sacrifice everything for the greater good without expecting anything in return because I understand human nature. I only care about achieving my value.”

As he spoke, he swiftly opened the drawer, pulling out a silenced handgun. He raised it, aiming at Cen Xiao’s chest.

“But I know you, Cen Xiao. You won’t let me go. Not for Li Qingli and Gu Nong, but for Li Rong. You’ll kill me sooner or later.”

Cen Xiao stared down the barrel of the silver gun, his expression calm. He even took two steps closer, closing the distance between himself and Du Mingli to just a desk’s width.

He could see the sweat beading on Du Mingli’s pores and the dilation of his pupils from intense focus.

“Afraid?” Cen Xiao asked.

Du Mingli laughed lowly. “Afraid? No. But let me remind you—no matter how deep your love or hatred, it will eventually fade. It’s been half a year now. Aren’t you already less in pain than you were six months ago? A year from now, two years—eventually, you’ll forget. Only the living have meaning. We might even collaborate in the future if you think rationally. There’s no need for mutual destruction. I can’t touch you here in my office; you’ve got the backing of the Cen and Xiao families. Li Rong was beautiful, but with your status, you can find beauty easily. My words may sound harsh, but the world isn’t fair to some people. Perhaps that was just the fate of the Li family.”

Cen Xiao sighed softly and took another step forward.

“Don’t move,” Du Mingli warned, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Cen Xiao’s hand shifted slightly, brushing against his belt buckle. Before Du Mingli’s attention could fully focus on the movement, Cen Xiao asked suddenly, “Have you calculated how many people GT201 could save if it succeeded? Compared to your ignorant ‘greater good,’ who truly represents public opinion?”

Du Mingli froze at the question.

He hadn’t considered that.

Who really represented the majority?

He had always prided himself on being the voice for ordinary people. But those who cursed Li Qingli were ordinary people, and so were those suffering from bacterial progeria.

Who, then, was the “greater good” he should follow?

Just like the question he had once asked Cen Xiao: if the track held four people on one side and five on the other, what would he choose? What if it were 499 versus 500? Or even an equal number on both sides?

In the mere seconds that Du Mingli was lost in thought, Cen Xiao’s eyes grew sharp, and he struck suddenly, moving so fast it seemed to leave afterimages. His hands shot up to shoulder height, and his body twisted ninety degrees in a fluid motion, narrowly dodging the gun’s aim from his vital areas.

The streaming light fractured into distorted shards, and amidst the trembling interplay of light and shadow, a sharp blade was already pressed against Du Mingli’s carotid artery.

The situation shifted in the blink of an eye. The loaded handgun in Du Mingli’s hand now seemed utterly useless, while the cold metal against his flesh threatened to puncture his neck with the slightest pressure.

Cold sweat drenched Du Mingli’s body. His neck stiffened as he tried to stay still, yet thin trails of blood seeped out along the edge of the blade.

Cen Xiao showed no mercy. The sharp pain and the difficulty breathing drove home the reality of impending death for Du Mingli.

“Cen Xiao, didn’t you hear anything I just said?” Du Mingli managed to say.

Cen Xiao didn’t respond. Instead, he asked coldly, “What did Han Jiang tell you before he left?”

Du Mingli’s muscles tensed and relaxed repeatedly before he finally let his arms fall in defeat.

He had thought about resisting but knew it would be futile against someone like Cen Xiao.

“You won’t spare me. Even if I tell you, you won’t let me go,” Du Mingli said, fully aware that the moment Cen Xiao had hidden the blade on himself, he had already made up his mind.

Cen Xiao had decided to abandon everything—the Cen family, the Xiao family—all to seek justice for Li Rong.

Du Mingli felt a deep sense of regret. He had underestimated Cen Xiao, even now.

What unsettled him more was that Cen Xiao had never shown his true abilities in front of others.

This kind of firearm combat skill, this level of reflexes—unmatched even among the Ghost Eye Group—had gone unnoticed for so many years.

Cen Xiao was a madman, and one should never harbor expectations of a madman.

Du Mingli’s face turned ashen as he closed his eyes. His lips moved slightly, murmuring one final sentence to Cen Xiao in a barely audible voice.

It sounded like mockery, perhaps even a form of retaliation, as his lips twitched into a grotesque smile.

As soon as he finished speaking, a sharp pain tore through him. Blood gushed like a fountain, and Du Mingli let out a hoarse, guttural cry. His eyes rolled upward as he stared at the ceiling light, where the Ghost Eye Group’s emblem was reflected.

And with lingering regret and unwillingness, he descended into darkness…

***

“Cen Xiao?”

“Cen Xiao!”

Du Mingli’s voice, full of energy, echoed through the quiet library. Time rewound, and reality reset. Nothing had happened yet.

Cen Xiao snapped out of his daze and looked at Du Mingli’s slightly puzzled face.

Seeing that Cen Xiao had only just recovered from zoning out, Du Mingli barely suppressed his irritation and repeated his earlier words: “Didn’t you hear me? I said, I had a classmate who used to work as a financial director at Suhe Biotech. According to him, the company’s upper management admitted they wouldn’t make significant improvements to Jiaketing, and they had no plans to develop a cure for bacterial progeria in the coming years because it wouldn’t be profitable. My classmate, feeling his sense of justice challenged, quit because he didn’t want to work for a company with such corporate values. And as it happens, Li Qingli discovered a cure for bacterial progeria syndrome… Cen Xiao, we could actually work together.”

Cen Xiao glanced at his watch. He was already ten minutes past his check-in time.

Calmly, he said, “Come back to me when you have actual evidence instead of hearsay or rumors. Then we’ll talk about working together.”

With that, Cen Xiao frowned, his expression stern, and left the library.

The vivid memories from his previous life still haunted him, leaving him with intense PTSD. At this moment, he couldn’t even bear to look at Du Mingli’s face.

Once outside, he took a deep breath, as if expelling all the suffocating gloom from his lungs, leaving him feeling lighter and his breathing steadier.

Du Mingli’s final words before his death—those he still couldn’t bring himself to share with Li Rong.

***

The Biochemical Building at A University had recently been repainted, but the hallways reeked of formaldehyde.

Li Rong certainly hadn’t expected to run into Jiang Weide in the hallway.

By rights, Jiang Weide should have been working in his luxurious office at the Hongsuo Research Institute—or, at the very least, in one of Hongsuo’s specialized laboratories.

A University and this aging Biochemical Building, which still emitted a pungent odor despite its recent facelift, were hardly a suitable backdrop for someone of Jiang Weide’s stature.

Covering his nose and mouth, Li Rong struggled to remain polite.

At this point, there shouldn’t have been any interaction between him and Jiang Weide. He didn’t even know what to say.

To his surprise, it was Jiang Weide who initiated the conversation.

Seemingly unaffected by the stinging odor, Jiang Weide examined Li Rong closely, his expression a mixture of relief and concern. He greeted him politely, “Li Rong, you still remember me, don’t you?”

Li Rong squinted slightly before curling his lips into a polite smile. “I do. You’re a friend of my parents, Professor Jiang.”

Jiang Weide nodded and reminded him, “I’m teaching one of your classes this semester.”

Feigning ignorance, Li Rong replied cheerfully, “Oh, really? I haven’t had a chance to look at my schedule yet.”

Jiang Weide didn’t mind his feigned ignorance. He understood that some proud children disliked admitting they were under their parents’ protection.

But Jiang Weide genuinely wasn’t here because of Li Qingli and Gu Nong. He explained, “Your academic performance is excellent, even in a less-than-ideal class. You seem to have a natural talent for biochemistry, just like your father. I don’t want you to be held back, so I specifically chose to teach your class.”

Jiang Weide was sincere. Seeing Li Rong’s end-of-term grades, his first reaction had been relief.

Relief that Li Qingli and Gu Nong had left something valuable in the world—something with potential.

Li Rong lowered the hand covering his nose and mouth. “I’m flattered by your praise.”

Jiang Weide stepped closer, his gaze complicated as he looked at Li Rong. Then he gently patted Li Rong’s shoulder, saying earnestly, “Work hard and achieve something meaningful as soon as you can. Your parents would be very proud.”

Li Rong raised an eyebrow slightly.

His sensitivity to emotions was almost unnerving.

Jiang Weide had said “as soon as you can” instead of more encouraging phrases like “keep it up” or “take your time.”

Scientific research often relied on luck. Efforts didn’t always yield results, and choosing the wrong direction could render years of work futile.

Most mentors advised their students not to rush, to be steady and persistent, to handle success and failure with grace.

But Jiang Weide seemed desperate for him to succeed, despite Li Rong being a mere nineteen-year-old freshman. Wasn’t that a bit much?

Reflecting further, Li Rong recalled how, in his previous life, Jiang Weide had also seemed unusually rushed.

Not long after meeting Jiang Weide had urged him to lead a research team independently, despite being the youngest researcher at Hongsuo Institute. Jiang Weide had even entrusted him with supervising doctoral students and postdoctoral fellows.

Although the pressure was immense, Li Rong had risen to the challenge, completing the GT201 project.

Of course, the project’s swift success—under two years—owed much to Jiang Weide’s constant oversight. Anytime Li Rong veered off track, Jiang Weide would immediately correct him.

Li Rong now realized he’d overlooked Jiang Weide’s urgency.

Because he had been so anxious to fulfill his parents’ wishes, he hadn’t noticed that Jiang Weide shared the same urgency—to finish GT201, move to animal trials, and push for the next phase of experimentation.

Li Rong’s face was innocent as he earnestly nodded, “I will.”

Only then did Jiang Weide relax his furrowed brows, looking slightly more at ease. “You’re just a freshman. Focus on building a solid foundation. If you don’t understand something, feel free to ask me. And if you have time during the break, you can come to the lab as a teaching assistant to get an early understanding of what you’ll be doing in the future.”

Li Rong hadn’t expected Jiang Weide to already be planning an internship for him.

This was different from his previous life.

In his last life, at least during his university years, Jiang Weide had barely been present in his life.

He remembered that in his last life, he had consistently ranked first in his grade. Completely focused on his studies, he aimed to reach his parents’ heights as soon as possible. Everything around him had been insignificant, his world a vacuum.

But this life was different.

The CAR-T optimization and CRS mitigation hypothesis had inexplicably been published, and it was intricately linked to him.

Meijiang Pharmaceuticals had been caught in a major scandal, causing Cen Xiao’s reputation in the Ninth District to soar, all while his own shadow lingered throughout the entire ordeal.

He had breezed through his courses, and despite putting in seemingly minimal effort, his outstanding grades had earned him a full scholarship.

No one knew when or how he studied. If they didn’t know he had been reborn, Jiang Weide might have assumed that his parents had taught him extensive biochemical knowledge while they were alive. With such a solid foundation, it was natural for him to progress rapidly in the field, accelerating toward all of his goals.

Was it because Jiang Weide saw hope that he couldn’t resist showing up so early in this life?

As Li Rong exited the biochemistry building, he was still lost in thought, not knowing where to go. He instinctively followed a path forward.

Though the weather was not yet warm, the snow by the roadside had completely melted, leaving only glistening patches of water.

Dodging tree branches and stepping on the dry asphalt, Li Rong looked up to find himself near the Management building.

He tilted his head to look at the gilded, opulent-looking sign and suddenly felt a strong desire to see Cen Xiao.

He remembered that Cen Xiao would be attending Microeconomics.

At A University, students were generally allowed to audit classes, especially internal students. However, given the rigorous curriculum of each major, few students had the luxury to regularly attend classes outside their own field.

Following his memory, Li Rong went upstairs and turned toward the largest classroom on the right.

Peeking through the glass window, he scanned for Cen Xiao’s seat. Once he confirmed his location, he pushed the door open and walked in.

Cen Xiao’s expression was somewhat grave, his attention clearly elsewhere as he stared at his notebook. The presentation on his laptop wasn’t even on the slide the professor was currently discussing.

“Cen Xiao, how about you answer this question?” The professor tapped the desk with his pointer stick.

Cen Xiao’s seat was quite close to the front, making it impossible for his distraction to escape the professor’s notice.

He indeed hadn’t been paying attention. Whenever he recalled the six months Li Rong had been gone, he experienced varying degrees of emotional trauma, requiring time to recover.

Cen Xiao raised his eyes, quickly scanning the professor’s slide, but wasn’t sure what the question was.

“The law of increasing opportunity cost. Simply put, it’s the reason behind the shape of the production possibilities curve,” Li Rong’s voice called out from not far away. After answering, he nonchalantly pulled out a chair and sat down next to Cen Xiao.

The open window let in a breeze, carrying the subtle scent of Li Rong’s shampoo to Cen Xiao’s nose.

It was a faint but intoxicating aroma.

The professor scrutinized Li Rong’s unfamiliar yet striking face but didn’t seem annoyed. The outsider had answered correctly, after all.

“I asked Cen Xiao to answer. Are you Cen Xiao?” the professor asked.

Li Rong smiled brightly, leaning his shoulder against Cen Xiao’s. “He probably didn’t hear the question earlier. I did. The answer would’ve been the same.”

The professor noticed Li Rong’s confident demeanor and countered, “How could it be the same?”

Li Rong glanced at Cen Xiao, meeting his deep, calm gaze, and softly said, “Because he was thinking about me.”

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