Dual-wielding! 100x proficiency, I'll grind my way to godhood!

Hangzhou, evening.

As Wang Jun's Mercedes-Benz S-Class turned out of the company's underground parking garage, he was looking down at a message.

Zhao Chengze, the second son of the Zhao family, sent this message: The old man asked where the money from last month went.

He stared at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, typed a few words, deleted them, typed again, and deleted again.

Finally, he replied: I will organize the accounts for you to review tomorrow.

After sending the message, he slammed his phone down onto the seat.

The road outside the window is the one I've walked for three years.

Turn right after leaving the company, cross two intersections, and then go downhill.

The road is lined with sycamore trees, has three speed bumps, and a sharp bend at the bottom of the slope. A row of concrete guardrails with yellow and black diagonal stripes stands on the outside of the bend.

Driver Lao Zhou had been with him for six years, and he only listened to traffic radio.

The female news anchor's voice was soft and gentle as she reported on the evening rush hour.

Wang Jun leaned back heavily in his seat, pinched his brow with two fingers, and then let go.

The car jolted, hitting the first speed bump.

It bounced around again, then the second one, then the third one.

He'd driven this road hundreds of times. With its downhill slopes and continuous speed bumps, Lao Zhou would always apply the brakes early when he reached this spot, keeping the speed steady at 40 mph as he rounded the bend.

The car didn't slow down today.

The car speed increased rapidly, to fifty, sixty, seventy.

Old Zhou slammed on the brakes, pressing down with his right foot until the pedal sank to the bottom.

His ankle bounced back, then he stepped down again, pressing down with the weight of his entire body.

The right pant leg was taut, and the ankle was bent at an impossible angle.

The pedal offers no resistance.

The car's speed was still increasing, reaching 80 km/h.

Old Zhou's head suddenly tilted to the side. Wang Jun saw two blue veins bulging on the back of his neck, his fingers gripping the steering wheel turning white, and his mouth wide open.

"Brake!"

The voice was forced out of Lao Zhou's throat.

Wang Jun suddenly raised his head.

Through the windshield, the sharp bend at the bottom of the slope was rushing towards us.

The yellow and black diagonal stripes on the traffic barrier appeared magnified in my field of vision.

The car's speed had already exceeded 90 km/h.

His phone lit up; it showed Zhao Chengze's profile picture and two words: "As soon as possible."

As the message popped up, the front of the car slammed into the guardrail.

Wang Jun was thrown forward, his chest slamming against the back of the passenger seat, the air in his lungs being forced out of his throat.

The seatbelt then tightened around him, and the back of his head slammed heavily against the headrest. His phone bounced off the seat and landed on the floor mat, screen up.

Wang Jun slowly opened his eyes.

A large section of the roof was dented, and the suede was torn open, revealing a twisted metal frame inside.

The windshield shattered into a pile of cracks.

Old Zhou slumped over the steering wheel, his shoulders moving, and a hoarse sound coming from his throat.

Wang Jun tried to raise his hand to pat the front seat, but he couldn't.

I wanted to turn my head to look out the window, but I couldn't move my neck.

I tried to call out Lao Zhou's name, but my throat made a gurgling sound and I couldn't spell a single word.

My whole body aches!

He could still feel the leather of the seat, the velvet of the footrest, and something flowing down his calves—warm, then cooling down.

The phone screen on the foot mat lit up again.

News about Zhao Chengze: ?

Then: answer the phone.

The phone rang, the screen lit up, and Zhao Chengze's picture was flashing. He couldn't move his hand, the call dropped, and then it rang again.

Missed calls kept popping up – four, five, six.

When the seventh call came in, he suddenly remembered something.

This morning when he left home, his daughter stood by the second-floor window and waved to him.

Wearing pajamas, with messy hair, she was mouthing "Goodbye, Dad."

He nodded and got into the car; it was his daughter's seventh birthday.

He forgot.

The sound of an ambulance siren came from afar.

Wang Jun stared at the dented section of the car roof, where a sharp ridge had been folded along the edge.

Two things were clashing wildly in his mind.

The old master of the Zhao family personally inquired about that sum of money.

What color pajamas does my daughter wear in the morning?

He couldn't remember the color of his daughter's pajamas, but he knew very well about the Zhao family.

The money passed through his hands, and the accounts were not yet balanced.

If he doesn't wake up, and this matter isn't handled properly, his whole family will be ruined.

Driven by a strong will to survive, he moved his fingers on the footpad, just once.

When the ambulance arrived, the stretcher wheels rolled over the broken glass, and someone lifted him out of the vehicle.

He saw the sky, the canopy of the sycamore trees closing overhead, and the crowd of onlookers holding up their phones.

He tried to raise his hand to cover his face, but his hand was too painful to obey him.

On the fourth floor diagonally opposite, there was a private art gallery that was closed.

Dusk seeped in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

A jazz vinyl record is slowly turning on the record player, accompanied by the lazy sound of a trumpet.

The window was pushed open halfway, and the night breeze carrying the scent of sycamore leaves rushed in.

There was a person sitting on the sofa.

His left hand rested on the armrest, a cigar between his fingertips, the ash piled up half an inch long, unflicked.

He held a Bordeaux glass in his right hand, a thin layer of red wine at the bottom swirling slightly in sync with the rhythm of the record.

The spine is away from the chair back, maintaining a just-right distance.

He raised the glass to his lips but didn't drink.

Through the dark red liquid, the sharp bend at the bottom of the slope outside the floor-to-ceiling window came into view.

The yellow and black diagonal stripes on the barrier were stained with wine color, resembling a warning line that was fading.

When the sound of the crash reached us, the trumpet was playing its highest and brightest note.

He moved the glass away from his lips and tilted his head slightly.

The muffled sound seeped in through the glass, mingling with the bass notes of the piano in the record.

A bit of cigar ash fell into the ashtray, but he didn't look out the window.

He simply placed the wine glass on the sofa armrest, pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his fingers, one by one.

Hearing the ambulance siren, he placed his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, picked up his glass, and took a sip.

The horn sounded from afar, then approached, and then receded into the distance.

He finished the last of the red wine, took out a coin from his pocket, five baht, an old one, its edges worn shiny.

He pressed the coin under the dust cover of the record player.

Then he got up, picked up his suit jacket draped over the back of the sofa, shook the collar, put it on, and buttoned up the top button.

Leather shoes clattered on the marble floor, one step at a time, and the door closed gently behind him.

The emergency room lights stayed on for four hours.

It was almost ten o'clock when Wang Jun was wheeled out.

The wheels of the transfer bed rolled across the ground at a slow speed.

His head was pressed against the pillow, and the light tubes on the ceiling were receding one by one.

He could still feel the firmness of the bed surface and feel someone pushing his bed forward.

He could feel his fingers, his toes, and the stinging pain from the stitches on his calves.

The wheel rolled over a seam in the ground, jolted me, and the back of my head left the pillow before falling back down.

Something slipped down my spine.

"Click!"

The crisp sound traveled up his bones and into his ears, like a tree branch being snapped in two inside his body.

A bloodcurdling scream burst from Wang Jun's throat.

"ah--"

His body jerked violently.

Then--

From the neck down, it's all empty.

Wang Jun's eyes widened suddenly, almost bursting out of their sockets.

He opened his mouth, made a few gurgling sounds in his throat, and then let out a roar.

"My hand! Where is my hand!"

No one answered.

The transfer bed continued to push forward, its wheels rumbling across the ground.

"I can't feel my hands! My body! My whole body is gone!"

He began to struggle.

The veins on his neck bulged, and his face turned bright red.

He tried to raise his hand, but couldn't.

I want to lift my leg, but I can't move it.

I tried to turn over, but my whole body felt like a stone slab pressing down on the bed.

Only the head can move!

He shook his head from side to side, the back of his head hitting the pillow repeatedly with a thud.

"Doctor! Doctor! Someone come quick! Someone come quick!"

The doctor ignored him.

Only his own voice echoed in the corridor, as the lights receded one by one.

"Please...please stop...I can't move...I can't move my whole body..."

His voice changed from roaring to pleading, and from pleading to wailing.

Tears streamed down my face, and snot also ran down my nose, mixing with the tears and flowing into my mouth.

Unable to wipe it with his hands, he could only sway his face from side to side and rub it against the pillow.

He started wailing.

Presidential Suite, Lotus Hotel, Bangkok.

Chen Mo leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a glass of coconut water.

My phone lit up with a text message from an unknown number.

Boss, please sign for the package.

Chen Mo glanced at it and placed his phone on the windowsill.

Su Wan came out of the kitchen and placed a cup of lemon tea next to him.

Lu Xingyao jumped off the sofa and showed Chen Mo her phone screen.

The page showing successful ticket booking.

"Three first-class tickets available the day after tomorrow afternoon."

P.S.: That's all for now.