Volume One: Turmoil in the Small Town Chapter One: Does It Really Have to Be This Accurate?

Between heaven and earth, life is but a fleeting moment—a white steed dashing past a narrow gap, gone in an instant. It was always meant as a jest, yet for him, it became reality.

At twenty, Zhang Heng was in the prime of his youth, yearning to let his own vitality bloom. But fate played a cruel joke. Just moments ago, he had received the hospital’s final diagnosis: late-stage cancer.

He sat quietly in a corner of the hospital, neither angry nor resentful. There was a calm acceptance in his eyes, a hint of relief as if release was near. He gazed around, as though trying to memorize this beautiful world that had never truly belonged to him.

People bustled past, not one pausing for his sake. Of course. In this world, aside from Old Zhang—who had already passed away—no one had ever really cared for him. Even with only three months of life left, no one would mourn him; few would even know.

Zhang Heng gave a self-deprecating smile.

Who knows how much time passed before dusk settled over the city. Zhang Heng rose slowly to his feet.

“Still three months left, aren’t there? I’ll make the most of this time, enjoy every last moment.”

Ten thousand years is too long; seize the day. Heaven had been merciful, granting him three months. He could use what remained to witness the world’s splendor, leaving nothing to regret when he departed.

“No need for treatment now. That thirty thousand yuan I’d set aside for hospital bills—now it’s just lying there.”

“That’s a small fortune. How should I spend it?”

At the thought, he burst out laughing.

Just then, a kindly old man approached, resting a hand on Zhang Heng’s shoulder, shaking his head with a sigh. “Young man, this illness—no hospital can cure you.”

Zhang Heng stared, bewildered, yet inwardly a thousand waves surged. Was this an immortal in hiding? Had he seen at a glance that Zhang Heng was terminally ill? Could it be that fate refused to abandon him? Perhaps this old man would save him, teach him miraculous medicine, and then he’d ascend to the pinnacle of life, winning the heart of a rich, beautiful woman.

The old man spoke again. Zhang Heng bowed respectfully, anticipation on his face. But the old man merely said, “Come, I’ll take you to the psychiatric hospital.”

Only then did Zhang Heng notice the people around him, all regarding him as if he were a simpleton. It must have been his earlier laughter that earned him such looks.

Embarrassed, Zhang Heng quickly declined, “No need, thank you,” and hurriedly squeezed out of the crowd.

Cloud City’s night was beautiful. The streets teemed with people, every corner awash in light.

After a weary day, most people came out to relax before facing another cycle of work and rest. This was the life of an ordinary person.

But none of this mattered to Zhang Heng now. He couldn’t even dream of such a life.

Abandoned as an infant beside a trash bin, he would not have survived if Old Zhang the scavenger hadn’t taken him in. Perhaps those early hardships left him with lasting ailments; his health had always been poor, illness a constant companion. The doctors had said it was a miracle he’d lived this long.

So, the cancer diagnosis didn’t surprise him.

As he walked, dark clouds gathered and thunder rumbled overhead.

Though Old Zhang was gone and he had no ties left, reaching twenty years felt like a bonus.

Yet, there remained a trace of unwillingness. He was still so young—his life just beginning. He’d tried so hard to fit into this world, done nothing wrong. Why, then, was there no place for him in society? Why did even heaven and earth reject him?

Thunder boomed louder, and rain began to fall.

The street emptied as people rushed home, but Zhang Heng lingered.

What did he have to fear of rain, when he no longer feared death?

Soon, he was the only one left on the street, as if he’d always been alone.

He had always worked hard, whether at study or at life, but everyone instinctively overlooked him, as though he wasn’t meant to exist.

Thunder roared, and raindrops began to pelt down.

Already in low spirits, Zhang Heng grew more dejected. Grievances welled up inside him. He looked up at the sky, murmuring, “Since no one will listen, no one to whom I can vent, I’ll speak to you instead.”

The rain poured harder, thunder splitting the heavens as if to tear the sky apart.

Zhang Heng steadied himself, imitating the protagonists he’d seen in dramas—kneeling on the ground, hands raised to the heavens.

(Yes, just like that.)

He cried out in fury:

“You wretched heavens! If there’s no place for me here, why was I born into this world?”

“Why was I abandoned by my parents?”

“Why, despite all my effort, am I never acknowledged?”

“Why must illness torment me my whole life?”

Why? Why? Why?

His voice rose with every word, as if shouting could ease his pain.

In that moment, bolts of lightning silently formed, twisting above, poised to strike as if replying to his insolence.

Zhang Heng sensed something amiss. He stood up, glancing warily at the storm.

“Surely not? You’re this petty? I complain a little and you’re already upset?”

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning crashed down, striking a nearby tree and splitting it in two, flames licking its base.

“Damn, you’re serious,” Zhang Heng muttered.

“Do you think I have no temper? Go on, if you’re so great, strike me. I don’t have long anyway.”

“Come on, strike me! If I so much as blink, I’ll call you grandpa.”

But the next instant, every bolt of lightning descended, tearing through the sky with divine might—each one aimed at Zhang Heng.

“Does it have to be this literal?” Zhang Heng shouted as he turned and ran, panic-stricken.

“Old Heaven, Grandpa, I was just venting! Can’t you be magnanimous? No, you’re the greatest—let me off!”

He’d had three months left; now, if struck, he’d die on the spot.

“Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?” Zhang Heng regretted deeply.

He ran for his life, but how could a man outrun the power of nature?

In a flash, the lightning struck him, one after another.

“My thirty thousand yuan—” was all he managed to say before consciousness left him—his very body erased by the force of nature.

The next day, the rain had stopped, and thunder faded. People returned to the streets, finding only a massive crater and a scorched tree. Life resumed as always; no one knew that a life had vanished in that storm.

...

In the midst of boundless chaos, an ancient door stood unmoved for countless ages—until, in that instant, it shone with light.

Thus, through a web of subtle events, a remarkable journey of growth began.