"Dao Xiang," lyrics and music by Li Yu, original singer: Li Yu.

"Chi Ling," lyrics and music by Li Yu, original singer: Luo Zhi.

"Shi Nian," lyrics and music by Li Yu...

"Douluo Dalu," author: Zhongyuan Wubai (Li Yu).

"Doupo Cangqiong," author: Zhongyuan Wubai (Li Yu)...

"Fei Niao Ji," author: Mu Zi (Li Yu).

"Lai Zi Xing Xing De Ni," director: Mr. Li.

"Shaonian Pai de Qihuan Piaoliu," director: Mr. Li...

"How is it all him?!" Feng Yiqiu lay weakly on the bed. After searching thoroughly, he realized every major cultural hit from his memory now bore Li Yu’s name.

Damn. The entertainment mogul hadn’t even launched before getting shut down. Feng Yiqiu forced a faint smile. He desperately wanted to slap himself—why mention Li Yu would register copyrights early?!

Good grief. Li Yu had snatched nearly all top-tier songs, plus the blockbuster novels and films. The leftovers? Minor hits at best—bland to keep, a pity to discard.

"Never mind." Feng Yiqiu took a deep breath. Then he caught himself: mental trap. He was Feng Mingdong’s son now—a bona fide rich second gen. And he had a stunning sister (older? younger?) with an outrageously curvy figure to admire.

Too narrow. Thinking too narrowly. Becoming an entertainment mogul meant climbing the peak—but wasn’t he already on top? A strange comfort washed over him. Sigh… His own novel really looked out for him, turning him into the ultimate "lie-flat-to-win" template—the kind where rice sprouts straight into your mouth.

He could lie flat again, tease readers for fun… pure bliss. Oh right—if he dug any pits this time, he’d absolutely refuse to mark them "completed."

Glancing at the locked room nearby, he wondered: was his lovely sister inside? Yet the original owner’s diary never mentioned her—only their father, repeatedly.

Feng Mingdong was always busy, returning home late. As for him—a guy who’d just finished the high school entrance exam—he was just slacking off at home.

He knocked on the locked door. No sound. Disappointment flickered, then a soft sigh of relief.

A rustle came from the living room. He peeked: a little orange cat, just waking, stretching lazily with sleepy clumsiness. Feng Yiqiu gently grabbed it by the scruff and launched into the "Star Absorbing Technique."

"Turns out a little tomcat… and almost time for neutering," he murmured, warmth blooming in his chest. He’d owned a cat before transmigrating. Cradling the restless little orange, he teased it softly.

But his gaze sharpened. Wait—this body had no sister. The apartment showed zero feminine traces. Could his father merely share a name with the legendary Feng Mingdong?

...

Elsewhere, Feng Mingdong stared gravely at a medical report, then at the doctor. His hands trembled slightly—a rarity for a man who stayed calm facing billion-dollar deals.

Uncharacteristically, he fumbled a cigarette from his pack. The match sputtered out twice. The doctor silently offered a lighter.

"Professor Niu, you’re the expert. I’m begging you—is there truly no other option?" Feng Mingdong’s voice rasped. "I’ll buy the finest herbs, the most advanced equipment… Name your price. Anything."

"Mr. Feng, I’m sorry," Professor Niu said, sliding the report forward.

"So… surgery, or…" Feng Mingdong’s tone steadied, voice still hoarse.

"Correct. We’ve handled similar cases." Professor Niu pulled out a tablet. "The procedure is mature. Over a dozen patients worldwide recovered fully. The oldest is now a grandmother—zero side effects."

"And if we wait?"

"Two paths." He raised two fingers. "One: endocrine imbalance triggering systemic failure—fainting now, possible cancer or chronic illness later. Two: shock-induced death. Sudden cardiac arrest."

"I understand. Thank you. Leave me alone." Feng Mingdong inhaled deeply, eyes glistening. He saw his wife’s final smile, heard his promise: *Our child will live happy and healthy.*

Back then, poverty forced him to kneel, beg, sacrifice dignity—still couldn’t save her. Now… lose the last trace she left behind?

This helplessness against fate… he refused to feel it again. Fists clenched. All these years of struggle—to prevent this. His decision solidified. Even if hated forever… he’d accept it.

He composed himself and stepped out. "Professor Niu, prepare surgery. You operate personally. I’ll donate the hospital’s most advanced equipment under my name. Ensure no complications."

Professor Niu smiled. "A classic case—minor procedure. Post-op psychological support will need family cooperation."

Feng Mingdong strode off with signed papers. His secretary hurried up. "Mr. Feng, the—"

"Tech team handles it; submit a report. Discipline team monitors progress. I’m stepping back." He glanced at the file and tossed it back. "Cancel all appointments for the next two weeks. Postpone anything possible."

"Yes, Mr. Feng." The veteran secretary shrank under his palpable tension, nodding meekly before slipping away. Mr. Feng was usually a rare "herbivore" boss—calm, fair, easy to work with. But today… She stuck out her tongue slightly. Something was coming.

Outside the hospital, dusk bled across the sky. Feng Mingdong checked his watch. Too long since he’d spent time with his child. As a father… he’d fallen short.

Guilt tightened his chest. If only he’d been more attentive back then… would this pain exist today?