The barbell and sandbag returned to Lin Fan's hands.
Cradling the sandbag in his arms, and with Old Zhang lugging the barbell, the two of them wore genuine smiles as they made their way toward Room 666.
Other patients scratched their heads in confusion. Why are we even here? they wondered. So dull, so meaningless. Having no particular demands of their own, they eventually dispersed, each returning to whatever task they believed to be of great importance.
The doctors and orderlies looked upon Director Hao with admiration, applauding him with thunderous enthusiasm.
Compliments, tinted with flattery and exaggerated reverence, flowed like an endless stream.
Director Hao smiled serenely. And although he was well aware of the obsequious words surrounding him, he found himself in excellent spirits—perhaps, he mused, this is the greatest gift one could ask for on a birthday such as March 1st.
"Patients with mental illness are still people," he said. "The only difference lies in how they think. You raise a finger—what do you see? Some may say it's a finger, others may call it the number '1'… but for them, perhaps, it's a sausage."
An old and experienced doctor nodded solemnly, though he couldn't help but lace his agreement with flattery. "A single speech from the Director is worth ten years of study."
"Yes, yes! I wonder when we might ever be as brilliant as Director Hao."
"He's a titan in the field of psychiatry—an icon we'll spend a lifetime looking up to."
Buoyed by such sycophantic praise, Director Hao waved his hand and left, feeling invigorated.
To him, this was simply another day's work—nothing to be proud of.
Room 666.
The barbell felt light in Lin Fan's grip. With a swing, he slammed it against his chest—and to his surprise, it didn't hurt in the slightest. He stared at it, puzzled, sinking deep into thought.
It used to hurt… so why doesn't it anymore?
"Here, you try hitting me," he said, handing the barbell to Old Zhang.
Old Zhang found it slightly heavy, but he had always believed Lin Fan was cultivating some secret strength. Without hesitation, he raised the barbell and brought it down on Lin Fan's chest.
A muffled thud.
Lin Fan didn't budge an inch. But owing to the laws of physics, Old Zhang was knocked back several steps by the rebound.
"How do you feel?" Old Zhang asked eagerly.
"Great," Lin Fan replied, bright-eyed. "I feel full of energy. Everything is fine—except it just doesn't hurt."
He was having trouble understanding this transformation. Could it be… our efforts are finally bearing fruit?
Old Zhang looked at the barbell, then struck himself with it.
Hiss…
He inhaled sharply through his teeth, rubbing his bruised chest. His face twisted in pain, eyes bulging, tongue sticking out like a cartoon of agony.
"You trying to cultivate too?" Lin Fan asked curiously.
Eyes reddening, Old Zhang looked like he might cry. "I just wanted to see if it really didn't hurt—but it hurts like hell! You liar!"
"I'm not lying. It honestly doesn't hurt," Lin Fan replied thoughtfully. "In one of my dreams, someone said they were giving me a reward and even taught me Qigong. I think our hard work is finally paying off."
Old Zhang leapt with joy. "Really? Do you think it's because of me? Was my acupuncture amazing?"
"Mm, amazing," Lin Fan praised earnestly.
Then, Lin Fan lay quietly on the bed, turning his head to Old Zhang. Calmly, he said, "I'll lie here, and you keep hitting me with the barbell. Let's continue our cultivation. We'll definitely succeed."
"Alright," Old Zhang agreed. "But first, I think I should give you a few acupuncture treatments. My Galactic Circulation Technique is incredibly effective—it'll help for sure."
He furtively pulled silver needles from his shirt, where he'd hidden them deep, wary of others stealing them.
In the corridor.
A male orderly named Li Ang was making his rounds. Fresh out of university, he once dreamed of becoming a righteous hero. He'd aimed for one of the top four prestigious law schools, but alas, his talent hadn't measured up, and he was accepted into an average institution.
Still, he never abandoned his ideals.
After graduation, he was assigned to Qingshan Psychiatric Hospital.
Here, he found the patients endearing. Though their words were often unintelligible, their smiles were genuine, and that sincerity warmed his heart.
Even better—Uncle Wang from next door had introduced him to a girlfriend. She was beautiful, petite, gentle, and considerate. Her only flaw was a slightly chubby belly, but she promised she'd slim down in a few months. Given his modest salary and her striking looks, Li Ang often felt unworthy—How could I still be picky?
BOOM! BOOM!
"What was that?" Li Ang frowned, following the sound.
He had his back to Room 666, but the noise came from behind. Turning around, he peered through the window embedded in the wall—and saw the scene unfolding inside.
His cheerful expression vanished. The smile froze on his lips.
He saw Old Zhang's back. The man was raising the barbell high and bringing it down violently upon a patient lying on the bed. Each impact sent the bed trembling.
"This…"
Li Ang's heart turned cold. Panic surged.
Old Zhang, as if sensing something, slowly turned his head. His eyes slanted, expression stiff, yet the corners of his mouth curled into a faint, eerie smile.
"Ahhh!"
With a thud, Li Ang collapsed to the floor, scrambling backward in terror.
"Murder! There's been a murder in Room 666!"
His scream drew the attention of nearby doctors and orderlies.
Room 666 again.
Why is it always Room 666?
Can't we just have a moment of peace? A taste of tranquility? Even just a sliver?
Hurried footsteps echoed through the hall.
A crowd of doctors and orderlies rushed in, some dialing 120 on their phones, ready to call for an ambulance at the first sign of a gruesome scene.
But when they reached the room and looked through the window…
Everyone was stunned.
It wasn't nearly as catastrophic as Li Ang had claimed. They exchanged odd looks.
A doctor holding a thermos spoke gently:
"Xiao Li, I know you're new here. It's normal to feel on edge. But you must be careful not to hallucinate. Otherwise, we might not be colleagues—but doctor and patient."
Li Ang began questioning his reality. This isn't right. I saw it with my own eyes!
He looked from the serene room to his coworkers. You've got it all wrong. I swear—I saw it.
Inside the room.
Lin Fan and Old Zhang sat side by side on the bed, each sipping a packet of soy milk. Legs swinging, eyes clear, they gazed calmly at the staff outside the window.
They raised their hands in greeting.
As if to say, Hello, everyone.
Behind them, the barbell lay quietly on the bed—as if to testify that, yes, Old Zhang had indeed been smashing Lin Fan with it just moments ago.
I, the barbell, solemnly swear: this really happened.
They were simply too fast in covering it up.
You just didn't catch it.
"The sunlight outside feels so warm," Lin Fan murmured.
"It does," Old Zhang agreed.
Together, they raised their soy milk.
"Sprite."
"Coke."
"Cheers!"
Their eyes met. They grinned, eyes narrowing to slits with laughter.
Sunlight poured through the window, illuminating their joyful faces.
It was a moment of serenity. Of warmth.
A moment that bore witness to true friendship.
(End of Chapter)