Chapter 3 – A CEO's Rebirth
Far across the sprawling, indifferent landscape of the city, in a place of sterilized air and hushed whispers, another soul awoke in a body that felt both intimately familiar and strangely renewed.
Gu Yanzhou, the man who had commanded fortunes and terrified rivals, blinked against the blinding white of a ceiling far more pristine than the peeling wallpaper Xiao Xi faced.
He was lying in a hospital bed—expensive, electric, and smelling faintly of antiseptic.
His mind, sharp and ruthless even in the shadow of death, provided immediate context:
the boardroom coup,
the systematic stripping of his assets,
the final, fatal betrayal by the protégé he had treated like a son.
He remembered the smell of smoke and gasoline, the agonizing heat of the fire that consumed his private manor, and the definitive, crushing pain of his own death. It was an ending he had accepted—until now.
Yet, here he was. Alive.
He tested the sensation in his limbs. A dull ache, the lingering effect of heavy sedation, but no permanent damage.
He was the Gu Yanzhou of five years prior, the CEO at the undisputed peak of his power, just as the novel's prelude was beginning.
"President Gu? You're awake?"
His assistant, Lin Bo, a nervous man known for his impeccable loyalty and oversized spectacles, hovered at the bedside, his expression a chaotic mix of shock, relief, and exhaustion.
Lin Bo looked five years younger, his hair less grey, his suit crisper.
Gu Yanzhou's gaze darkened, instantly radiating an intensity that made Lin Bo instinctively take a step back.
The air around the CEO tightened with an almost palpable sense of controlled power.
The timeline had reset, a miracle he refused to question, but his memories—the betrayal, the ruin, the death—remained intact, a painful, perfect record.
This time, he vowed internally, the resolution hardening his jaw, the script is mine to write.
In the original timeline of the novel, Gu Yanzhou was meant to die here, in the hospital, from complications related to the 'accidental' fire, allowing his unscrupulous competitors to carve up his empire.
He was the setup, the tragic loss that framed the backdrop of the entertainment industry plot. Now, however, the original plan was incinerated along with the manor.
He reached out a hand, his movements precise and deliberate, and picked up the water glass on the bedside table. His reflection stared back at him from the glass surface—a man in his late twenties, striking, fiercely intelligent, with eyes that currently held the cold, ancient wisdom of having seen his own future.
"Lin Bo," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that commanded immediate attention.
"What is today's date?"
Lin Bo stammered, checking his watch.
"It is... November 14th,
Five years ago, President Gu. You've been recovering from the minor accident at the manor."
"Minor," Gu Yanzhou repeated, a ghost of a mocking smile touching his lips. It was the cover story his enemies had fabricated. He knew the truth.
"Contact my corporate counsel. I want every single investment, every single contractual obligation, every partnership reviewed.
Start with the subsidiary known as 'Bright Star Media.' I want a full breakdown of their financial exposure by the time I leave this bed."
Lin Bo frowned, confusion clouding his face.
"Sir, Bright Star is only a small, struggling media company. It poses no threat. We were planning to liquidate them next month."
"Liquidate nothing," Gu Yanzhou countered, his eyes flashing. "I want to know who is buying them out, who the key shareholders are, and why they were allowed to struggle. I need eyes on the entertainment industry.
Now."
He had realized his great weakness the first time around: he had been too focused on high finance and ignored the pervasive influence of media and information control.
This time, he would control the narrative before it could control him.
As he began issuing orders—a whirlwind of financial counter-maneuvers designed to immediately crush the conspirators who were currently celebrating their 'successful' fire—he paused, an unfamiliar sensation prickling at his awareness.
It was a fleeting thought, an image of faded wallpaper and the smell of cheap perfume, a sudden break in his laser focus.
He shook his head, dismissing the momentary distraction as residual trauma from the fire.
But somewhere, in a dilapidated apartment across the city, the woman who would unknowingly tangle her volatile fate with his had just tied her hair up, applied a defiant swipe of red lipstick, and stepped back into the game—a game he was now intrinsically involved in, whether he knew it or not.