“First, you’ll need to serve as my personal doctor for the next year and treat my illness.”

Xi Xianqing looked directly into Zhu Ming’s eyes, his voice clear and composed. “Of course, in addition, I’ll also provide you with a reasonable salary that meets the highest standards for a doctor in District Seven.”

Zhu Ming’s injury was to his spinal cord, causing both motor and sensory impairments; medically speaking, his lower body shouldn’t have much sensation.

But Xi Xianqing’s words were so astonishing that Zhu Ming felt an unexpected warmth in his legs–as if a medical miracle was on the verge of happening.

“That, Mr. Xi,” Zhu Ming paused, reassessing the person in front of him before cautiously asking, “Do all people from District Six… joke around like this?”

Xi Xianqing: “I’m not joking.”

This time Zhu Ming couldn’t smile.

The man in front of him remained calm and composed, his chin slightly raised in a way that confirmed he wasn’t kidding.

This meant that both his request for a “personal doctor” and his casual mention of “I can marry you” were entirely serious, genuine statements.

Zhu Ming fell into silence, but Xi Xianqing didn’t give him much time to think.

“I genuinely want to make this deal with you.” He looked straight at Zhu Ming. “I’ve heard you’re skilled in researching ailments related to mental manifestations.”

“I have some problems… with my mental body.”

Xi Xianqing’s jaw tightened slightly, and he averted his gaze after a brief pause. “I once sought help from the Mingyi Clinic in District Seven, but they couldn’t treat it. Before I left, their director mentioned your name to me.”

The Mingyi Clinic was one of the top private hospitals in District Seven, with neuroscience as its flagship specialty.

So, it wasn’t for his sister’s sake after all; he had a personal agenda. Zhu Ming mused over this realization.

“What kind of illness?” He couldn’t help but ask curiously. “Actually, you could just message me privately to book an appointment in my livestream queue—you don’t need to go so far as to offer yourself.”

Xi Xianqing: “For personal reasons, I need to keep my condition confidential, so I can’t disclose it to others in a livestream setting.”

Zhu Ming had dealt with plenty of thin-skinned patients and nodded knowingly. “No problem. If you’re embarrassed, you can show me now, privately.”

He thought he was generously offering a back door—after all, he did free consultations during his limited livestream time, which made his sessions extremely popular, often requiring fans to submit requests a week in advance just to get a chance.

But Xi Xianqing didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture.

The air abruptly quieted down, and he still stood straight.

“I’m sorry because we’re meeting for the first time.”

After a long time, Xi Xianqing eventually said, his gaze settling on Zhu Ming, “I can’t choose to trust you without signing a legally binding confidentiality agreement.”

Zhu Ming suspected he was hallucinating: “…?”

From the “dietary safety” comments when he first arrived to now mentioning a “confidentiality agreement,” Zhu Ming finally began to realize that this man was truly sick.

His initial diagnosis was paranoia—severe, even.

“Let me make sure I understand this correctly.”

After pondering for a little while, Zhu Ming asked slowly, “You’ve come to see me for treatment, but you can’t tell me what’s wrong. And I have to sign a confidentiality agreement before you’ll reveal the symptoms?”

Xi Xianqing: “Yes.”

“… May I ask what your profession is? A supermodel or an actor?”

“Jewelry designer.”

It was certainly an elegant and meticulous profession, full of aesthetic appeal.

But still, it wasn’t exactly a high-profile job. What was there to keep secret ah?

For a moment, Zhu Ming was both speechless and curious. Even the most popular actresses in District Six wouldn’t be this strict about privacy, right?

Yet Xi Xianqing seemed oblivious to Zhu Ming’s silence. “My assistant is waiting outside, and I’ve already prepared a draft of the contract. The salary and specific terms can be adjusted based on your requirements.”

Zhu Ming shook his head at him. “My livestream consultations are purely a personal hobby. Money, to me, is merely an external possession.”

Xi Xianqing didn’t seem to be surprised by Zhu Ming’s answer.

He frowned slightly. “That’s why I offered earlier—aside from a consulting fee, I can also provide you with a contract marriage if needed.”

Zhu Ming: “…”

“I’m a person who doesn’t need marriage.”

Xi Xianqing said, gazing down at Zhu Ming. “As you described, I could help you deal with your family and provide companionship and support in the form of a partner.”

“But in exchange, you’ll need to sign the confidentiality agreement and treat my condition,” he added.

Before walking into this… ah, no, rolling in his wheelchair into this restaurant, Zhu Ming hadn’t anticipated that the night would become this absurd.

Inexplicable person.

Unbelievable deal.

But to say he wasn’t tempted would be a lie.

Zhu Ming didn’t desire marriage, but he did need to appear “married” at the moment. Whether to ease Zhu Yingying’s concerns or to avoid other troubles, a nominal marriage seemed like the best solution for his situation.

What truly made his heart itch was a case challenging even District Seven’s top doctors—certainly far more unique than the ordinary mental manifestations he usually encountered. The research potential alone is certainly…

After a few internal struggles, reason finally suppressed his impulse.

Zhu Ming steadied himself. “I can’t agree.”

He noticed Xi Xianqing’s brow furrowing again.

“First, my physical condition is limited, so freely livestreaming is more suitable for me.”

“A personal, live-in doctor…” Zhu Ming savored the phrase. “Sounds a bit like an on-call nanny.”

The air crashed into a near-frozen silence.

“I didn’t mean it like that. “Xi Xianqing said.

Zhu Ming remained unconvinced. “Secondly, I’m not even a licensed doctor. I don’t have professional credentials; I only have some knowledge of mental ailments, which I use to offer basic advice to patients in my livestream.”

“So without actually seeing your mental manifestation, I can’t guarantee I can cure you.”

He continued, “I understand your caution, but a doctor and patient should be honest with each other. If we can’t establish even the most basic trust, any future cooperation would be unpleasant.”

As he spoke, Zhu Ming released his own mental manifestation.

According to Xi Star’s social etiquette, when two strangers first negotiate, one party releasing their mental manifestation is a clear gesture of goodwill.

Out of courtesy, the other party would typically release their own mental manifestation as well, allowing them to connect briefly as a sign of respect.

Zhu Ming’s spiritual body was a white fox with fluffy fur.

It appeared gentle and innocent, with soft, pointed ears and round, jet-black eyes that took on a warm brown hue under the light—much like its owner, projecting a soft, friendly image devoid of any aggression.

Only the fox’s bushy tail, flicking lazily, hinted at a trace of mischief.

Zhu Ming tilted his face up, his voice light and coaxing. “Mr. Xi, you don’t really need to reveal your mental manifestation. Even if… you could just describe the symptoms to me?”

Zhu Ming admitted to himself that he was, at heart, a gossiping sort of person.

Maybe it was an innate human curiosity, or perhaps a medical professional’s intrigue toward complex cases, but he was curious—no, he was dying to know what was wrong with this man’s mental manifestation.

Data suggested that furry mental manifestations held a certain advantage in social interactions. In short, when a kind and soft gesture like this was placed in front of them, it was hard for a normal person to remain indifferent.

But Xi Xianqing seemed to be no ordinary person.

“My assistant is waiting outside,” he repeated, gazing steadily at Zhu Ming, “Sign the contract first, and I’ll show you.”

Zhu Ming smiled. “Show me first, and then we’ll discuss the contract.”

One seated, the other standing, their gazes clashed mid-air, both silently gauging who would be the first to back down.

Since entering the private room, they hadn’t ordered anything. The electronic menu screen remained lit, displaying a holographic salt-crusted roast chicken slowly rotating in silence.

The screen’s power could keep it on indefinitely, but Zhu Ming’s patience had its limits.

He’d waited long enough and wasn’t inclined to drag it out any further.

Zhu Ming’s eyes curved slightly. “I think I understand your point.”

“Send my regards to Miss Xi,” he said politely, bringing their meeting to a close. “It was a pleasure meeting you, but it’s late, and getting around is always a bit more troublesome for me, so I won’t stay any longer.”

The white fox moved lazily from Xi Xianqing’s feet, its tail swaying as it jumped onto Zhu Ming’s lap.

Zhu Ming wheeled himself out of the private room.

He intentionally slowed his pace, allowing Xi Xianqing a few seconds to change his mind and call him back, but Xi Xianqing remained silent, standing still.

The tall, handsome man held his posture with impeccable grace, his poise revealing his good upbringing.

Zhu Ming withdrew his gaze, exited the room, and turned to the waiter with a smile.

“Could you pack up an order of salt-crusted chicken, thanks,” he said.

Carrying the takeout box, he stepped out of the restaurant, pausing to enjoy the evening breeze. When he looked up again, he saw Zhou Zhou running toward him in a fluster.

Zhou Zhou was a warm-hearted and straightforward young man, currently Zhu Ming’s live-in assistant for both his daily life and livestreams.

In the past, when he was at the District Seven Research Institute, Zhu Ming had lived carefreely and nonchalantly.

When the institute awarded him, he didn’t bother to accept the honor; when they transferred money into his account, he didn’t want it, so he casually sponsored a few underprivileged students.

Among them was Zhou Zhou.

Later, when Zhu Ming left the institute, the students who had once flocked around him all avoided him, except for Zhou Zhou, who mumbled in his thick voice, “Zhu-ge, I’m going with you.”

At the time, Zhu Ming was still new to using a wheelchair and unfamiliar with advanced skills like turning or maneuvering.

He tried to wheel past Zhou Zhou’s tall and solid frame for a long time but couldn’t, puzzled, he said, “I’m going home to lay around and be an unemployed hobo, not to enjoy myself somewhere else. What are you coming along for?”

Zhou Zhou stiffened his neck. “I’m going with you.”

Zhu Ming: “…?”

Indeed a righteous child, though a bit shocking.

His mental manifestation was a perpetually nervous-looking roe deer—just watching this pair anxiously cross the street left Zhu Ming feeling on edge himself.

“Zhu-ge!” Zhou Zhou called out breathlessly, waving at him. “I-I’m late!”

Zhu Ming replied, “It’s fine. Push me along, and I’ll eat some chicken.”

“Which district was today’s date from?” Zhou Zhou asked as he took over the wheelchair with practiced ease, pushing Zhu Ming along for a walk. “How’d it end so quickly? Didn’t you even have a bite to eat?”

Zhu Ming pulled a chicken drumstick from the takeout box and handed it to him. “From District Six. Long story.”

They each held a drumstick as Zhu Ming shared the evening’s bizarre encounter in a few short sentences.

Zhou Zhou was dumbfounded. “So he suggested a contract marriage to have you personally treat his mental manifestation? That logic’s both strange and somehow makes sense. But it’s not like we can’t just offer him free treatment ah?”

Zhu Ming shrugged. “I said the same, but the other party is very cautious—he wants a confidentiality contract in place before he’ll show us what’s wrong.”

“Good grief, what job or status does he have to be this careful ah? He really thinks he’s something special.”

Zhou Zhou’s reaction mirrored Zhu Ming’s from half an hour earlier. “Zhu-ge, you did the right thing by refusing. We’re not accustomed to this kind of strange person. You’d think he was a mega-celebrity… Well, I guess it’s typical. District Six, after all.”

The comment did carry a hint of regional bias, though it wasn’t surprising.

District Six and District Seven had the starkest cultural differences, and debates between residents of the two districts were constant online.

For instance, District Six netizens often mocked District Seven users as “bookworms with no sense of romance,” while District Seven was quick to critique District Six for being “flashy but hollow.”

Zhu Ming: “Yeah, he mentioned he’s a jewelry designer.”

As soon as he finished, Zhu Ming lurched forward, almost dropping his drumstick—it was Zhou Zhou who had abruptly stopped pushing his wheelchair.

When he turned back, he saw Zhou Zhou’s eyes darting around in shock as if piecing together some revelation; even the anxious roe deer at his side was wide-eyed, its mouth slightly open.

Zhou Zhou gulped. “J-Jewelry designer? And he wanted you to sign a confidentiality agreement?”

Zhu Ming: “Yes ah.”

Zhou Zhou stammered, “I-is the other party a handsome man?”

Zhu Ming: “En, quite handsome.”

Zhou Zhou: “Does he have the surname Xi? With eyes that look kind of dark green?”

Zhu Ming: “Huh? You-”

Zhou Zhou interrupted in dismay, “Is his name Xi Xianqing?”

Zhu Ming was amazed. “Impressive, kid. Got a lot of connections in District Six ah?”

Zhou Zhou’s chest rose and fell violently, and the nervous roe deer behind him paced restlessly, mirroring his inner turmoil. “Zhu-ge, let me ask you this: who’s the current representative of District Six?”

Now, Zhu Ming was the sort of person: If you asked him about the main pathological changes in Alzheimer’s disease, he would immediately answer with a smile: beta-amyloid plaques and neurofibrillary tangles.

But if you asked him something as basic as this, which even a three-year-old might know, he’d pause for a moment of genuine thought, then openly admit his ignorance. “Can’t remember the name, but wasn’t it some white-bearded grandpa? An architect, right?”

“That famous architect, yeah. Pretty much every building you’d recognize in our district’s downtown was designed by him.”

Zhou Zhou sighed in exasperation. “His name is Xi Jianfeng.”

Zhu Ming suddenly fell silent.

“As a matter of fact, the representative of District Six is always someone with the surname Xi,” Zhou Zhou explained. “Unlike our selection system, they operate on a family inheritance system.”

“Xi Xianqing is… Xi Jianfeng’s grandson.”

Zhou Zhou swallowed. “Which means, the person you just went on a blind date with—and turned down for treatment—was most likely…”

“The next representative of District Six,” Zhu Ming finished thoughtfully.