During his time at the District Seven Research Institute, Zhu Ming became, in a way, the center of attention.

Talent was the least valued thing in District Seven. Research in life sciences had long cycles, offered low returns, and required intense mental effort and energy. Those who made it to the top were basically middle-aged with graying hair.

But Zhu Ming was much too young.

Beautiful, fearless, and carefree—traits that hardly suited a scholar—he nevertheless reached heights others took half their lives to achieve with effortless ease.

Countless colleges and universities threw olive branches to him and he became the hottest, youngest candidate for the position of District Seven’s Chief.

–Naturally, he lived up to their expectations by becoming a thorn in his colleagues’ sides.

The one who disliked him most was his neighbor in the same lab group, Xu Dazhe, who also studied rare mental diseases.

It wasn’t really surprising that this little bald man was so harsh toward him. Xu Dazhe was over 50 and nearing retirement, having spent most of his career on theories that Zhu Ming, at just 20, had completely overturned upon joining the institute.

Whenever Zhu Ming passed through the corridors, he could hear Xu Dazhe’s vulture spirit manifestation crying out in frustration.

Zhu Ming had offended many people without even realizing it, maintaining a unique bluntness and relaxed attitude.

Even when the accident later left him unable to walk, his thoughts were simply: if he couldn’t walk, then he couldn’t walk—his mind was still fine, and it would only mean he’d need a bit more time getting upstairs than others in the future.

However, when he wheeled himself back to the institute, he found his access card had lost all authority, no longer able to unlock the lab doors.

Turning his wheelchair around, he looked up and saw Xu Dazhe standing at the other end of the corridor, along with two senior leaders from the institute.

The first leader began with, “Xiao Zhu, you should rest for a while.”

At that time, Zhu Ming had been lying in a hospital bed for nearly six months, so he didn’t fully grasp the meaning behind their words.

Xu Dazhe stood before Zhu Ming with an uncharacteristically friendly expression.

“Little Professor Zhu ya,” Xu Dazhe said slowly, “I’ll take care of your project for you, and I’ll handle your students too. Just focus on getting better, give yourself a break, and don’t make things difficult for us ha.”

This left Zhu Ming even more puzzled; from start to end, he hadn’t even opened his mouth—where was the difficulty in that?

The second leader, who had a decent relationship with Zhu Ming, spoke honestly. “Xiao Zhu ah, the department put a lot of effort into trying to secure the chief position for you this year. Now, not only did you miss the election, but our rival over at K University took the spot. The upper management here isn’t very happy about it.”

Zhu Ming stared at him, holding onto the last bit of calmness. “Do you think this accident was something I wanted to happen?”

The second leader looked at him with a hint of pity and hesitated. “We’re all heartbroken too, but while you were in a coma… we also received some reports about your usual conduct.”

Human relationships can be like a boomerang.

Before the chief election, everyone was eager to get close to him, sending students his way in hopes that once he became District Seven’s chief, he’d elevate the institute and the team alongside him.

But the moment he fell into a coma and missed the election, those who had tried to curry favor with him scattered quickly. Those who resented his talent and disliked his attitude no longer hid their disdain. Old grudges and new ones were brought up all at once.

The range of accusations in the email report surprised him: His “long-term arrogant, unruly behavior, monopolizing large funds and disrupting fair competition among universities, thus harming the normal academic atmosphere.” And “physical fitness is a concern which delayed students’ research progress and made him unfit to continue as a professor.”

The funding had come from his achievements, the students had insisted on joining him, and besides, it was only his legs that were affected—not his brain.

In the end, Zhu Ming felt not anger but astonishment.

It was as if Zhu Ming was seeing the world anew. He had thought he’d mastered so many things—the most cutting-edge theories, the most challenging cases.

But there was one crucial thing he’d never truly understood: the human heart.

Even in the rigorously logical District, the way the world works could be brutally unkind.

Returning to the moment, Zhu Ming looked at Xu Dazhe before him and smiled softly, “Long time no see, Professor Xu.”

Xu Dazhe gave a mocking laugh without responding, merely looking Zhu Ming up and down with open derision.

Next to him was a female associate professor from the institute, who seemed uncomfortable with Xu Dazhe’s attitude and spoke up to ease the tension. “Professor Xiao Zhu, long time no see. How is… your health?”

Zhu Ming thought for a moment and began to understand how this group had shown up here.

He’d persuaded Zhu Yingying to throw a birthday party, using “socializing” as an excuse. He had already made it clear that he wasn’t interested in blind dates, so Zhu Yingying had taken the liberty of inviting some familiar faces from the institute.

However, Zhu Yingying didn’t know the circumstances of Zhu Ming’s departure from the institute or the real reason behind it. And in a way, he had “worked” with these people before.

The tension grew, awkwardly filling the air.

Zhu Ming gave a faint smile. “I’m fine, thanks for your concern.”

The female professor opened her mouth, about to say something, but Xu Dazhe let out a long sigh. “Aiya, Xiao Zhu ah, I really envy you now.”

He condescendingly walked to Zhu Ming’s front, sizing up his legs. “Now you’re a live streaming big star, sitting there and making money with just a few words. Aiyaya, truly young and capable—you’ve got us all green with envy ah.”

Zhu Ming wasn’t particularly surprised by his sarcastic tone.

“I’m definitely not as busy as you, Old Xu,” He replied amiably. “How’s the project progressing? It’s been about half a year now, right? Has it been published?”

Handing his project over to Xu Dazhe had, in theory, been a humiliating history for Zhu Ming. Xu Dazhe hadn’t expected him to bring it up voluntarily, and his expression shifted slightly. “…Almost.”

Zhu Ming made an “ah” as if genuinely curious. “Almost? So it hasn’t been submitted for publication yet?

Xu Dazhe: “…”

Zhu Ming: “Why has it been delayed for so long? Is it that you don’t want to publish it?”

The female professor beside them couldn’t hold back, hiding her smile behind her wine glass with a light cough.

In a place like District Seven’s research institute, where geniuses pile up and roll up in life and death, the most feared thing about a paper is that it will be published in advance by another research group.

Don’t want to publish? That was impossible. There was only one simple and painful reason–they hadn’t made any breakthroughs, and there was nothing substantial to publish.

Xu Dazhe’s face went through a series of colors in an instant. “What are you implying? I’m not delaying; I just—”

Zhu Ming looked at him blankly.

“Ah, I get it now.” Zhu Ming feigned sudden realization. “Old Xu, your old habits must have kicked in again. Are you just being too much of a perfectionist?”

“You really are something. It’s been over a year since the case has been taken over from me, and the groundwork was all set up—it shouldn’t be hard to finish ya.”

Zhu Ming’s tone was sincere, a tone of ‘I’m doing this for your own good’. “We ah, really shouldn’t be too selfish. Let’s not drag this out any longer.”

“After all, you’re not as free as I am now ah, and you’ve got many responsibilities.”

He gently echoed Xu Dazhe’s own words, then softly added, “We wouldn’t want to delay the students’ papers and graduation progress, right?”

Xu Dazhe was so choked up by him that he couldn’t utter a complete sentence. “You—”

Zhu Ming, this person, was always able to smile gently and beautifully, delivering the most piercing words with a soft demeanor.

Obviously, his face was sickly pale, unable to stand, seemingly the weaker party, but he would subtly take control of a conversation with ease.

Xu Dazhe seethed with resentment, but he couldn’t refute him—he couldn’t admit that the paper’s delayed in publication was because, upon taking over Zhu Ming’s data, he found that the threshold for reproducing the experiments he had designed was extremely high, using methods that were clever but exceedingly complex. He had spent several months poring over research just to barely grasp the necessary skills and knowledge.

Simply put, his ability was inferior to this little brat.

All he could do was swallow his anger, his face ashen. “…That’s the reason.”

Zhu Ming’s smiling eyes curved: “That’s right.”

With a tense expression, Xu Dazhe couldn’t respond, and the female professor quickly coughed to ease the tension. “Old Xu, since it’s Director Zhu’s birthday today, why don’t we say a few celebratory words? Xiao Zhu, we’ll take our leave ha.”

Xu Dazhe snorted coldly and turned his head away with a stern face.

Zhu Ming nodded at the female professor, watching them depart.

Amid the noisy crowd, Zhu Ming wheeled himself forward, first moving calmly and steadily for a few paces before he closed his eyes and let out a quiet sigh.

It was kind of a satisfying counterattack.

He maintained a composed exterior, but there was still a pang in his heart.

Not because of anything else—but for the sake of his medical cases.

Those were cases of rare mental abnormalities in patients he had painstakingly collected and screened from hospitals across various districts, now it was spoiled in the hands of this kind of old man who’d made no meaningful progress.

It would be a lie to say that he didn’t feel a twinge of regret.

Cases of shared spiritual entities in District Three twins, rare cases of spiritual entity splitting in District Five, congenital spiritual deficiencies in District Six… He had already outlined potential experiments and possible future treatment plans in his mind back then.

Unfortunately, he would never have the chance to carry them out himself—not just because he lacked the experimental resources, but because he no longer had the same drive he once did before the accident.

As he wheeled himself along, Zhu Ming stared absentmindedly at the intricate patterns winding across the carpet, moving aimlessly through the banquet hall.

Then he suddenly came to a halt—

He lurched forward slightly from the momentum and looked up. “…?”

He tried moving the wheels again, but they wouldn’t budge.

No way, ba?

He glanced down, only to find that the mechanism on the side of his wheel had caught on the fringe of the carpet, tangling with it as though they were inseparable.

In short, he was stuck.

Zhu Ming: “…”

Can a person really be so unlucky?

Zhu Ming usually wasn’t one with a negative mindset, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but laugh at himself and reflect that no matter how many verbal small victories he gained, he was still ultimately a man with limited mobility.

He and his wheelchair were stopped dead in the middle of the banquet hall, fully visible and completely immobile. Some people were beginning to glance his way, curiosity piqued.

When a person is in moments of peak embarrassment, their brain tends to go blank, only to be flooded with a series of random thoughts.

Time seemed to stand still, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. In that instant, Zhu Ming’s mind felt strangely clear.

He saw many things.

First, he saw Zhu Yingying standing beside a District One officer. She wore a shy smile, and her rabbit spirit manifestation had emerged, its ears bashfully covering her face.

Yet, despite her interest, she maintained a respectful distance from the officer.

It had been a long time since Zhu Ming had seen her interact so comfortably with someone else. Ever since he had lost the ability to walk, Zhu Yingying had either been crying in secret or watching his mood carefully.

Shifting his gaze slightly, Zhu Ming spotted Zhou Zhou at the dessert table, stacking his plate high with food.

The naive boy had been loyally acting as his little assistant, diligently managing Zhu Ming’s account. Whenever he saw malicious comments, he swiftly blocked or reported them while turning his phone screen away to keep Zhu Ming from the negativity.

Zhu Ming could compromise, shrug things off, and say “forget it” when it came to his own life.

But he couldn’t bear to see his struggles become burdens on the lives of others.

Finally, Zhu Ming’s gaze drifted to the base of the staircase directly ahead.

He saw Xi Xianqing in the crowd.

Zhu Ming wasn’t surprised by Xi Xianqing’s appearance. This birthday gathering had attracted prominent figures from all districts, and he must’ve come at Zhu Yingying’s invitation as well.

He observed Xi Xianqing for a moment, suddenly understanding what people meant when they said, “District Six residents have an innate sense of style.”

Today, Xi Xianqing wore a gray flannel double-breasted suit with a loose cut, which perfectly suited his physique. He struck a balance between the formal decorum expected at a banquet and the relaxed elegance of his personal style.

A small, round deep-blue gemstone adorned the buttonhole on his left lapel, with a fine silver chain trailing from it into his chest pocket. Combined with his sharp, striking features, the ensemble exuded an air of refined beauty unique to him.

Though Xi Xianqing hadn’t arrived with his usual entourage of bodyguards, he was still accompanied by a female assistant.

The female assistant was equally poised and stylish, with a gray-black heron spiritual manifestation perched on her shoulder.

Beside Xi Xianqing stood a popular male singer from District Six, attempting to strike up a conversation.

The singer’s spiritual manifestation was a beautiful Ragdoll cat, gazing up at Xi Xianqing affectionately from his feet, making its fondness quite apparent.

However, Xi Xianqing took a step back to maintain his distance, replying curtly and distantly, never once releasing his own spiritual manifestation.

To outsiders, it appeared to be the classic reserved approach of a gentleman, tactful yet unassuming.

Only Zhu Ming knew the real reason behind this.

Disappointment flickered across the singer’s face as he left, while Xi Xianqing fixed his gaze briefly on the intricate carving of the staircase handrail. Then he looked up and met Zhu Ming’s eyes, trapped at the other end of the staircase.

After a few brief seconds, Xi Xianqing averted his gaze and began ascending the stairs, drawing closer to where Zhu Ming was.

The distance between them grew closer and closer.

As they were about to pass each other, Zhu Ming lifted his hand.

He felt a slight resistance at his cuff, and Xi Xianqing looked down, meeting a pair of bright, glistening eyes.

“Long time no see, Mr. Xi,” Zhu Ming said lightly from his wheelchair. “Your brooch is quite unique.”

Xi Xianqing stared at him silently for a long moment before responding, “It’s a boutonnière chain.”

Zhu Ming: “Hm?”

“This is a boutonnière chain,” Xi Xianqing corrected without much warmth, “not a brooch.”

Zhu Ming nodded agreeably, following his lead with a smile. “Wow, that’s quite a precise term. Thanks for the enlightenment.”

Xi Xianqing’s gaze dropped to the hand Zhu Ming had on his cuff.

“Mr. Zhu.”

After a pause, Xi Xianqing continued, “I believe our last meeting should have made it clear that our approaches to things don’t align.”

Recalling their lengthy debate over “signing an agreement before seeing the spiritual manifestation” and “seeing the spiritual manifestation before signing the agreement,” Zhu Ming nodded in agreement. “True.”

Xi Xianqing’s expression remained cold as he looked ahead. “So, is there something you need now?”

Seems he holds a grudge ah. Zhu Ming thought.

Their last encounter in the restaurant hadn’t ended smoothly, and Xi Xianqing’s words were equally blunt now—You were resolute in rejecting my offer then, so this exchange between us now serves no purpose.

But Zhu Ming’s face didn’t change much.

“Just because we have different views doesn’t mean one side can’t change.” His voice was soft. “I’ve reconsidered.”

Xi Xianqing wordlessly halted, looking at him directly.

Zhu Ming smiled slightly, meeting Xi Xianqing’s eyes calmly. “So, I wonder, sometime this month—whenever you’re free—would you be up for getting married to me?”