Chapter Two: The Ashes of Magic (Part Two)

Opening the door, the heavy air embraced him with ill intent, and the fleeting troubles returned. Fu Lan picked up the paper that had been blown under the table, paused for a moment, then flipped it over to conceal the words "Withdrawal of Divorce Registration Application."

He took a shower, and the dizziness eased slightly.

It was only nine o'clock in the evening. He used to feel there was never enough time, but now he found himself wondering how to fill it.

Unfortunately, such freedom had come too late, precisely after he had resigned himself to mediocrity.

Was this how he was meant to live? Honestly, he hadn’t decided yet.

Leaning against the sofa, Fu Lan flipped through dozens of movie titles on the TV, ultimately choosing one he had seen long ago.

New films never held his attention, just as new songs sounded unremarkable and new games failed to engage him. He hadn’t expected that one day he would become one of those stubborn middle-aged men set in their ways.

He had hoped that after drinking, he might finally sleep early, but instead watched two and a half movies, only falling asleep after one in the morning.

The next day, Fu Lan woke up late. Though he wasn’t drunk, his rare consumption of alcohol made him sensitive to it still—his head ached and his chest felt tight.

After hastily washing up, he skipped breakfast and headed straight to work.

He had never been one to eat breakfast before; only after having children did he develop the habit. But those years of routine slipped away quicker than he expected. Lately, breakfast was irregular, and now, living alone again, he was too lazy to make or even buy it.

Getting off the bus, Fu Lan spotted an old colleague from another department, Lao Zhang, from a distance. He immediately turned his face away and slowed his pace.

Yet Lao Zhang called out loudly to him, forcing Fu Lan to wave awkwardly as he braced himself and approached.

“Isn’t your wife sending you to work today?” Lao Zhang asked with a grin.

He had been asked that the day before yesterday, the day before that, and ten times over the past fortnight. When would it end?

“She’s taking the kid to school,” Fu Lan forced a smile and gave the same answer he always did.

“Too bad, haven’t seen her in ages. Right, Xiao Xie?” Lao Zhang chatted with a female colleague who had just passed by.

Xiao Xie smiled and said, “Yeah, Brother Fu, the other day we were talking about asking your wife to do another set of promo photos for our museum. The last batch was a hit.”

Fu Lan pressed his temple, wanting nothing more than to crush their heads right there.

He replied casually to brush them off.

Why did such dark thoughts suddenly arise in him? Was it the lingering effect of last night’s drink?

Whether these words were careless small talk or deliberate probing, he felt thoroughly annoyed.

As soon as he entered the office, the boss informed him that a new batch of equipment had arrived and needed moving. The others in the department handled system checks and proper work; this kind of menial task fell to him alone.

The equipment was heavy. After moving a few boxes, Fu Lan was short of breath. He wanted to rest a moment, but his vision darkened, speckles of light flashing before his eyes.

He realized he was probably suffering from low blood sugar. Taking deep breaths, he gripped the wall and shuffled toward the vending machine, hoping to buy a drink to restore his sugar.

But his heartbeat grew heavier, and the edges of his vision flickered with dark red shadows in time with his pulse.

Worse still, his heart felt as if gripped tightly, a sudden stabbing pain piercing through.

Finally, unable to hold on, he collapsed to the floor...

When he woke again, he found himself being carried toward an ambulance. Halfway through the stretcher’s entry, he came to his senses and pulled off the oxygen mask from his face.

The nurse hurried to stop him. “Hey, don’t move!”

“I’m fine, I’ve come around,” Fu Lan said clearly.

Insisting, the medical staff checked his heart rate and blood sugar, ran other tests, and only after confirming he was out of danger did they allow him to be lowered from the ambulance.

Many colleagues gathered around the vehicle; seeing he was fine, they gradually dispersed.

Fu Lan took the juice offered by Xiao Xie, thanked her, and drank several large gulps. Then he lowered his gaze to his chest, recalling the unfamiliar pain before he fainted.

Before leaving, the nurse said, “You didn’t eat breakfast, did you? Have a meal first, then go to the hospital for a cardiac ultrasound. Your heart rate was a bit abnormal during the fainting.”

Fu Lan nodded, paid the fare and part of the emergency costs.

Though cheaper than a full hospital transfer, combined with lost wages from taking leave and the expense of tests, skipping that breakfast had cost him dearly.

At the hospital, the doctor reviewed his cardiac ultrasound and blood test results, then ordered an MRI.

After a long day of examinations, the verdict came: “The fainting was mainly caused by low blood sugar, accompanied by myocarditis. Thankfully, the rescue was timely; otherwise, this could have been dangerous.”

“Myocarditis?”

“It’s usually caused by a viral infection. Did you have a cold recently?”

“...Yes, for a while, but it got better, so I didn’t pay it much mind.”

“There’s often a delay. When it’s not active, it’s not a major illness—just take some medication and it should improve. But you must avoid strenuous exercise, smoking, drinking, and stay away from late nights.”

The usual medical advice. Reflecting on it, Fu Lan realized he had tripped over every forbidden stone.

He chuckled bitterly inside but noticed the doctor frowning over some reports. “Any family history of dilated cardiomyopathy?”

He shook his head, then froze. “I have that disease?”

“We found some early symptoms. It might be triggered by this myocarditis.”

“What’s the treatment?”

The doctor put down the reports, searched a nearby shelf, and handed him an informational leaflet:

“Most cases of dilated cardiomyopathy are incurable; medication can only relieve symptoms. But don’t worry too much—if you maintain good habits, progression is slow.”

“This says the five-year survival rate is about 50%.” Fu Lan calculated calmly. “So I have about five years left? Until age forty-three?”

“Well... the five-year survival rate means the proportion of patients who live at least five years after diagnosis.”

“That still means half won’t make it. And those who do probably have just a few years more.”

The doctor gave an honest reply: “Yes. Medication damages the liver and kidneys, and as the condition progresses, heart failure and arrhythmias become increasingly likely—inevitable in late stages.

“But if you qualify for a heart transplant, your life expectancy can be greatly extended. Transplant procedures are fairly advanced now, and if matching is poor, artificial hearts are an option…”

Fu Lan had no desire to inquire further about the costs of transplantation. After collecting his medicine, he left the hospital.

He boarded a random bus, took out his phone, and stared blankly at it for a long time.

In the end, he chose not to inform the person with whom he had once shared every moment—that felt like begging for pity.

Opening the chat app, he scrolled to a gray avatar in his friends list. The words from their parting echoed in his mind:

“I will never forgive you.”

Surely, she would not help him.

Fu Lan smiled bitterly, then opened his contacts and scrolled to another deliberately hidden contact—but still did not call.

The Magical Affairs Bureau had taken over all global magical beast eradication tasks. Deploying teenage girls to the battlefield was long abandoned as inhumane.

After three major incidents, unstable magical girls became an absolute taboo.

He had promised them that, to avoid dragging each other down, none would reach out easily anymore.

Would healing magic work for dilated cardiomyopathy?

He didn’t know. They had only used it to treat battle wounds, rarely illnesses.

There had been some successful cases, and someone once declared a grand wish to cure cancer worldwide. Whether they still toiled in the shadows or had long since lost hope, he could not say.

More likely, they had perished under the Bureau’s relic weapons.

Miracles and magic no longer belonged to this age.

Come to think of it, it was strange that this body could still get heart disease, still age and lose hair...

If they were alive, they should all be young. It seemed only he had not enjoyed even a shred of magic’s benefit.

But he had always been an accidental existence…

Well, even mighty Saiyans die of heart disease; what was he in comparison?

Fu Lan recalled how, in the long stretches of forced mediocrity, he had fantasized about suffering a terminal illness.

Preferably one that would leave him disabled for two or three years before death—so no one could bother him, and he could cast off all binds to accomplish what he wished.

For a long time, he had been unable to shake off a certain sense of duty, but now he found those things meaningless.

He had not contracted a disease he could throw himself into with abandon, but rather a ticking time bomb that might explode any second.

The bus reached its terminus, but he did not know where to go next.