The Greatest Showman #1112 - Desperate Survival

Time seemed to turn back. The vast universe swirled into a kaleidoscope of colors, bringing everything full circle.

Once, he was angry, frustrated, and lost. He fought, struggled, and suffered, until he eventually became numb—a walking dead man, emotionally and physically drained. But then, everything changed after "Truman's World." It ignited a flicker of hope, planted a seed of something new.

"The World of Truman"—that was the beginning of it all.

It wasn't the opportunity of the "Pacific War" or the struggles of Renly Hall that started his transformation. It was here, in this hospital bed, confined by immovable flesh, where the magic truly began. A single glimmer of hope set this journey in motion.

Now, as he returned to the beginning, everything felt strangely familiar. For a moment, it was as though he were back at the time of his car accident, when he first realized he was paralyzed, when his life felt like chaos—so gray, so void of light.

Once again, he stood at the origin.

He lifted his eyes, finding Heather standing before him.

Out of nowhere, a guitar appeared in Heather's arms. It materialized as if summoned by the very fabric of this bizarre reality. But in this world, where magic reigned, a guitar felt the most natural thing to have.

Heather smiled brightly, her eyes sparkling. "Do you remember our promise? I kept it. I didn't give up. I fought until the last moment, even when hope seemed impossible. I remember. I always remember—'I won't give up.'"

His vision blurred again. He looked at Heather, who was beaming with optimism, as if her smile alone could light up the entire universe.

"But there's still a promise I owe you. Now's the time," Heather said softly, her fingers gently brushing the guitar strings. Her voice joined the music, haunting and beautiful as she hummed a familiar tune.

"Beast," the song they shared, a promise unfulfilled.

Heather played with such focus and tenderness. Each note on the guitar resonated with the weight of years spent fighting, longing, dreaming. She was like a bard who had wandered long, only to finally find her path, determined to pursue it no matter the difficulty ahead.

His mind reeled. He remembered everything—every struggle, every sacrifice, every moment that led him here.

He was both Chu Jiashu and Renly. The pain, the hardships, they had shaped him into who he was. Without those ten years in the hospital bed, he would not have become the man who now stood at the precipice of his own destiny.

People often despised their pasts, wished away the pain, trying to erase it. But without the trials, there would be no strength, no character. Suffering carved their edges, making them who they were.

To deny the past was to deny the present, to deny yourself.

Tears welled up again, blurring his vision. In the haze, Heather's smile shone brighter, an ethereal halo surrounding her. The sound of her voice carried him away, the dream reaching its crescendo.

Everything around him faded. Heather became stardust, a bright flare that melded into the cosmic light. The sterile white of the hospital ward transformed into a vast galaxy, every star burning with impossible brilliance. The universe stretched out, a vast ocean of light and darkness.

In that fleeting moment, he was thrust back into the boundless universe, the sun and earth alive with energy. The weight of his body—his wrists, his ankles, the pain—became sharp once more, grounding him in the reality of his situation.

His hands and legs remained bound, unable to move. The faint melody of "Beast" gave way to Schubert's soft strains, and the weight of gravity pressed heavily on him. He was tethered to the world, yet disconnected from it, floating somewhere between dream and reality.

But he no longer cared. Whether he was Chu Jiashu, Renly, or anyone else didn't matter. Whether this was real or a dream was irrelevant.

Survival was his only goal.

He needed to break free, to embrace his rebirth. He would find a way, no matter the cost. If the path didn't exist, he would forge one. No one could stop him—not even death itself.

Calm. Focus. He had to remain focused.

It wasn't easy. He was drained—mentally, physically. The fight had sapped his strength. His muscles ached with exhaustion, lactic acid burning through his limbs. His mind struggled to process, to remember, to think clearly.

The heat of the light box surrounding him was unbearable. His skin felt scorched. Sweat trickled inside his spacesuit, turning it into a suffocating sauna. The fog of dehydration began to set in, the weight of weakness creeping through his bones.

And yet, his determination only grew. The struggle to breathe, to move, to think—it all became a catalyst for his survival instinct.

Through the blurred visor of his helmet, he saw only a gray haze, stretching into an endless dark void. He couldn't tell if he was on a movie set, in space, or lost in a dream. But it didn't matter. His focus was singular.

He began to examine his surroundings with precision. Every inch, every opportunity, no matter how small, would be examined for a chance to survive. Gradually, his mind came alive again, pushing out the chaos, sharpening his focus.

This was his reality now. A desperate situation. A situation where others might give up. But not him.

He would fight. No matter the odds. No matter the pain. His destiny would be his own.

He had found his chance.

The space between his bindings, the slight movement in his limbs—it was all he needed. His body may have been constrained, but his mind was free. This was his moment to break through.

His struggle was real, and now, with the slightest opening, he had the chance to change everything. It was all in his hands.