Dean Hao's Birthday

Room 666.

All equipment had been confiscated. The dumbbells that Lin Fan once used to slam into his body, the sandbags he'd crash into to train himself—gone, all of it.

For Lin Fan, who believed he had just drunk a bottle of cola, it felt like the sky had collapsed.

A vast emptiness filled his heart.

A deep, aching loneliness.

All his familiar companions had vanished.

"Are you… feeling sad?" Old Zhang patted Lin Fan on the shoulder.

Seeing his friend so downcast, he too pouted miserably.

"…Yeah." Lin Fan nodded, his voice low.

Those were his dear companions.

And now they were gone.

Old Zhang dove into the cabinets, half his body swallowed by the drawers. He rummaged for quite a while before crying out in joy, "I found it! I found it!"

Two pieces of paper.

One watercolor marker.

Old Zhang spread the paper out on the bed and lay down beside it, his rear sticking up, busy with some mysterious task.

"Huh!"

"How do you write 'dumbbell,' Lin Fan?" he asked, scratching his head with clear frustration.

Lin Fan lay beside him, wearing a solemn expression. After much contemplation, he murmured, "I… don't know."

"I could've sworn I used to know," Old Zhang grumbled. He furrowed his brows and hovered the pen above the paper, unmoving—until, all at once, a spark of inspiration lit his eyes. He slapped Lin Fan on the shoulder.

"I remember now! Someone next door once told me—images are the truest form of expression."

Swish, swish.

Old Zhang began to draw.

A dumbbell.

On the paper appeared: [O—O]

"Look! What does this look like?" he asked proudly, pointing at the drawing.

Lin Fan replied calmly, "A dumbbell."

"Exactly! If we can recognize it, so can they. I mean, they're not that dumb," Old Zhang declared.

"You're amazing," Lin Fan praised.

Old Zhang wobbled his head smugly. "Of course I am. Now watch—sandbags are even easier."

With a few more strokes, he drew something else.

[0]

"What's this?" he asked, full of anticipation. He lived for compliments—especially from Lin Fan.

Lin Fan looked impressed. "A sandbag."

"Correct! It's a sandbag! Isn't it lifelike?" Old Zhang beamed. "I told you—I had real talent in drawing. If I had become an artist, those so-called masters would all be my apprentices."

"It's brilliant. So realistic," Lin Fan said sincerely.

Old Zhang handed one sheet to Lin Fan and raised the other above his head. "Let's go protest! Demand they return our dumbbells and sandbags! Those belong to us!"

The door to Room 666 opened.

To the staff of Qingshan Psychiatric Hospital, this was the most dreaded room of all.

You never knew what madness would pour forth from behind that door.

Lin Fan and Old Zhang emerged, marching down the corridor, holding their illustrated placards high.

"We want these back!"

They shouted in perfect unison, voices honed by countless rehearsals—flawless, synchronized.

Elsewhere—

In another room, a man taught a group of fellow patients using a sausage as a ruler, tapping it against their heads as he lectured on the vast mysteries of the cosmos.

They called him "Professor Starry Sky."

Old Zhang's famed "Galactic Rotation Method" had actually been inspired by this very professor.

Furious, Professor Starry Sky discovered that his students were distracted by the noise outside. He struck their heads with the sausage and barked, "Focus! Listen carefully!"

The students hunched down, pretending to pay attention, though their eyes darted toward the hallway.

Professor Starry Sky turned and peeked outside.

He scowled.

"These troublemakers again…! Sit tight. I'll handle this."

As he stepped out, the students stared after him.

And then, through the window, they saw something shocking—

Professor Starry Sky was now marching behind Lin Fan and Old Zhang, placard raised high, shouting with them—

He even waved back toward his classroom, mouthing words through the glass:

"Come on out! This is way more fun!"

In the Director's Office—

Director Hao was in an excellent mood.

Before him sat a tub of ice cream.

He hummed to himself:

"Happy Birthday, Director Hao."

He scooped another spoonful. Sweet, cold, refreshing.

Truly a moment of peace.

And he had time to enjoy it.

No one ever tried to curry favor with him.

After all, he was the director of a psychiatric hospital.

Who would need favors from him?

If anyone did, he'd be shocked.

What's that? You're mentally ill? Don't worry—I'm the director. I'll personally assign you a lovely ward. You'll never want to leave.

If someone who had committed a serious crime ever came asking for help—hoping for a diagnosis to dodge consequences—

He'd agree.

Absolutely.

And he'd make sure to personally write the report:

"This individual is extremely dangerous. Their presence poses a great threat to society. Recommended treatment: Euthanasia or permanent isolation."

The Dragon Nation gave serious weight to the words of a psychiatric director of his caliber.

Once—

He had wielded that very authority.

He still remembered the case—a girl too young to be believed, a powerful family, a scandalous event.

He saw the news. Knew it was real.

And when the spoiled heir of that family came to him seeking help, Director Hao's conscience stirred.

He wrote the report.

And told the young man: "Just make sure you keep telling everyone you're not insane."

"Because when you claim you're insane—no one believes you. But when you say you're not? That's when they start to wonder."

That incident haunted him.

The rich family had even threatened to kill him.

To which Director Hao could only think:

"Do you even know who you're threatening, you moron?"

He knew top figures from the Maoshan sect, the Daoist sects, Buddhist temples, and the Medical academies.

Why?

Well, that story began thirty years ago…

That rainy night… Cuihua stood soaking wet at his door…

Wait—wrong memory.

The truth was, back when those now-powerful masters were still students, they were obsessed with cultivation and didn't want to be interrupted by academic coursework. Many of them came to him, seeking a psychiatric diagnosis just to get time alone.

And so—

Director Hao, the paragon of righteous friendship, wrote:

"Patient requires an extremely quiet environment. Disturbances—especially theoretical classes—may severely impact recovery."

A perfect strategy.

And when they were ready to rejoin the world?

He would write:

"Thanks to my expert care, the patient has recovered to the state of a normal human being."

Now—

Those "patients" were all powerful figures.

So when Director Hao ran into trouble, they had to help him.

Because who knew what kind of things he might blurt out to the media?

Even if it didn't hurt them much, it'd still be a blemish.

Knock knock knock!

"Come in," Director Hao said, licking the now-empty ice cream tub clean. Delicious.

A doctor burst in, breathless.

"Director! Emergency! The patients in Room 666 have started a revolt—and they've stirred up others too! They're in the hallway right now, yelling and chanting—"

Director Hao's eyes widened.

Oh, come on…

Couldn't they give him a break?

I've only got ten years until retirement.

Is it too much to ask… to retire peacefully, without dying on the job?

(End of Chapter)