Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He dozed on and off during the journey, and by the time they reached their destination, Shen Gali felt a deep ache in every muscle, each bone screaming in protest.

Uncle Li got out of the car respectfully and opened the door for him: "Mr. Shen, we're home."

The villain's home was at the end of a tree-lined path, quiet and peaceful—a simple yet tasteful three-story building, with walls made of transparent, sturdy tempered glass that had a one-way coating, hiding the interior layout, making it look like a square blue gem from a distance.

Shen Gali carried the insulated thermos and followed Uncle Li through the front gate.

Before him stretched a vibrant, lively scene. The garden courtyard spanning a hundred acres was filled with greenery, mostly tropical plants that shouldn't survive the northern cold, somehow thriving by some unknown method.

In the center of the courtyard was a circular fountain pool, with continuous flowing water washing away impurities, the surface crystal clear, reflecting the blue sky and the traces of drifting clouds.

Uncle Li's tone held a note of pride: "This is the young master's meticulously cultivated garden villa, modeled after the British royal gardens. Mr. Shen, if you're interested, I can give you a tour."

Shen Gali didn't even look: "I want to go inside. It's cold out here."

Uncle Li glanced suspiciously at the blazing sun. It's May, and he says it's cold.

Inside, the style matched the exterior: cold, hard marble floors, a black-gray-white palette that reflected the novel's villain's personality—equally impersonal.

Shen Gali had heard that nine out of ten CEO novels describe it this way. As a sinister villain, one prerequisite was owning a cold, lifeless villa.

Even carrying a light thermos felt exhausting the whole time, so Shen Gali set it casually on the table and asked Uncle Li:

"Grandpa, where's my room?"

He urgently needed to lie down for twenty minutes to recover.

Even doing nothing made breathing feel like hard work.

Uncle Li glanced at his watch and smiled: "The young master is back and waiting for you in his room. You can bring the tonic up. And call me Uncle Li."

Shen Gali didn't understand. Why did he have to do everything himself? What was the point of the villain making so much money?

But if delivering the tonic meant he could lie down afterward, fine.

He lifted the thermos—it was heavy.

Following Uncle Li's directions, he went straight upstairs.

The door before him was slightly ajar, dimness seeping through the crack, and the air faintly carried the scent of sandalwood.

Shen Gali gave a perfunctory knock, and a cold voice answered: "Enter." Low, curt, and aloof.

He pushed open the door. It was high noon, the sun blazing outside, yet the room stayed dark and still. Dark blue velvet curtains covered the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, letting no light through.

In the dimness, Shen Gali's eyes quickly made out a figure sitting by the window.

A steel wheelchair faced away from him, showing only the villain's back.

Glossy, thick black hair, neatly trimmed ends contrasting with a snow-white nape; a gray shirt outlined broad, straight shoulders, majestic as a jade mountain, exuding strength.

This must be the main villain, Nan Liujing.

Shen Gali had heard that in twelve out of ten CEO novels—that is, practically every single one—they described it this way: without mentioning the face, the villain or protagonist always had a body like a double-door refrigerator.

He didn't want to say much, nor did he want to see what inhumanly perfect face the villain had. He casually set the thermos on the table, unscrewed it, and poured a bowl of pale yellow liquid with a strange sweet smell, saying:

"Here, tonic. Drink it."

Then he could go lie down.

The man in the wheelchair remained motionless. On his lap was a laptop showing a file Uncle Li had sent an hour ago.

"Herbal ingredients: licorice, cloves, seaweed, asarum, veratrum. Ingesting asarum and veratrum together produces severe toxicity, potentially fatal."

He stared at the word "fatal" on the screen, and a faint, meaningful smile curved his thin, beautiful lips.

The precarious Shen Group was a huge trouble everyone avoided, yet his stepmother had convinced his father to arrange this marriage, their intentions clear.

Perhaps these paralyzed legs, wheel-chair-bound for years, had become a burden in their eyes.

Even ignoring the Shen Group's prospects, didn't they know how formidable this infamous Shen Gali could be?

Spoiled, harsh, arrogant, notorious in social circles—a child swapped at birth and poorly raised, who, to compete with Shen Lanqing, pushed someone into the water and spread obscene rumors, and had already been kicked out of the Shen family register.

Yet the other party insisted on marrying him, a cripple—wasn't the intention obvious?

On the first day after marriage, they sent this tonic. Was it because they were too slow to inherit his property?

Minutes passed, and Nan Liujing still gave no response to Shen Gali.

Shen Gali had been holding the bowl for a long time; it felt both heavy and hot.

He was done coaxing. Whatever.

"Are you drinking or not?" Shen Gali's tone was languid, lacking strength.

Nan Liujing let out a cold laugh, expecting the next line to be a fierce "Drink it whether you want to or not."

"If you're not drinking it, I will." Shen Gali raised the bowl.

Nan Liujing slowly raised an eyebrow.

Only then did he finally react.

He turned his face slightly, glancing at Shen Gali behind him, only to see him down the tonic in one gulp, his practiced movements suggesting he'd spent at least a year bedridden.

Nan Liujing, who had already had Uncle Li replace the tonic with effervescent tablets, was baffled.

Had this man already realized the tonic was swapped?

Shen Gali tasted it—not medicine-like, but sweet, orange-flavored, and fizzy.

He set the bowl on the table and turned to leave:

"Wash the bowl yourself. I'm so tired, I'm going to lie down for a few hours."

As footsteps faded away, Nan Liujing slowly turned to stare at the empty bowl.

He picked it up and sniffed—a sweet, orangey scent.

It seemed Shen Gali had noticed the tonic had been replaced; otherwise, he wouldn't have dared drink this lethal poison.

The empty bowl was slammed heavily onto the table. Nan Liujing looked down at the empty bowl, smirked to himself.

This man was meticulous, never leaving a single clue—pretty damn deep.

He closed the file on the screen and opened a new one. The title was in bold Song typeface:

"Plan to Break Off the Engagement 5.0"

Revising the plan to version 5.0 had taken a hell of a lot out of him. Nan Liujing was a man with a strong sense of planning, dead certain everything went exactly according to his plans, and no one could step outside them.

His slender fingers gently scrolled the mouse wheel.

No rush. I'll just wait it out. As long as he's alive, one day he'll slip up.

*

Shen Gali wandered around downstairs, couldn't find Butler Li, so he found a random room and lay down.

But some people are like that: you can never find them when you need them, but when you don't want to see them, they always shove their face in yours.

He didn't know how long he had slept when the sound of knocking woke him up.

Didn't hear it, didn't hear it.

He pulled the covers over his head, deaf to the knocking.

"Mr. Shen, it's Butler Li." The knocking persisted, impossible to ignore even if he wanted to. "Dinner's ready."

Shen Gali opened his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

My head hurts, my teeth hurt, my whole body aches.

"I don't want to eat," he said weakly.

"But you've gotta cook dinner," said Butler Li.

Shen Gali sighed. So what was the point of Nan Liujing making so much money and still hiring a butler?

Butler Li waited no longer. With a "pardon the intrusion," he pushed the door open and entered.

He held a black hardcover book in the crook of his arm. Dressed in a suit and white gloves, he stood by Shen Gali's bed, who lay flat on his back—the scene resembling a prayer for the deceased.

"Mr. Shen, from now on, you will be responsible for the young master's dinner. I will take care of his breakfast and lunch—you don't gotta worry about that," Butler Li said quietly.

Shen Gali: ?

Worry about him? Who? Who's worried?

"Then allow me to read you tonight's menu. First, the main staple is steamed purple rice, the main dishes are Nine-Turn Intestines and stir-fried vegetables, the soup is pumpkin-egg soup, and the dessert is yogurt with fruit."

Shen Gali: ...

Asking him, who had never set foot in a kitchen, to prepare dinner—did they think there weren't already enough disgusting foods in this world?

But if he didn't comply, Butler Li would probably keep yapping in my ear. As long as he could have some peace and quiet, the taste didn't matter to him.

Dragging his tired body to the kitchen, he saw that the ingredients were already prepared, with step-by-step recipes on sticky notes, and the ingredients were in plastic bags waiting for him to handle.

Shen Gali still didn't understand: why go to all the trouble of cooking intestines—which literally hold poop—into a delicacy?

And chopping up perfectly good fruit and mixing it with almost-expired yogurt—this they call enjoying life?

All stuff he just couldn't wrap his head around.

Thankfully, the villain's house had quite a few modern appliances—electric peelers, egg beaters, etc.—which saved him some trouble.

But there was no machine to automatically clean the intestines.

According to the instructions, he had to flip the intestines inside out and scrub them with starch to ensure no odor remained.

Shen Gali got lost in thought. If you wash away the original flavor of the intestines, what's the point of eating them? He didn't understand these people's thinking.

A long while later—

Shen Gali opened the door and dragged his heavy body out, flopping onto the sofa like he was half dead.

Hearing the sound, Butler Li went ahead and called Nan Liujing down for dinner.

But as soon as the two entered the dining room, they caught a faint stench in the air.

Butler Li frowned and quietly asked Nan Liujing, "This smell... is this okay?"

Nan Liujing had never tried it either, and it wasn't to his taste, but intestines were the kind of ingredient not everyone had the guts to clean—especially Shen Gali, who had been pampered since childhood.

This was exactly the effect he wanted. "If you want to pin something on someone, you'll always find an excuse." This way, he could add another black mark to Shen Gali's record.

"Go call him to eat." Nan Liujing glanced at Shen Gali, who was sprawled limply on the sofa, and said to Butler Li in a low voice.

Butler Li received the order and hurried over to Shen Gali in two quick strides, a flawless professional smile on his face: "Mr. Shen, please join us for dinner. You need to taste the fruits of your labor yourself."

Shen Gali buried his face in the sofa and said in a muffled voice, "I don't want to eat."

Eating was too troublesome—chewing and swallowing every bite—and on top of that, he had to dine with the legendary freak villain everyone talks about. It was more than he could stand...

"That won't do. You need three balanced meals a day to stay healthy." Butler Li started his sermon again.

Shen Gali really couldn't stand his endless nagging, so he got up and slowly made his way to the dining room.

Nan Liujing was already seated, with several plates in front of him filled with blackish and yellowish unidentified substances. The only recognizable item was the yogurt-fruit mix, with whole apples and bananas left completely intact, not even sliced, with a hasty drizzle of yogurt on top.

Butler Li shook his head sympathetically, then looked at Nan Liujing.

He didn't react at all to these unidentified substances; instead, he studied them closely.

The closer he got, the stronger the stench.

Shen Gali sat down, slouching sideways. His loose shirt hung like a tattered sail, making it impossible to tell how much weight he actually had.

His slightly long hair brushed against his neck, the deep brown contrasting with skin as white as fresh snow, barely showing a small red mole.

He didn't want to know what that hideous, evil excuse of a husband across from him looked like. His slightly lowered eyelids were shaded by long lashes, casting a fan-shaped shadow under his eyes.

Nan Liujing studied him.

The cuffs were left unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of a slender, snow-white wrist with prominent bones and faintly visible pale purple veins.

His fingers, tucked inside the sleeves, weakly poked halfway out, lying askew on his knee—looking sickly and lifeless.

Nan Liujing said coldly, "Look up."

"I don't dare." Shen Gali lowered his head even further.

"Why? Speak." Nan Liujing stroked his wristwatch, his long, sharp eyes like an eagle pinpointing its prey.

"I just have a poor appetite, and it's easily affected by external factors."

Nan Liujing let out a light laugh through his nose, his eyes cold and frosty—a commanding presence without needing to be angry.

He looked down, took a while to locate it, and found the plate of jiuzhuan dachang by its smell. With slender fingers, he pushed the plate to Shen Gali: "You put effort into making it; have a taste."

"I won't taste it. It's not poisoned," Shen Gali said succinctly.

He vaguely remembered that in the original text, the villain Nan Liujing was an extremely wary person, as if he had paranoia, always suspecting that those around him were trying to harm him. Even when eating with family, he would have servants taste the food first before touching his chopsticks.

Nan Liujing looked up, his slightly opened eyes as if mixed with crushed ice.

He silently rubbed the armrest of his wheelchair, a hint of inquiry spreading in his eyes.

This was the first time he carefully observed Shen Gali. He was supposed to be a young master pampered since childhood, yet why was he so thin? His slender body couldn't fill out a regular-sized shirt; his slightly open collar seemed too loose, faintly revealing the chest below the collarbone, even the light-colored mole on his chest was clearly visible.

Being this thin wouldn't do; after a few rounds of torment, he'd breathe his last.

To make Shen Gali sure it was edible, Nan Liujing said to Uncle Li, who was waiting by the side, "Uncle Li, you eat first."

Uncle Li: ?

What did this have to do with him? Why make this loyal old man suffer?

But the master's orders were not to be disobeyed.

Uncle Li slowly picked up the knife and fork, his fingertips trembling slightly.

The plate of jiuzhuan dachang visibly emitted a foul odor, and the cooking temperature was way off, black as charcoal.

Uncle Li shot Nan Liujing a reluctant glance, as if silently asking, "Are you really going to throw away years of loyalty?"

Nan Liujing arrogantly raised his chin, somewhat overbearing, and naturally ignored Uncle Li's gaze.

"Young master, if it's convenient, I'd trouble you to call an ambulance for me in a bit," Uncle Li said, tears seeming to well up in his eyes.

After mentally steeling himself for a while, Uncle Li slowly cut a small piece of the intestines and put it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

The next second, he grabbed a napkin to cover his mouth, and then gave a live demonstration of gritting his teeth in agony.

When he looked at Shen Gali again, there was already a hint of murderous intent in his gaze.

"How does it taste?" Nan Liujing asked casually.

Uncle Li held back tears and forced a smile that was more bitter than crying: "The taste... excellent, as if a culinary god descended, I'm full of praise."

Upon hearing this, Shen Gali stood up: "I won't fight you for it. I'll go upstairs to rest first."

After the person left, Uncle Li finally resumed his normal expression, leaned in to Nan Liujing and asked, "Young master, so for the remaining intestines, should I eat them or throw them away?"

"Didn't you think it was delicious?" Nan Liujing said slowly while wiping his fingers, "Don't waste it."

Uncle Li: ?

As Shen Gali went upstairs, he briefly thought about seeing the villain's real face, but then he figured it was too much trouble to turn around, so he just let it go.

He lay down peacefully. The gloomy sky outside was perfect for someone like him—a depressed loser who couldn't care less about anything.

He hadn't had a drop of water all day, but he wasn't hungry. In fact, he was glad no one was pestering him about eating.

Before transmigrating into the book, Shen Gali and his mother had only each other. Because they both had a hereditary cardiovascular condition, just treating the disease had drained their savings.

Illness wears out even the most filial child, let alone relatives who were seen only a few times a year. When they heard that both mother and son were in the hospital, fearing they would ask for money, they all blocked their numbers as if by silent agreement.

His mother was his only comfort, and he was his mother's last line of defense. To protect that line, his mother gave up treatment, pouring all the saved money into Shen Gali's treatment, and finally died of a heart attack, full of resentment.

The year his mother passed away, Shen Gali, who rarely attended school, managed to get into a prestigious university on his own merit. But on the day he was supposed to register, his mother died, and he had to drop out and be hospitalized for his own condition.

Losing his only family and the chance to enjoy his youth like a normal person, the world visibly dimmed in Shen Gali's eyes.

He began to hate everything in this world with equal intensity. Living was so hard—taking medicine until he threw up, having tubes stuck all over his body just to keep him alive. He had no attachment left, but the doctors kept snatching him back from the brink of death.

The caregiver his mother had arranged before she died was a distant cousin. She was great at everything, but too nosy. She'd nag him about eating six or seven times a day. For someone who just wanted to die, hearing that all the time only made him more depressed.

He didn't understand; he felt that everything he experienced was meaningless.

He thought this brush with death would finally free him, but predictably, things went wrong—he transmigrated into a book.

Out of habit, he pulled out his phone to look through his mother's photos, but when he pulled it out, he realized it wasn't his phone.

The latest model, a pretty taro purple—not something he'd ever buy. He only ever had black phones.

It must be the original owner's phone.

Just like in the novel, the original owner had a quirky personality. The lock screen was a black-and-white line art anime character, sticking out its tongue and flipping the bird with a malicious grin.

The contact names were "Fucking Idiot #1" to "Fucking Idiot #N", and "Spare Tire 1234—N". Some notes showed that their owners couldn't even qualify as "spare tires" and were at best "jacks".

Shen Gali had no interest in snooping. Just as he was about to put the phone away, a Weibo direct message suddenly popped up. He accidentally tapped it and opened Weibo.

Looking closer, he saw this wasn't the only one.

After opening Weibo, countless DMs popped up like mushrooms after rain, one after another.

"Daily check-in: Did Shen Gali die today?"

"I heard you married that disabled ugly bastard from Huanhai Electronics? Well, congrats!"

"Haven't the police arrested you yet? You assaulted the real heir of the Shen family. You're pretty bold, still haven't realized you're a throwaway?"

"That black-hearted cripple even dared to harm his own mother. Hope you end up dead in a ditch."

Shen Gali: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I also want to know when I'll finally be free. I'll take your good wishes.

In this internet age, it's not only celebrities and stars; financial tycoons and wealthy families also occupy a place on Weibo, becoming topics of gossip.

Shen Gali remembered that the original text went something like this:

After marriage, the original owner was a player. He frequently hired male escorts and sent nudes while sexting. But the price wasn't agreed upon, and the other party exposed the explicit photos online. He, who already had terrible public appeal, became a pariah, hated by everyone.