He knew the right people — in the government, in the health commission, in the local press offices. One phone call from him could bury any story, no matter how big it looked. Everyone in that room knew it.
It wasn't just money. Everyone knew that. The Director had reached that went higher and deeper than anyone could touch.
Government officials shook their heads. Ministers trusted him with their own bodies. Even the Prime Minister had once come to this hospital for open-heart surgery.
And the mafia? They were his regular customers too. Rich men in suits, dangerous men with scars, they came through his doors like any other patient, and they always walked out alive because of him.
This was not a hidden truth. It was an open truth, white as paper. Everyone in the capital knew it — the Director was not just rich. He was untouchable.
Wu Feng's glory exists, but only behind closed doors. In public, Zhao Jun would shine — whether anyone believed it or not.
The next morning, the newspapers hit the stands. Headlines screamed in bold, impossible to miss:
"The Legend is Born! Godly Hand Doctor Performs Miracle Surgery!"
"Impossible Heart Surgery Done! Who Can Do This but a Genius?"
"A New Star Rises in Cardiac Surgery!"
Medical journals ran glowing reports too, dissecting the procedure, praising the precision, skill, and courage it took to pull it off.
Every article painted the story of a miracle doctor.
The Director sat at his desk, flipping through the first draft of the papers, chuckling as he read the words.
"See? See how brilliant my son is?" slapping the desk lightly. He laughed again, already imagining the fame, the donations, the stream of new patients that would flood into the hospital.
Zhao Jun was there too, sitting in the same office, but his thoughts were nothing like his father's. Where his father saw money and reputation, Zhao Jun saw only one thing — Wu Feng.
That face. The face that had stood over him in the operating room.
The voice that had shouted at him, showing everyone how useless he was. That face was still there in his head, burning into him like fire.
His pride felt cut open, like a wound that would not close, and every time he remembered Wu Feng it bled again.
Then suddenly he spoke.
"I want him gone," Zhao Jun snapped to his father. "Kill him. Take everything from him — his skill, his reputation, his freedom! Make him suffer, humiliate him the way he humiliated me!"
The Director leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a slow smile curling on his lips.
"Hah… you think I'd waste him? No, son. Wu Feng isn't someone to destroy. He's useful. Very useful."
He tapped the papers on his desk. "Every time he saves a life, every miracle, it adds value to you, to our hospital. His skill… It's a tool. A sharp knife in my hands. I don't crush tools. I use them."
"Remember this, Jun — people vanish when I want them to vanish. Careers. Names. Even lives. Nobody dares go against me."
Zhao Jun's jaw locked tight, the muscles twitching at the side of his face. His eyes darkened, heavy with the anger still burning inside him.
But the Director only waved a hand, brushing it away like nothing. "Relax. One day, when the time is right, I'll squeeze every bit of advantage from him. But not yet."
"Patience, my boy. Let him work. Let him save, let him shine — all for you. And when I decide, we'll take everything. Don't rush it."
Zhao Jun's fury burned hot inside him, but he kept his mouth shut.
He wanted to shout back, but he couldn't. His father's power was too strong, his word absolute.
Against that weight, Zhao Jun had nothing to say.
He didn't argue. He didn't speak. On the outside, he looked quiet. But inside, the fire of humiliation kept growing hotter.
Every time Wu Feng's calm eyes came back to his mind, his chest burned more, until there was nothing left but hate.
It spread through him slowly, like a poison crawling through his body, filling every breath he took, every thought in his head
Wu Feng… he couldn't let that slide. Not ever. He would make that man pay, with his own hands if he could.
He stood up, left his father's office without another word, and already his mind started spinning with ideas of revenge.
That night, Zhao Jun went to a club in the city. The lights were dim, the air heavy with smoke and perfume mixed with sweat, smoke, and spilt beer on the floor. Even in luxury, the place stank like desperation.
He dressed in his usual way — hair slicked back with too much gel, a gold chain hanging on his neck, expensive shoes that shone, and a shirt open too far at the chest to show off.
He thought it made him look strong, but really, he looked like what he was — a rich delinquent trying to show power with money.
In the corner booth, his so-called friends were waiting. They were the kind of men who lived off trouble — dyed hair, tattoos showing at the neck, cigarettes always between their fingers, laughter too loud and too empty.
By midnight, Zhao Jun was there. The whole place smelled of oil and rust. Wind whistled through the empty lanes, sharp enough to cut through his coat.
In the corner booth, his so-called friends were waiting. They were the kind of men who lived off trouble — dyed hair, tattoos showing at the neck, cigarettes always between their fingers, laughter too loud and too empty.
Zhao Jun's friend shoved a glass in his hand, and the girls came over, leaning against them, giggling for the cash he threw around.
But even here, with loud music pounding and drinks spilling, Zhao Jun's thoughts went back to the operating room. He slammed his glass on the table, spilling beer, and started telling them what had happened.
His voice was full of anger and hate, heavy and rough as he talked. Then he hiccupped and started pouring out the story of what happened back in the operating room.
He told them how Wu Feng shouted at him, how he froze with the scalpel in his hand, how the nurses whispered, how the interns stared, and even how the media his father had called saw it all. His words stumbled out one after another, loud, bitter, and drunk.
His friends sat around him, smoking one after another, the smoke curling in the air, their faces half hidden in the dark light of the club. They didn't laugh much, only nodded along as Zhao Jun kept talking.
Then one of them leaned in closer, the glow of his cigarette lighting his grin.
"You want revenge, Jun?" he said, voice low.
"I know someone. Not a doctor, not a soldier. An assassin. Real underworld guy. "
"He'll do any job as long as you pay him right. No questions asked. You give him a name, and that name is gone."
He was too drunk to think straight, but it didn't matter. All he wanted was revenge, and he wanted it now. No waiting, no planning. Just action.
"Let's go… hoo oohh baby…" he shouted, almost falling as he stood up, waving his glass in the air.
His friends caught him, laughing, but they didn't ask questions. They knew where to take him.
They piled into a car and drove through the city at night, lights flashing past the windows. After a while, they reached the place — an old building hidden at the end of a narrow street. No signboard, no name, but everyone who lived in the city's dark side knew what it was.
Inside was the spot. A simple counter, a wooden box, and a man behind it who didn't look twice at anyone.
You dropped a photo, you dropped the money, and the job was done. Someone from the underworld would take it. No questions asked. No names exchanged.
Zhao Jun's friend handed him the pen and paper, told him to write. His hand shook as he scribbled the name: Wu Feng. Then he shoved a photo in with it. The bundle of cash was dropped right after.
The man behind the counter only nodded, slid the box into the shadows, and said one word — "Done." In the city's underworld, that word was death itself.
His drunk grin stayed on his face. Somewhere out there, a man had already picked up the job, and Wu Feng's name was now on a list.