After being diagnosed with cancer, he swung back and forth between hope and despair several times, his emotions and mindset flipping over and over. The feelings were hard to put into words for outsiders, and in the end, it all boiled down to just one phrase: “retirement.” Yet even after making up his mind and preparing himself, when it came time to actually say it, it was still harder than he’d imagined.

His throat tightened. Suddenly, he remembered a phrase that had recently gone viral on the Youmeng forum. On instinct, he swapped out the cold “goodbye” and used it to put the final stroke on his professional career.

“Liuguang shattered stars on the bounty wall, no regrets in this life for coming to Youmeng.”

The rebellious young man bowed his head, gave everyone a deep bow, then straightened up and left the stage without looking back.

The already restless championship night exploded even more with Ethan Grant’s sudden retirement. Discussions and news about it were everywhere, with all kinds of speculation.

The two topics “Qingtao wins the championship” and “Chen Hui Lan Le retires” quickly shot up the trending searches. The club soon released an announcement, explaining the reason for Ethan Grant’s retirement and the personnel adjustments for the new season.

People found the key point in two words: illness.

There was nothing more specific.

But there are no secrets that can be kept forever. Soon, rumors spread that Ethan Grant had cancer.

Fans went crazy again, and even bystanders following the story felt heartbroken.

In less than half a day, the topic “waiting for your return” also trended, and more and more people learned about this young genius, all sending their well wishes.

Unfortunately, they didn’t know that Ethan Grant had pancreatic cancer, and it was already late-stage when discovered.

The night he retired, his family picked him up. On the way, he fell into a coma, and when he woke up, he was already in the hospital. Sitting on the chair next to him was someone reading a book—his sister, Emily Grant.

Ethan Grant curled his lips: “Morning.”

Emily Grant looked up at him and smiled, “Morning. Hungry? Want something to eat?”

Ethan Grant said, “Porridge.”

Emily Grant put down her book and got up to leave.

Ethan Grant reached for his phone on the bedside table, turned it on, and thought to himself, “So early”—it was already 2:15 in the afternoon.

He got up to wash up and looked at himself in the mirror.

Without the makeup he wore before matches, his face now showed obvious signs of illness. He thought, almost indifferently, that he had the look of someone doomed to die young.

The type of cancer he had had a high mortality rate; many people died within six months of diagnosis. Judging by what the doctor said, he felt he’d be no exception. Not to mention, he’d exhausted himself for the playoffs, further damaging his body—no matter how he looked at it, things didn’t seem optimistic.

He dried his face, went out, sat on the bed, and scrolled through his phone, replying to a few messages selectively.

A moment later, Emily Grant came back, handed him the food, and sat beside him, watching him eat. Ethan Grant swallowed a mouthful of porridge: “Aren’t you busy?”

Emily Grant said, “Not busy today.”

Ethan Grant asked, “How many days do I have to stay?”

Emily Grant replied, “Listen to the doctor.”

Ethan Grant asked, “What did the doctor say?”

Emily Grant’s gentle tone didn’t change at all: “Said your condition is pretty good.”

Ethan Grant didn’t comment, but didn’t ask further.

He stayed in the hospital room until evening, when his brother and father also arrived.

The Jiang family was very simple: a father and three children.

The first two children were fraternal twins; then came Ethan Grant, the youngest by six years. Mrs. Jiang had passed away when Ethan Grant was three, and their father never remarried, raising the three kids on his own.

Their father, Ryan Grant, was the deputy director of a medical research institute. Of the three children, the first two followed in his footsteps and studied medicine, but only Ethan Grant had no interest in medicine at all—he just wanted to play games. Fortunately, his family was supportive and didn’t stop him.

His ID, “Chen Hui Lan Le,” was made by taking one character from each family member’s name. The “Lan” character was also in his mother’s name, so he only used it once.

Now that Ethan Grant was sick, facing three doctors in the family, he could only obediently follow instructions.

After cooperating with treatment for two months, he lost all his hair, became much thinner, and lay listlessly in bed, feeling it was all pointless—just dragging things out.

He said, “The world is so big, I want to go see it.”

His brother glanced at him, “I’ll buy you a globe. Not only can you see it, you can spin it too.”

Ethan Grant let out a faint laugh and said nothing.

All three members of the Jiang family understood what he meant—he didn’t want to continue treatment.

They knew they were just buying time, but giving up treatment meant watching him die, while not giving up meant watching him suffer. Ryan Grant was silent for a long time before saying, “Go wherever you want.”

The other two’s eyes reddened and they turned away.

Ethan Grant closed his eyes. “Okay.”

But he only enjoyed a month of freedom before his health rapidly declined. After being rescued from another critical episode, he happened to see some documents in his father’s hands—the human cryonics project.

He asked his father for them and studied them seriously for most of the day, coming to a conclusion: it was all theoretical, highly controversial, and the technology was immature. Most likely, after a hundred years of freezing, all you’d get was a pile of fresh organs.

But either way, it was death. He was unwilling to just die of illness, so he decided to take a gamble and freeze himself.

Several countries were already conducting research on this, and China was no exception.