Chapter Seventy-Five: The Demon Corpse King Seeks Medical Aid

As soon as I lay down under the covers, a fierce turbulence rolled through my chest. It was already past six, the sky had brightened, and the sun had risen. I knew it was the congealed blood in my chest churning restlessly—if I didn’t spit it out, it would continue to roil until I finally did.

By now, everyone else in the dorm was awake. Though none had yet left their beds, the bathroom was inside our room, and the sound of vomiting would inevitably draw their attention. They’d definitely drag me to the hospital if they found out.

But there was no help for it; keeping it in was no solution either. At last, rationality broke through habit. I turned over, got out of bed, and slipped into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of retching echoed out.

It was Zhang Qiang, ever attentive, who noticed. As I hurried past his bed, he’d asked what was wrong, but I had no time to answer before I was overtaken by nausea.

So he got up, came to the bathroom door, opened it, and I caught a glimpse of his startled eyes and stiff posture. Pointing at me, he shouted to the others in the dorm, “Get up, everyone! Xiaodong is vomiting blood!”

The phrase “vomiting blood” might have terrified the old me, before I became a ghoul. But now, my body was no longer like that of an ordinary man—this was a trifling matter. Still, faced with my brothers, all regular people, I could only feign weakness, saying, “Ah…I can’t go on!” Though I felt my performance was unconvincing, the vivid crimson blood left no room for doubt.

Then I pretended to faint beside the toilet. Zhang Qiang immediately rushed over, hauled me up, and dragged me out of the bathroom. By then, the others had hurriedly dressed and come to help.

They laid me on Zhang Qiang’s bed; I squinted at my good friends, watching their anxious faces until Erpeng dialed a number. Soon after, a few of them carried me down the dormitory stairs.

Efficiency at its finest: in the time it took to get from the third floor to the first, a Lamborghini was already waiting outside. Of course, it had to be Erpeng who called it.

Erpeng whispered a few instructions to the driver. I opened my eyes and said to him, “Erpeng, I’m fine, really! There’s no need to go to the hospital!”

But before I finished, the burliest among us, Liu Xiaoke, shoved me into the car, saying as he did so, “Dong, your health comes first. You should get checked out!” Then the door slammed shut with a thud.

The Lamborghini was small, so the others didn’t climb in. They just told me to take care of myself and rest in the hospital; they’d come see me in a few days.

I was so exasperated. The moment we left the school gate, I said to the driver, “Sir, please find somewhere to stop. I’m not going to the hospital.”

The driver, from the Ran family, was polite enough, but his words put an end to any debate: “You’re young master’s friend, and he told me to take you to the Z City Central Hospital for treatment. That’s exactly what I’ll do. The Ran family has rules: if I disobey the young master or my superiors, I’ll be fired and won’t have a place anywhere in Z City.” With that, he ignored me and focused on driving.

I sat in the back seat, massaging my temples, sighing, and closing my eyes to rest.

Before long, we arrived at the hospital entrance. I hadn’t even touched the car door when someone opened it from the outside. It turned out to be the hospital director himself. I couldn’t understand why a simple checkup warranted such a grand welcome—what was Erpeng playing at?

Z City Central Hospital was located on the outskirts, since the original downtown site was too large and had been relocated five years ago. Still, even in the suburbs, the place bustled with people every day. The seven-story building with eight hundred rooms formed a massive square—a veritable warren, teeming with patients and visitors alike.

I bid farewell to the driver and followed the director to the ward. Out of curiosity, I asked him, “How did you know I was coming?”

He smiled broadly, rubbing his hands together. “Don’t you know? Ninety percent of the shares in this hospital belong to the Ran Group. That means I work for them, too. The young master called earlier to tell me a friend of his was coming, and to take good care of you.” When we reached a room on the third floor, he pointed to the door and said, “This is yours. Go in and make yourself comfortable; I’ll arrange for someone to examine you.” With that, he turned and left, leaving me alone at the door, glancing warily around like a thief.

I pushed open the door and was met by a burst of fragrance. Good heavens, was this a hospital or an apartment? The place looked just like a presidential suite: a plush king-sized bed, bookcase, wardrobe, desk and chairs—a true home away from home.

Ran Lingpeng really was extravagant. Though the room wasn’t actually a gift, I still got a taste of the high life enjoyed by the rich second generation.

I walked over to the changing room, eyes closed, trying to guess what designer brands would be in the wardrobe: Double Star, Semir, Back to Back, 361 Degrees—maybe all manner of famous labels.

Full of anticipation, I opened the wardrobe, only to be hit by another wave of fragrance. When I opened my eyes, I was instantly petrified. The wardrobe was stuffed full of blue-striped hospital gowns—identical to what prisoners wore—and each bore a tag that read, “Patient clothing: please change after bathing!”

Clearly, this had all been prepared in advance. It was as if the director knew I’d open the wardrobe; the tag was freshly placed—my intuition told me it couldn’t have been more than three hours old.

I picked out a gown that fit, went into the bathroom—a space enclosed by four frosted glass panels—filled the tub, undressed, and slipped into the bath to begin my sheep-counting routine.

Though I wasn’t especially muscular, I still had eight-pack abs and a solid chest and biceps. After all the recent battles, my muscles felt even harder, filling me with pride.

Unconsciously, I spent half an hour soaking, until my body was nearly wrinkled from the water, but I had to admit, the feeling was pure bliss.

After bathing, I changed into the patient’s gown and looked at my anemic reflection in the mirror. I looked neither human nor ghost—more like a half-dead zombie.

My face was pale, lips bloodless, eye sockets sunken and dark, like a tall, skinny panda. If an ordinary person saw me, I’m sure they’d say, “Hey, bro, you look like you’re knocking on death’s door!”

…