Chapter 124:

Today is Lin Duzhong’s 110th birthday.

Centenarians—some might say they’re rare in their country, while others would argue they’re not. There are always certain places blessed with longevity, like that famous longevity village. Yu Xiang’an even invested there, drawn by the pristine mountains and waters. She built a resort hotel there, and the village is home to many octogenarians and nonagenarians, with centenarians not being uncommon either.

Such a place naturally attracts many who wish to retire there, believing in its auspicious feng shui.

Within their small circle, Lin Duzhong is quite renowned. He himself isn’t a particularly famous physician, but his children have achieved great success. His grandchildren are also accomplished, and his great-grandchildren are now growing up. The younger ones are mostly still in school, but based on their past behavior, they don’t seem like the type to squander the family’s legacy.

Many have sought to interview Lin Duzhong about his longevity secrets. Some live long but suffer for much of it. Lin Duzhong, however, has aged naturally—he can walk, eat, and sleep well. His eyesight has weakened, but he has reading glasses; his hearing isn’t as sharp, but he has hearing aids. With these aids, he appears no different from any other elderly person. To live so long without enduring much suffering—that’s true blessing.

Thus, even without a grand celebration, many came to his birthday hoping to share in his good fortune. But outsiders weren’t invited—just the family gathering for a meal, as they didn’t want to exhaust the old man. Even so, the family alone was quite sizable.

Lin Duzhong had three children, and over the years, those children had grandchildren, who in turn had their own children. Take Lin Houpu, for example—he had four children and six grandchildren.

Everyone attended. Lin Yihong and Wang Lipan even adjusted their schedules to be there. Other banquets might be skipped, but for a centenarian like this, everyone wanted to partake in his longevity blessings.

New Year’s greetings like “May your happiness be as vast as the Eastern Sea, and your life as enduring as the Southern Mountains” are common, but who wouldn’t want to live a long, healthy life and witness more of the world’s wonders?

As the eldest son, Lin Houpu would have been responsible for organizing the event in his younger years. But now, nearing ninety himself, he’s in poorer health than his father. Lin Duzhong can still walk and eat independently, while Lin Houpu struggles to move and mostly relies on a wheelchair.

The next most available family member was Lin Chuanbai, so the task fell to him.

The celebration wasn’t held at home—too inconvenient and troublesome to clean up afterward—but at a hotel. Everyone just had to arrive on time.

Lin Duzhong’s idea was simple: a family meal and some photos for remembrance. He rarely mentioned his birthday after turning a hundred, considering it too much fuss. Every extra year was a bonus.

Now, a decade past his centennial, with new additions to the family, he proposed this gathering, and everyone came.

The host thoughtfully replaced the stage steps with a ramp. Standing on stage, Lin Duzhong grinned, revealing neat teeth—dentures for the occasion. His voice wasn’t strong, so he used a microphone.

“Today is my birthday. Thank you all for taking the time to come. I’ve lived a full life—retired in my sixties and gained an extra forty or fifty years. Once my children became heads of their own households, I stepped back, and you’ve all made me proud. You’ve built prosperous lives, and I’m overjoyed by your achievements. Each generation surpasses the last—my descendants outshine me, and that’s wonderful. But those born after the 1990s, you’ve never known the hardships your parents endured.”

Here, he glanced at Wang Yushan and her sister. They’d grown up under his watch—strict about money, but given the best in everything else. Born with advantages, they started life at the finish line. Even if they chose not to strive, their family’s wealth would ensure comfort.

He’d never imagined such a day would come. His descendants now thrive in the military, politics, culture, and economy—every field.

Back then, he’d hoped just one of his three children would inherit his medical skills and surpass him. Only his daughter pursued medicine. So when his second grandson, Lin Chuanbai, expressed interest, he was overjoyed.

His daughter lived far away, but this grandson had both the will and talent. When Lin Chuanbai chose pharmaceutical research over clinical practice, Lin Duzhong was still satisfied.

Their family’s medical legacy stretched back four generations. The first ancestor learned as an apprentice, becoming a barefoot doctor. The second generation honed the craft, settling in Baishi County. Lin Duzhong himself moved beyond the county to the city, only returning due to political turmoil.

Lin Houpu had been a surprise—uninterested in medicine, he joined the military but returned safely to start a family.

Now, the most accomplished is Lin Guangbai, a regional leader. But privately, Lin Duzhong’s favorite is Lin Chuanbai. Though not a practicing doctor, his pharmaceuticals have helped countless people, many derived from traditional Chinese medicine.

Lin Duzhong takes pride in this, especially when critics dismiss Chinese medicine. His grandson’s diabetes treatment, rooted in TCM, speaks for itself.

Not all critics are ignorant—some are paid by foreign interests to slander TCM. That, to Lin Duzhong, is even more despicable.

His gaze shifted to his youngest son, Lin Jiqing—the least successful of his children, content with mediocrity. Fortunately, his son broke the mold, building a business that funded overseas education.

Lin Duzhong never believed in forcing the successful to support the less so—such demands breed resentment.

Reflecting on his life, he felt fulfilled. After sharing wisdom the younger ones might not appreciate, he presented gifts—gold and silver jewelry, stamps, antique books. Yu Xiang’an received a pair of auspicious cloud-patterned gold locks and two culinary books.

Gold was universal—a substantial expense for so many.

“I’ve had little to spend on all these years,” Lin Duzhong chuckled. “Gold was cheaper back then. It’s a solid investment. The rest might or might not be useful—up to you.”

His savings, bolstered by pensions and family support, were nearly depleted by these gifts.

Receiving presents delighted everyone. They, in turn, had brought modest offerings—food, clothing, practical items.

Xu Haili adored her hefty gold bracelets. Li Yujiao received antique-style hairpins. Lin Chuanbai got a gold plaque—more for display than wear.

Lin Guangbai pulled Lin Chuanbai aside, concerned. “Grandfather seemed… off. His words and gifts felt like farewells. Is he unwell?”

Lin Chuanbai hesitated. “He’s sleeping longer, his energy fading. The doctors say it’s natural.”

Lin Guangbai fell silent, grappling with mortality’s inevitability.

Lin Houpu sensed it too, though his stern expression masked it.

After the banquet, as out-of-towners checked into hotels, Lin Chuanbai took the family home. Lin Duzhong clasped his hand.

“You’ve upheld the healer’s virtue. I’m proud. Stay true to your path.”

Some drugs could be priced exorbitantly, but Lin Chuanbai kept them affordable, especially for critical illnesses.

“Your deeds accumulate blessings. Your next life will be smooth.”

Next life? Would it be a return to his original world? Or oblivion?

Lin Chuanbai pondered. Their reincarnation defied logic, yet ghosts remained unseen. Perhaps death was truly the end.

Did virtue truly yield rewards? If their second chance stemmed from good deeds, what awaited greater benefactors?

The unknown commanded reverence. Unbeknownst to them, their philanthropy had earned quiet recognition beyond public acclaim.

The day after his 110th birthday, Lin Duzhong didn’t wake from his nap. He’d passed peacefully in sleep.

His funeral drew figures from all walks of life, even those seen on national news. Gu Shi came too—he’d crossed paths with Lin Duzhong at the hospital, their conversations carefully avoiding Lin Yining, his past with the family’s great-granddaughter.

Lin Duzhong had long made arrangements: cremation, then reuniting with his wife in their hometown. She’d waited long enough.

Gu Shi asked about some topics he hadn’t figured out before, and after getting clear answers, he never took the initiative to reach out again. He and Lin Yining maintained a polite alumni relationship.

Gu Shi wasn’t without regret, but there was no room for reconciliation. If he stubbornly continued to pester, the Lin and Wang families had plenty of ways to make him suffer.

—

Less than half a year after Lin Duzhong passed away, Lin Houpu followed.

His health wasn’t as robust as Lin Duzhong’s—he still carried some old injuries from the battlefield. Still, living close to ninety was already considered a long life.

Li Yujiao cried bitterly, her eyes swollen and red. It was unclear whether she was mourning Lin Houpu or herself.

She had hoped her son would inherit the bulk of Lin Houpu’s political resources, but in the end, those resources went to the eldest son, Lin Guangbai. Her son, Li Tiandong, lived comfortably enough as a leader, but he could never match Lin Guangbai’s stature. The brothers couldn’t both rise to prominence—his fate was sealed. He dared not overstep his authority, and financially, he would only have his pension in the future. To make matters worse, she had no grandson.

No grandson meant the family line would end. Even though Li Yujiao adored her granddaughter, it wasn’t the same. She also didn’t get along with her daughter-in-law. Now that Lin Houpu was gone, she would have to live with her son and daughter-in-law, seeing the latter day in and day out.

Given how strained their relationship had been before, would her daughter-in-law treat her well now?

The more she thought about it, the harder she cried.

All her efforts had led to this outcome—so far from what she had wanted.

After handling two funerals, Lin Chuanbai and Yu Xiang’an paid even closer attention to Yu Qingshan’s health. Though he seemed fine now, they couldn’t afford to be careless.

Yu Qingshan’s routine now included frequent check-ups. Knowing it was out of concern, he didn’t protest. As far as he could tell, he was still in good shape—eating well and unlikely to meet the King of Hell anytime soon.

But while his body was fine, his spirits were low.

This got Yu Xiang’an thinking.

If there was one thing that contributed to the three elders’ longevity, it was the spiritual peaches from the space.

The peaches took a long time to ripen, and given Lin Duzhong’s advanced age, they couldn’t wait. So they picked one prematurely for research. Eventually, Lin Chuanbai managed to extract a juice from the unripe peach. Experiments showed that rabbits who consumed it lived longer.

Though it didn’t exceed the natural lifespan of rabbits, the effect was undeniable.

Because the substance couldn’t be fully analyzed, Lin Chuanbai couldn’t determine exactly how much the “peach juice” contributed to Lin Duzhong living to 110. He could only confirm that its effects varied by individual constitution.

Lin Duzhong, Lin Houpu, and Yu Qingshan had all consumed the same amount, yet their lifespans differed—Lin Duzhong was the healthiest, Lin Houpu had old injuries and a weaker foundation (hence his earlier decline and death), while Yu Qingshan had maintained good health and seemed likely to reach his nineties.

Even at her age, Yu Xiang’an couldn’t bear the thought of Yu Qingshan passing.

When others lost their parents, people would say, “My condolences.” But when it happened to her, those words might just leave her numb. Only later would it sink in—the person who used to wait for her at meals, who scolded her for overspending while watching the news, was gone forever.

Just imagining the grief and helplessness made Yu Xiang’an shake her head, refusing to dwell on it further.

Thinking too much would remind her of her parents in her previous life. By now, they might have passed too—had they forgotten their long-lost daughter before they died?

As long as parents were alive, no matter how old you were, you were still someone’s child. Psychologically, it gave you a sense of security—parents were a refuge, a synonym for comfort.

Now, Lin Chuanbai was still working to decode the peach’s components. If it could be replicated, even if it didn’t extend life, pushing the average lifespan to 80 or 90 would be a monumental achievement.

Currently, the country’s average life expectancy was just over 70. An extra decade or more could change everything.

Lin Chuanbai’s herb garden was now mostly filled with equipment rather than plants. He also had a private lab in the real world—one that moved with him, accessible whenever he wanted.

After returning, he went into “seclusion” again to study the peach. Meanwhile, Yu Xiang’an, seeing Yu Qingshan’s listlessness, brainstormed ways to give him a sense of purpose—something to do that wasn’t too demanding.

Yu Qingshan spent most of his time in the Special Economic Zone. He wasn’t used to living elsewhere long-term, having adapted to the southern climate.

Summers were hot, but air conditioning and occasional trips helped. Winters… were barely winters anymore. Global warming meant heavy coats were rarely needed.

Traveling wasn’t an option—he was too old for long trips and disliked being away. So aside from breakfast runs and walks, he occasionally inspected shops with Li Dazhu. But even that was tiring, and if Li Dazhu drove him, the car’s license plate would be recognized, ruining any chance of “undercover” visits.

After some thought, Yu Xiang’an proposed, “Dad, there are people managing things—you don’t have to check everything yourself. How about I open an exhibition hall?”

Yu Qingshan: ???

Lin Chuanbai and Yu Xiang’an had previously handed over items that weren’t allowed for private ownership to the state, keeping the rest.

An exhibition hall would give these items a legitimate showcase. They could explain that they’d acquired them through bartering in the past, and since it wasn’t allowed then, they’d buried them.

Some were worthless, while others could fetch millions at auction.

The collection was so vast and varied that they’d hired multiple appraisers to categorize and catalog everything.

There were antiques, as well as more recent artifacts—like currency from before the second series of RMB was issued in 1955. The old 10,000-yuan notes were equivalent to 1 yuan in the new system.

There were also vintage marriage certificates (resembling small awards), and ration tickets for oil, sugar, grain, and fabric—things younger generations like the twins had never used, only seen tucked in books.

Ancient artifacts were displayed on one side, modern ones on the other.

Yu Qingshan was nostalgic seeing these—ration tickets for a pound of grain, half an ounce of sugar, a foot of fabric. When younger visitors didn’t understand, he’d explain.

When older visitors dropped by, the conversations flowed endlessly—borrowing fabric tickets from so-and-so, budgeting salaries for purchases. With so many shared experiences, Yu Qingshan perked up, leaving every morning with a thermos and not returning until mealtime.