Chapter 127:

The term “prolonging life” had a brief moment of popularity online before fading into obscurity. For the general public, the concept feels somewhat distant, and its validity remains uncertain. Those who pay closer attention are mostly older individuals who already feel their vitality waning, approaching the end of their lives. Due to its longstanding reputation, they are willing to volunteer and take a chance.

When the body is in decline, should one simply resign to fate and do nothing? If there are no other options, then there’s no choice—but if alternatives exist, why not give it a try? These volunteers don’t have to pay; they’re provided with food, accommodation, and a decent living environment. Besides the elderly, people from other age groups also participate.

This isn’t something that can be confirmed in the short term—it requires time. Although online discussions have gradually dwindled, that doesn’t mean the matter is over. Beyond the elderly, many industry peers remain highly interested in the news. The subject of life is too mysterious, and everyone wants to explore it. Domestically, the situation is relatively controlled, but abroad, numerous specialized research labs cater to the wealthy, delving into this very topic.

They haven’t made any groundbreaking progress, yet here, results are suddenly announced? Some tried to probe other researchers within the pharmaceutical company but found no leads. Even the research institute itself had only a slight head start in learning about the breakthrough—and when they did, they were stunned.

There were two shocking aspects: one was the efficacy of the drug, and the other was that they had no idea when the project had even begun. In other words, Lin Chuanbai had accomplished this entirely on his own. How could they not be astonished? No one knew how long he had secretly worked on it, all while managing other responsibilities and producing numerous other medications. Such a person… was truly remarkable!

Lin Chuanbai couldn’t reveal that he had used a “cheat tool”—a processing workshop—to shorten the time, so he had no choice but to accept the praise.

Lin Chuanbai and Yu Xiang’an briefly made their presence known to the public, after which Wang Yuyan was mentioned with increasing frequency. Her rise was meteoric—she had branched out from New Star Entertainment to establish her own studio, taking her original team members Yue Wu and Wu Lin with her, along with other carefully selected talents, to make waves in the entertainment industry.

At its core, the entertainment industry revolves around resources. If you have resources, you have connections—and Wang Yuyan already had connections. Her relatives, friends, and classmates formed a vast social network, and she herself was an investor, a provider of resources.

When it comes to producing TV dramas and films, genre matters. Modern dramas can be made with budgets in the millions, while period dramas—especially those requiring intricate costumes and jewelry—demand higher investments. Wang Yuyan focused on modern dramas. Luxury homes, designer clothes, and high-end cars, all staples of modern settings, were things she already owned and could lend for free, cutting costs. For school-themed productions, it was even simpler—negotiating with schools to rent locations during holidays usually sufficed.

What truly mattered was the script, followed by whether the director and lead actors put in the effort. She didn’t chase excessive hype; she wanted actors to prove themselves through skill. If they could deliver, great—if not, someone else would step in. With so many aspiring to enter the entertainment industry, she had no qualms about casting newcomers.

She held high standards for her artists, but Wang Yuyan also treated them well. No forced socializing, no obligatory dinners, no need to curry favor with anyone—just focus on honing their craft and performing well. Everything else was handled by others.

The ones who typically pressured artists to socialize were investors—but who would dare force Wang Yuyan into such situations? That would escalate quickly. Some of these investors were even elders in status, making it unthinkable for them to behave inappropriately in her presence. They all acted with utmost propriety.

Those who had jumped ship from other agencies were left bewildered. One executive, whom she had once encountered at a dinner, had been so sleazy it nearly made her vomit—yet now, he sat stiffly, acting like a respectable uncle. Truly, having powerful backing made all the difference!

Not every production Wang Yuyan invested in became a hit, but well-crafted dramas had a higher chance of success. She also spared no expense on marketing, leveraging her existing reputation to ensure steady and rapid growth.

Once someone became famous, money and recognition followed effortlessly. The entertainment industry, after all, was far more visible than most other fields.

—

Before announcing the breakthrough, Yu Xiang’an and Lin Chuanbai debated whether to go public. They knew how rare the substance was—its primary source was the spiritual peach extract, with trace amounts also found in certain aged, wild medicinal herbs.

This meant the final pricing couldn’t be too low; otherwise, costs wouldn’t be recouped. What ultimately pushed them to proceed?

It was Yu Qingshan’s friend—a man he had met at an exhibition hall, living nearby, around the same age. His son had made a name for himself abroad, so he had been brought back to enjoy his retirement. But with no friends nearby and his children absent, he grew lonely. After meeting Yu Qingshan, the two often chatted.

He was a few years younger than Yu Qingshan and had seemed robust—yet a simple cold rapidly deteriorated his health, accelerating aging. Yu Qingshan returned home sighing heavily. Originally, Yu Xiang’an and Lin Chuanbai were still hesitant about releasing the substance, but hearing his sorrowful account weighed on them.

It was like watching a patient suffer while withholding a potential remedy due to various reservations. If the man didn’t recover, it would be akin to witnessing a life slip away.

After carefully reviewing the process and double-checking details, they decided to release the research.

The substance was extracted from spiritual peaches, then extensively tested against real-world compounds, revealing similar—albeit inferior—effects in certain herbs. If the spiritual peach extract’s life-extending potency was rated at 10, the herbal extracts ranged from 1 to 3, with 1 being common, 2 rare, and 3 exceedingly scarce.

Amid the online frenzy, Lin Guangbai couldn’t resist asking Lin Chuanbai, “Is it true that this can prolong life?”

Lin Chuanbai remained calm. “Brother, what do you think ‘prolonging life’ means?”

Lin Guangbai: “Extending lifespan.”

Lin Chuanbai: “No. When I say it has life-extending effects, I mean it optimizes bodily functions, enhancing vitality and reducing the likelihood of ailments—thereby indirectly extending life. The idea of directly adding years to someone’s lifespan doesn’t exist. If someone takes this but neglects their health, it won’t work. It’s not miraculous—serious illnesses will still take their toll.”

Lin Guangbai exhaled in relief. “I knew there couldn’t be anything that overpowered.”

Though privately, he felt a twinge of disappointment.

Lin Guangbai: “So your promotional claims aren’t misleading?”

Lin Chuanbai: “The wording is accurate—it achieves life-extending effects.”

Lin Guangbai: “Given the scale of your rollout, it’s no joke. I’ve already fielded countless calls about this new drug. You could’ve given me a heads-up…”

Lin Yihong’s side was no quieter. After receiving Lin Chuanbai’s explanation, they settled down, patiently awaiting experimental results.

Those familiar with their family had confidence—after all, longevity ran in their bloodline. Why else would they, living in different places, consistently outlive ordinary people? Now, it seemed clear: they had access to a drug that facilitated this. Previously, the technology was immature; now, it was ready.

The first to receive updates were the researchers. The team was small, composed entirely of Lin Chuanbai’s trusted colleagues.

Ye Chen was part of the group, as was his daughter, Ye Jingjing. They worked tirelessly in the lab, avoiding unnecessary outings. Past incidents had shown that stepping outside invited “coincidental” encounters—people probing for information, seeking samples, even foreigners with odd accents attempting to buy the substance.

Staying sequestered was the safest option. Their families understood. The team’s small size and the members’ stable, routine lives minimized exposure risks. A larger group would’ve introduced unpredictability—not everyone could resist temptation.

Even Yu Xiang’an and Lin Chuanbai faced disruptions.

Kleiter paid a visit, proposing a marriage alliance on behalf of a foreign pharmaceutical giant. The twins were unmarried; so were the grandchildren. The other side had candidates of both genders—any match would do, as long as they agreed.

Once married, they’d be family, combining strengths for mutual benefit.

Yu Xiang’an: “My eldest granddaughter already has someone she likes. The other two haven’t settled yet, but that’s up to them.”

Kleiter thought she was bound by outdated notions. “Marriage is marriage. If they have other loves, they can coexist—having children first, then living separately is common.”

Yu Xiang’an refused outright. “Kleiter, I can’t accept such marriages. If my children aren’t happy, I’d rather they stay single. You might not understand, but when I started my business, it was to fulfill my own dreams. In a way, I’m selfish—I achieved my goals, and my children’s goals are theirs to pursue. Forcing them for this reason would betray my original intent.”

Kleiter respected her choice, though he found it regrettable. Since her mind was made up, he’d relay her stance.

Lu Anran and Yu Mansheng observed the commotion. Lu Anran mused that if this was fake, so be it—but if real, the uproar was just beginning. She advised early preparations.

Lin Chuanbai and Yu Xiang’an understood. They had already decided: such a hot potato belonged in the hands of the state.

But first, they needed experimental results.

Before those arrived, Wang Yushan got married.

Her partner shared Lin Chuanbai’s profession—a researcher, though in chemistry. Quiet, fair-skinned, and slightly shy around them, he had clear, upright eyes.

Wang Yuyan was mortified. “Sis, now that you’re married, my suffering begins.”

Grandparents would nag: “Your twin’s married—why aren’t you? Hurry up!”

She could already imagine their expressions.

Wang Yushan laughed. “When you meet the right person, you’ll want to marry. I’m at that age.”

A stable family was preferable to singlehood.

Wang Yuyan sighed. “I’ve thought about finding a boyfriend, but the gap feels too wide.”

Wang Yushan: “What gap? Compared to whom?”

Wang Yuyan: “My ideal type. I wanted someone like Grandpa, but no luck. So, brother-in-law, which deity did you dig this one up from? Maybe I’ll find a similar one.”

She wasn’t opposed to marriage—just hadn’t met someone she liked. Those who pursued her had ulterior motives; tying herself to such people would be madness.

Now, with her career flourishing and her grandmother’s high-profile status—plus being the only business-minded grandchild—the attention she attracted was overwhelming.

Wang Yuyan was battle-hardened. The “chance encounters” people engineered were endless, each more creative than the last.

Wang Yushan: “Hahaha.”

She could imagine—and sympathized.

Wang Yuyan half-joked, half-resigned: “I’ve considered it—if I never find the right one, I’ll just visit a sperm bank and have a child alone. Men are optional anyway.”

Wang Yushan’s eye twitched. She smacked her sister’s head. “If Mom and Dad hear that, they’ll blow a fuse. Raising a child isn’t easy—you’re oversimplifying. Do you even know if sperm bank records are accurate? Genetic defects? Diseases? Is the donor alive? Any nightmare relatives? Don’t be reckless.”

Lin Yining: “Want me to introduce someone?”

Her social circle included more earnest types—like accomplished calligraphers’ descendants or doctoral candidates.

They were of similar age and had common topics to discuss.

Yu Xiang’an also helped introduce a few people—these were potential business partners. She didn’t personally arrange the meetings but simply listed their information for Wang Yuyan to review. If interested, Wang could find an opportunity to meet them herself.

Lin Chuanbai looked over the list and shook his head. “I don’t think it’ll work. The ones Yining introduced might have potential.”

Yu Xiang’an’s contacts were all businesspeople, and successful entrepreneurs were inevitably shrewd. His granddaughter, however, wanted someone more straightforward—someone she wouldn’t have to second-guess in conversations, making the relationship effortless.

Yu Xiang’an agreed, but since Yining had asked for her help, she still provided a few names. She had done her research—these were all carefully groomed heirs from prominent families, each outstanding in their own right.

After some time with no results, by the time Wang Yushan’s son was born, Wang Yuyan remained single. Disappointed in love but thriving in her career, she decided to focus entirely on work.

Lin Yining: “…”

Exhausted.

Whatever.

Yu Xiang’an began assigning her more responsibilities. Having a child interested in business was better than having none at all—hiring managers carried risks of deception, but having family oversee things, even if busy, reduced the chances of being swindled.

Besides, her assets wouldn’t all go to one person. Some were meant for Wang Yuyan, so she started handing over certain ventures for her to manage.

Apart from the entertainment industry, Yu Xiang’an decided to entrust her with the cosmetics and skincare business, which had some overlap with entertainment.

Previously, Wang Yuyan had worked in sales at Meiyan. Now, she was promoted to deputy general manager—a highly conspicuous leap that left her former colleagues with mixed expressions when they occasionally crossed paths.

…Meanwhile, the lab kept delivering good news.

Some volunteers were thrilled, reporting that their bodies felt lighter, their sleep deeper, and their appetites improved—as if they had regained years of youth.

Data spoke louder than words, and the results delighted Ye Chen and the team. Lin Chuanbai was pleased too, though his calm demeanor stood in stark contrast to the excited cheers around him, earning admiration for his composure and confidence. Many assumed he had anticipated this outcome—why else would he be so composed?

Lin Chuanbai: “…”

A beautiful misunderstanding.

Lin Chuanbai and Yu Xiang’an had already decided that once this matter was settled, they would semi-retire, delegating more authority. After all, what were managers for?

The experimental results were clear: the drug couldn’t be called a life-extending elixir—that claim was too abstract. But its benefits were undeniable—enhancing cell activity, aiding tissue regeneration, and improving children’s growth and immunity.

Such a breakthrough was too significant for private hands. Recognizing this, Lin Chuanbai and Yu Xiang’an proactively donated the formula to the state, retaining only a 30% stake—without management or operational responsibilities.

One-tenth of their share went to Project Hope.

Once the deal was finalized, it was announced immediately.

Security around the lab tightened, but strangers still appeared in droves.

If the drug became widely available, it would be a boon for public health—and a massive profit generator.

Wild herbs could yield extracts, and cultivated ones could too. With further cost reductions, affordability would improve, allowing more children to benefit from enhanced immunity and fewer illnesses.

The authorities, grateful for such a contribution, took note. Soon after, Yu Xiang’an and Lin Chuanbai graced the covers of annual magazines.

Online, admirers flooded social media:

“If it were me, I wouldn’t have handed it over to the state. Even I know this is a goldmine. Once it hits the market, I’d buy it for my kids, myself, and my parents—whether sick or not, it’s a health booster.”

“Even the dividends would be astronomical. And donating a tenth? I’d erect a shrine in their honor. I only got an education thanks to donors, but many in my hometown still can’t leave the mountains. Maybe more will now.”

“May good people live long and prosper!”

Countless threads popped up:

**#If you time-traveled to the ’70s, what would you do? OP first: Befriend Boss Yu and cling to her coattails!**

**#Envy their relationship—decades of mutual support, still honeymooning on their private island.#**

**#Wish I were their sibling—instant success without lifting a finger.#**

**#If I were Boss Yu’s child, I’d…#**

The last thread trended hardest. Many preferred being born into privilege over striving for success.

Yu Xiang’an’s Weibo, managed by PR, mostly posted official updates. Yet, under her latest announcement, fans flocked daily:

[*Boss, notice me—young, strong, and ready to work. Hiring?*]

[*I’ve divined the stars—you’re my destined benefactor. When do we get rich?*]

[*Ma’am, don’t I look like the perfect accessory?*]

…

Though an entrepreneur, her follower count rivaled celebrities’.

Naturally, interview requests poured in.

Yu Xiang’an declined most, handpicking one reputable journalist for a brief live Q&A.

The moment she agreed, the announcement went viral, with viewers crowding the live stream in advance.

“I’m first!”

“No, *I* am!”

“I claim this space [dog emoji].”

“Wonder what they’ll ask—her rise to success? Can’t wait.”

The interviewer started gently:

“Your restaurants span the nation—hot pot, fast food, luxury hotels. Some call you the ‘Queen of Cuisine.’ Any thoughts?”

Before Yu Xiang’an could respond, the barrage of comments flooded the screen:

“Thanks, but that’s reductive. Besides the food empire, the office tower across the street is also hers [hands on hips].”

“And the fashion district [smug].”

“Don’t forget dominating cosmetics [wicked grin].”

“Oh, and half your medicine cabinet [dog emoji]…”