Chapter 2: Expired Instant Noodles

Dr. Su furrowed his brow slightly and cast a glance at Qiu Dayong. “No, this is the rule. You have to keep it. If any problems arise in the future, it might come in handy.” Without waiting for Qiu Dayong to accept it, he shoved the diagnostic certificate directly into his hand.

This was, in a way, a peculiar kind of get-out-of-jail-free card.

Qiu Dayong curled his lips in displeasure and carelessly stuffed the red booklet into his pocket. Then he hurriedly counted the ten thousand yuan, making sure not a single cent was missing before finally exhaling in relief.

This was all the wealth Qiu Dayong had in the world—there was no room for loss.

Exiting the hospital gates, Qiu Dayong gazed at the unfamiliar street bustling with people, feeling an emptiness inside. “What am I supposed to do next?”

There was no way he could continue working in food delivery. His mental illness was now public knowledge, and the stations wouldn’t hire him anymore.

In his previous life, Qiu Dayong had also been an orphan, but he had a village to rely on. After more than ten years of hard work, he had built a two-story house there.

But just as it was completed, he had been transported to this world. These past three months, watching those fellow patients every day, Qiu Dayong had been deeply depressed. He felt trapped in a bizarre prison, forced to swallow unknown pills daily, always carrying a lingering medicinal scent that no amount of washing could remove. It was driving him insane.

If it weren’t for Qiu Dayong’s relentless efforts to curry favor with Su Yuting, persuading her to agree to his discharge, he didn’t know how much longer he would have to endure that place.

With the hard-earned ten thousand yuan in his pocket, Qiu Dayong stood hesitating at the door of the psychiatric hospital for a long time before finally gritting his teeth and deciding to return to his rented room first. As for the days ahead, he would take it one step at a time. There was always a way out; at worst, he could start all over again.

On the way, Qiu Dayong tried to avoid crowded places, fearing someone might recognize him as a patient just released from a mental hospital.

Back in the cramped, dim rental room, he pushed the door open and was met with a damp, musty smell. The furnishings were extremely simple: a creaking bed, a peeling desk, and a broken chair—this was all Qiu Dayong’s entire “possession.”

He tossed the diagnostic certificate onto the table and plopped down onto the bed, the boards groaning under his weight.

Staring at the mottled ceiling, Qiu Dayong began to plan carefully.

If he spent the ten thousand yuan frugally, it might last two or three months. But what then? Finding a job was urgent; he couldn’t afford to be picky.

Though hard and exhausting, construction work paid daily and could solve his immediate needs. As long as he had the strength, even with his mental illness, they would accept him. Alternatively, becoming a warehouse manager was less physically demanding, but competition was fierce, and it was uncertain whether anyone would hire him.

Lost in thought, his stomach suddenly growled loudly at the worst possible moment. Rising, he fished out a pack of instant noodles—expired by two days, but hopefully still okay. He boiled some water and quickly ate a few mouthfuls.

After eating, drowsiness crept in. Exhausted from the day’s troubles, Qiu Dayong lay down, pulled the tattered blanket over himself, and drifted into sleep.

In his dream, he seemed to return to the village from his previous life. The two-story house gleamed under the sunlight, and he was leisurely basking in the sun in the courtyard.

After a night of sweet dreams, the next morning, a clamor downstairs abruptly woke Qiu Dayong.

He rubbed his eyes and groggily got up, the noise coming from below.