When we arrive at the Summer Palace at noon, Diping Xi is already up—alert, vigorous, transformed. The man who had once groaned into pillows now stands tall, his posture regal, his gaze razor-sharp. The moment his eyes land on me, recognition flares—clear, focused, unmistakably present.
“Ms. Hightower,” he says, voice steady, warm, and unmistakably in command. “How are your coins going?”
“You have an impressive memory, sir.” I smile. “Thanks to your guidance, we’re launching Hightower Coin in two days.”
He nods slowly, approval softening the lines of his face. Then he turns to Iris. Though his recovery is obvious, she doesn’t skip protocol. With quiet precision, she hands him a series of images to test visual recognition, then passes him a hand gripper.
Lyra watches as Xi squeezes it. “The General Secretary is strong,” she murmurs beside me, her voice low with genuine awe. “Like a man half his age.”
Xi smiles, shaking his head with quiet pride. “Back in Liang’s River,” he says, voice rich with memory, “I used to carry two hundred pounds across fifteen kilometers of mountain roads—never once switching shoulders.”
Iris looks up from her notes, her gaze drifting to the writing table by the window. “Sir,” she asks gently, “do you practice calligraphy?”
Xi tilts his head, curious. “Yes. Why?”
“Calligraphy requires fine motor control and cognitive coordination,” Iris explains, her tone calm but deliberate. “It’s one of the best ways to assess neurological recovery.”
Xi pauses, then gives a slow nod to Liran. Without a word, the First Lady gestures to an attendant, who moves with practiced grace—arranging brush, ink, paper, and inkstone with quiet reverence.
Liran grinds the ink herself. The subtle, earthy scent fills the air as the black liquid slowly thickens, growing rich and lustrous. There's something meditative in the motion, something intimate.
Xi approaches the low writing table. For a moment, hesitation flickers across his face. Then he smooths the rice paper with careful fingertips and lifts the wolf-hair brush. He dips it into the ink, letting the bristles drink deeply.
For a long moment, he holds the brush suspended, gaze distant—as if seeing strokes that haven’t yet touched the page.
Then he begins.
The first stroke is a bold dot, descending with the weight of mountains yet ending with the delicacy of a falling leaf. His wrist pivots with fluidity, his fingers dancing lightly on the brush shaft as characters flow from his arm, not merely from his hand. The ink spreads with controlled confidence—neither bleeding nor hesitating—leaving behind elegant, living forms that seem to vibrate with inner energy. The silence is broken only by the whisper of brush on paper, a soft, intimate sound of creation.
When he finishes, the ink glistens wet on the page. Xi sets down the brush and steps back, exhaling slowly.
The characters read: 生命重启—Life Reboot.
Not a platitude. Not a slogan. More personal. More profound. A restart. A second beginning. The words feel right, as if his brush has channeled what his conscious mind hasn't yet fully grasped: that he stands at a threshold of renewed possibility—not just of body, but of legacy. His life renewed by a new code of genes. His future unwritten once more.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
I’ve seen his calligraphy before—timid, restrained, forgettable. But this… this is alive. It speaks of ambition. Of clarity. Of a man who has returned from the edge and intends to rule from it.
I clap first, the sound sharp in the stillness. Then everyone joins—Lyra, Iris, the attendants. Even Liran, her eyes shining.
Xi looks at his calligraphy, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. He turns to Iris and gestures toward the paper. "This is for you, Dr. Kane." His voice is firm, generous. "Liran—don't forget to have this framed for her."
Liran nods, radiant. She’s not just pleased. She’s relieved. Her husband's energy has returned.
“Thank you, General Secretary.” Iris bows deeply, her voice thick with sincerity. “This is a great honor.”
“It looks like the General Secretary has fully recovered,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re responding remarkably to the stem cells. Perhaps next time, you’ll try our new therapy—one designed to restore youth and energy.”
“Life Reboot,” Lyra repeats softly, her eyes glinting. “That should be the name of your new therapy.”
Both Iris and I nod, exchanging a smile. We'd planned this before coming—hoping to leave with a calligraphy from the General Secretary. But we never imagined he'd name our product as well.
It’s more than we dared hope for. A gift. A symbol. A marketing triumph.
Iris still performs MRI and PET scans—out of caution, not necessity. Everything checks out. Perfectly.
Before we can excuse ourselves, Liran raises a graceful hand.
“Stay,” she says, her voice warm but unmistakably firm. “Have lunch with us.”
We exchange glances. This isn’t a request.
The meal is simple, elegant—a study in restraint and mastery.
The clear broth arrives first: pale gold, fragrant, luminous. Old hens simmered for hours until their essence dissolves into liquid.
Steamed fish follows, barely cooked, its flesh so delicate it trembles. Caught this morning from Kunming Lake.
Hand-pulled noodles, chewy and irregular. Each strand has character.
Stir-fried greens—crisp, vibrant, alive.
Finally, a bowl of white rice. It doesn't need anything else—but somehow makes everything else taste better.
We eat in comfortable silence. Then Xi sets down his chopsticks and looks at me, his gaze sharpening. "Ms. Hightower, you work in biotech—but how do you see the Internet+ movement?"
Internet+ is the Prime Minister's brainchild. He introduced me to the Politburo Standing Committee. I need to tread carefully.
I set down my own chopsticks, meeting his eyes. "The Internet is transforming everything—user behavior, business models, entire industries. But it's like a bloodsteed. Powerful. Fast. And if not bridled, it could trample everything in its path."
Xi leans forward slightly. "How so?"
"Take e-commerce," I say, choosing my words with care. "It's convenient. It boosts consumption. But without moderation, it destroys local businesses—stores that employ people, pay rent, anchor communities. They're the backbone of local economies." I pause, gauging his reaction. "E-commerce also shifts tax revenue from where products are purchased to where they're produced. That creates imbalances. Some regions boom. Others starve."
Xi and Liran nod slowly. Thoughtful. Assessing.
"The Internet is most dangerous when coupled with finance," Lyra adds, her voice quiet but cutting. She glances at me. "Tell the General Secretary about P2P."
I exhale. “It’s a Ponzi scheme dressed as innovation. No one can sustain 20% returns. And charging borrowers 36% interest?” I shake my head. “That’s not fintech. That’s loan sharking.”
Xi's brow furrows. Quiet anger flares in his eyes. "Who runs these P2P platforms?"
"Antz Financial is the largest," Lyra replies for me. "They're going public next week."
"I told you she was good," Liran says softly, her gaze still on me.
Xi nods, his voice quiet but weighted. "And honest." He picks up his teacup, turning it slowly in his hands. "Others may know what's happening. But they'd rather profit from it than warn us."
The words hang in the air—heavy, deliberate. A compliment and a warning, both.
The meal ends quickly after that. By 2:00 p.m., we're preparing to leave.
As we bow our thanks, Xi rises and walks us to the door himself—an honor rarely given. His hand rests briefly on my shoulder. The grip is firm. Grounding.
“Life Reboot,” he says quietly, eyes locking onto mine. “Remember that name, Ms. Hightower. It’s not just for me.”
I nod. Absorbing it.
As we step into the afternoon light, Lyra exhales sharply beside me.
“Do you realize what just happened?”
I glance back at the palace, where Xi still stands framed in the doorway—tall, renewed, and utterly in command.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Xi just named the future of the nation.”
A reboot is never gentle.
It breaks what came before.
