The Golden Dynasty’s Secret Healer

That fateful night, the hundred-billion-VND Imperial Hotel ballroom was bathed in the dazzling golden light of an engagement party. The guests were tycoons and queens of the financial world, whispering about the multi-trillion-VND value of the Golden Dynasty empire.

Center stage, Ngoc Diep, the young female billionaire who once shook the real estate market, sat in her gold-plated wheelchair. Her face was radiant, but her legs had been paralyzed for two decades—a secret rumored to have a deep, hidden cause. Beside her was Quoc Dat, her handsome fiancé, constantly smiling with the aura of a successful businessman, talking non-stop about the upcoming hundred-billion-VND wedding.

The MC announced the toast. Confetti cannons fired in a brilliant shower. Quoc Dat bent down to kiss Ngoc Diep’s hand lightly. But just then, an invisible current seemed to flash through her, causing Diep’s hand to tremble violently, followed by her entire body seizing up, eyes rolling back, and foam appearing at her mouth.

“What’s wrong with her?” A piercing scream tore through the opulence.

Quoc Dat rushed to her, but his hands were shaking uncontrollably. The private doctor pushed his way in, checked her, and yelled: “Stopped breathing! Arrhythmia!” Panic ignited like a fire. Screaming, calls for a doctor, and weeping mingled together.

And amidst that utter chaos, a calm voice cut through from the doorway: “Don’t inject the drug! The wrong medication will stop her heart within thirty minutes!”

Everyone turned their heads. Standing in the middle of the hundred-billion-VND ballroom was a young man in a faded motorbike taxi (Grab) jacket, his pants stained with road dust. His eyes—Tung‘s eyes—were collected, his hands clenched, clearly not those of a mere curious onlooker.

Quoc Dat’s face flushed crimson with anger and humiliation. “Who are you? Who told you to interfere with our business?” Security guards rushed forward, grabbing Tung by the collar to pull him out. “I know what’s wrong with her,” Tung insisted firmly, “Inject that drug, and she will really die.”

A resounding slap sent him sprawling onto the marble floor, blood trickling from his lip. Curses and shouts for security to throw him out echoed. “Get out!” Quoc Dat roared. The door slammed shut, concealing the motorbike taxi driver.

No one knew that at that exact moment, the stranger’s warning had become a deadly prophecy.

Two muscular bodyguards dragged Tung out like a criminal. His crumpled Grab jacket was torn at the shoulder. The Saigon rain began to pour down unexpectedly, the cold drops stinging his dusty face, mixing with the pale blood at his lip.

A bodyguard sneered: “Get lost! Don’t let my boss see you again!” He gave a final shove that sent Tung tumbling down the stone steps near the curb. But Tung’s gaze remained fixed inside the hall, through the transparent glass. He clearly saw the doctor preparing the light-yellow syringe. He recognized it as a drug that could be fatal in specific, dangerous poisoning cases.

A curious guest asked: “Hey, young man, what do you know about Ms. Diep that you dared to jump in to save her? Think you’re a miracle doctor?”

Tung didn’t answer. He just stared deeply at the syringe, letting out a weary but determined breath. He spoke loudly enough for the security and the guest to hear clearly: “If they inject that drug, exactly thirty minutes later, her heart will stop.”

A bodyguard scoffed with contempt: “Are you predicting the exact time of death? Look at yourself, you’re just a motorbike taxi driver.”

Tung showed no anger. He only held the look of a man who was certain of what was about to happen, having witnessed it too many times before. He turned his back and walked away, his steps heavy.

In the hallway, Quoc Dat was still frantically on the phone, his face red with fear and anxiety. He called for more doctors and prepared an international hospital team, but in his mind, he hadn’t forgotten the face of the motorbike taxi driver who dared to interfere.

Tung walked towards his old Wave motorbike. Before getting on, he looked back at the hotel one last time. The warm yellow light from inside the hall poured out, contrasting sharply with the storm about to descend.

A thought crossed his mind: By the time they believe, it will probably be too late.

And as if to confirm that premonition, a scream pierced the glass from inside the hall: “Her heart rate is dropping! Hurry!”

---

Exactly 27 minutes after Tung was thrown out. The wall clock was the cold witness to the moment of horror.

The female billionaire’s body began to fade. The private doctor pressed his ear to Ngoc Diep’s chest, his face turning instantly white: “Arrhythmia! Get the defibrillator, now!”

Everything was utterly chaotic. The confetti hadn’t been cleaned up, the guests’ gowns were still sprinkled with glitter, all becoming a scene of desperate turmoil. “Oh God, is she really dead?” A female guest covered her mouth and sobbed.

Quoc Dat stood frozen. He looked over at Ms. Le, Ngoc Diep’s stepmother. Ms. Le stood with her arms crossed, her eyes glancing at the empty syringe on the floor, then at the gradually softening body of her stepdaughter. Her lips briefly curled into a subtle smirk before quickly resuming a facade of grief.

“Charge! One! Two! Three!” Ngoc Diep’s body jolted. The monitor spiked in a sharp line and immediately returned to flat.

A medical staff member exclaimed, their voice breaking: “No pulse!”

Silence descended. The sound of the rain outside magnified the growing terror.

A guest whispered: “Oh God… exactly thirty minutes!”

Everyone in the room snapped their heads towards the guest. He stammered in panic: “I… I just heard the motorbike taxi guy say it!”

A flash of memory hit Quoc Dat: The image of the motorbike taxi driver standing in the rain, his cold eyes, and the clear warning: The wrong drug. Thirty minutes later, her heart will stop.

Dat gasped, cold sweat breaking out on his neck. He looked at the doctor, pleading: “Please save her! Please, please!”

“Last attempt at defibrillation!”

Ngoc Diep jolted once more. The screen lightly spiked and then dropped back to zero. “No… no more chances.”

Quoc Dat collapsed onto the floor. His roar tore through the hall: “Diep!”

The doctor shook his head, his voice heavy as stone: “If the heart stops for more than five minutes, she cannot be moved. She…” He trailed off, no one daring to say the word “dead.”

The truth struck everyone like a lightning bolt. The paralyzed billionaire, the star of the elite, the woman about to have a hundred-billion-VND wedding, had stopped breathing.

The hall door flew open. Security guards rushed in after hearing the screams.

“Mr. Dat, outside… someone is banging on the door calling for you.” The guard swallowed, his voice strained, “The motorbike taxi guy from earlier!”

The entire hall held its breath again. Quoc Dat shot up like a drowning man grasping a lifeline, rushing towards the glass door.

In the rain, the Grab driver’s silhouette still stood, his helmet clenched in his hand, his eyes glued to the inside, as if he had known this had to happen.

The convoy of luxury cars followed, their headlights slicing through the rain, turning into the small alley leading to the poor lodging district. Four black SUVs stopped in front of room number 12.

Quoc Dat rushed out, his feet slipping on the muddy alley ground. He knocked frantically: “Open up! Open up now!”

The faded corrugated iron door cracked open. An elderly woman, her face haggard, coughing, stood bewildered at the sight of the strangers: “Who are you looking for?”

Quoc Dat nearly collapsed on the threshold. “Auntie, the motorbike taxi driver… where is your son? Please, let me see him!”

“Tung, he’s grinding medicine in the kitchen.”

As soon as the words were spoken, a calm, deep voice came from behind: “Mother, let me.”

Tung stepped out, his old T-shirt damp with a few streaks of rainwater. He looked at the scene outside: Guards, luxury cars, the panicked face of the billionaire’s fiancé. No surprise, no confusion, only an obvious weariness.

Quoc Dat lunged forward, practically kneeling: “Please save Diep, I beg you! You were right… exactly thirty minutes, she… she died! But the doctor said there’s still a chance if we resuscitate her within the golden hour!”

The man who was once so arrogant was now kneeling on the wet concrete floor. The rain drummed on the metal roof.

Tung looked at him for a long moment, his eyes icy: “I warned you.”

Quoc Dat grabbed his hand, his voice trembling: “Sir, think about it, she’s a billionaire! If you save her life, you won’t have to worry about money for the rest of your life!”

Tung gently pulled his hand away: “I don’t need money.” The entire group was stunned.

He helped his mother to a chair, speaking slowly: “My mother is sick. I have to grind medicine for her every day. I won’t leave my mother to heal someone else, especially someone who slapped me in the face.”

The air was thick. Quoc Dat froze, as if kicked in the chest. He gasped: “Then what do you want? Tell me!”

Tung tightened the scarf around his mother’s shoulders, his eyes flashing with calm resolve: “I will save her, but I have conditions. One, you must bow and apologize to me here, in front of my mother. Two, you must promise that no one will ever touch my mother, no matter what happens.”

At that very moment, amidst the pouring rain of the Saigon night, Quoc Dat crumpled, his forehead touching the cold concrete. “I apologize, Tung. Please save Diep for me!”

Tung nodded slightly. The upside-down bargain between the poor and the rich had begun.

The convoy sped toward the hotel. Tung sat in the back, next to him a small cloth bag containing acupuncture needles and herbal medicine.

In the VIP room, Ngoc Diep lay motionless. The heart rate monitor was a straight line. Two nurses were desperately performing chest compressions.

“No more reaction, let’s stop.” The doctor whispered hoarsely.

Just as they were about to cover her with the white sheet, the door burst open. Tung rushed in. “Stop! Step back!” His voice cut through the despair like a knife.

He put down his bag, his hands moving so fast they were a blur as he checked her neck pulse and eyelids. A few short seconds, but as precise as someone reading the rhythms of death.

He spoke softly, his voice firm: “She’s not dead. Her heart just stopped recently, there’s still a chance.”

The whole room gasped. Tung pressed the philtrum acupoint, then the left elbow, then right below the sternum. Each press was strong, deep, and millimeter-precise.

His face hardened when his hand touched Diep’s chest. There was a strange bruise there, spreading along the blood vessels like black threads.

“That mark just appeared, we don’t know what it is,” a nurse stammered.

Tung leaned closer, his eyes darkening: “Hemiparasite Venom. This kind is not accidental.”

The room held its breath. Poison? Who poisoned her?

Tung opened his cloth bag, pulling out a set of small, gleaming acupuncture needles. He placed each needle on Diep’s body following a strange diagram: between the eyebrows, behind the ears, on both sides of the neck, along the sternum, and at the Dantian point.

A doctor standing nearby exclaimed: “That… that’s the Ninefold Vitality Restoration technique!”

Tung didn’t look at him, simply stated: “Silence. If you distract me, she will truly die.”

He inserted the last needle into a point on the sole of her foot. Then, he suddenly pressed his palm hard onto Diep’s chest, driving the force straight down. “Bop!”

The girl jolted, her eyes slightly fluttering, her chest rising in a weak rhythm. “There’s a reaction! There’s a reaction!” A nurse cried out.

Tung gritted his teeth, placing his hands together, pressing directly onto Diep’s chest in a unique rhythm, unlike modern resuscitation methods, like an internal martial arts form.

The heart monitor, from a flat line, began to jump in a small sine wave, then grew. Beep… beep… beep…

The heart was beating again. The room erupted in sobs and choked sounds of joy. Quoc Dat dropped to his knees, clasping his hands in front of Tung like he had found a savior.

But Tung did not look at them. He continued to stare at the spreading bruise on Diep’s arm, his voice colder than the rain outside.

“Someone wants her dead. And this time, it’s not an accident.”

The iron gate of the Golden Mansion swung open. Tung stood before the magnificent architecture, unfazed. Quoc Dat next to him, arrogance creeping back into his eyes: “Follow me, don’t mess around.”

On the second-floor balcony, Ms. Le stood with her arms crossed. She whispered to her aide: How did that dishwashing boy save Diep? He knows too much. Should we deal with him? Ms. Le slightly curled her lip: Just observe for now, this boy won’t live long.

Tung keenly sensed the murderous intent from her. He slightly tilted his head to look up at the balcony. Their eyes met, a chilling look that gave her goosebumps.

The mansion’s main hall greeted Tung with suffocating luxury. Servants stood in two lines, bowing politely, but their eyes showed blatant disdain: That poor motorbike taxi guy looks like a beggar. How can the young mistress trust him? Maybe he harmed Ms. Diep and then pretended to save her.

Tung walked past them calmly, his face expressionless, but his eyes lit up with the familiar determination of someone who understood what it meant to be scorned.

Ngoc Diep was waiting for him in her private treatment room. She sat in her wheelchair, looking weary, but her eyes were strangely bright when she saw Tung.

“You’re here?” Diep whispered, her voice filled with rare trust.

Tung nodded: “You are safe for now, but don’t let them get close.”

Quoc Dat froze behind Diep, his eyes darkening with the look of a rival more than a fiancé. The head of security, Scarred Hung, stood with his arms crossed by the wall, his gaze sharp as a knife. Tung had already sensed the killing intent from Hung, like standing before a coiled, venomous snake.

Tung knelt to check Diep’s pulse: They want her dead, and I ruined their plan. And in this mansion, ruining a plan is an unforgivable crime.

After hours of treatment, Ngoc Diep’s complexion was less pale. “Thank you. Not just for saving my life, but because for the first time, I feel like I’m not alone.” The thank you held the accumulated loneliness of 20 years.

In the darkness of the hallway, Quoc Dat’s hands were clenched white. He looked through the slightly ajar door and saw Diep smile at Tung—a smile she had never given him in their three years together. His eyes darkened, shifting from jealousy to hatred, and from hatred to deep-seated fear. He’s not just a threat to the plan, he’s stealing her heart.

Ms. Le appeared behind him, her voice light, like pouring venom: “See? I told you. Diep is soft-hearted, she’ll believe any man who says a few kind words. Continue the plan. A mild dose of poison in the foot soak. If you can’t kill her, paralyze her completely. If the girl is paralyzed again, she’ll rely entirely on us.” Quoc Dat silently agreed.

In the room, Tung was packing his needles. Diep quietly asked: “Do you feel any danger here?”

Tung looked at her, his eyes sharp as a blade: “From the moment I stepped through the gate, I smelled danger. But you are far more dangerous than this place.”

Diep flinched, her heart skipping a beat: “In what way am I dangerous?”

Tung bent down to put the needles in his bag, a slight curve to his mouth: “In the way I shouldn’t let myself care about you.”

In the private kitchen, the head chef and Ms. Le’s trusted aide poured a packet of white powder into the simmering foot-soak medicine: Just half a packet, to paralyze her again, not to kill her.

When the aide brought the tray up, Diep was about to put her feet into the water when Tung abruptly reached out to stop her: “Stop! This medicine is not meant to heal you, but to destroy you.”

Diep was startled, her face paling. Outside the door, Quoc Dat and Ms. Le, hiding behind a stone statue, stared wide-eyed at each other, panicking that their plan had failed again.

Tung swept the tray onto the floor. The medicine splattered, releasing a pungent, bitter smell. He looked directly out into the hallway, his voice low: “If there is a third time, I cannot guarantee that the person behind this will live long.” It was not just a warning; it was a declaration of war.

The atmosphere in the Golden Mansion that evening was tense. After two poisoning attempts, Tung knew the mastermind would never stop. A terrifying counterattack was imminent.

In the treatment room, Diep sat on the bed, her complexion still pale but her eyes regaining their clarity. She looked at Tung, her voice low but firm: “They want me dead, I can’t keep hiding. What’s your plan?”

Tung took out a small vial of dark blue liquid: “This drug will slow your heart rate to the point where the monitor won’t detect it. For 24 hours, everyone will think you’re dead.”

“You want me to fake my death?”

“To catch the wolf, you must open the pen gate,” Tung replied, his eyes as cold as a mirror in the night.

“And what about me?” Diep asked, her voice slightly shaky.

“I will be right beside you.” The absolute trust in her eyes made Tung pause momentarily. Then he nodded, confirming that both had stepped into a game of life and death.

An hour later, Ms. Le’s trusted aide rushed out of the treatment room, screaming: “Ms. Diep is dead! She’s dead!”

The entire mansion erupted in screams, footsteps, and calls for a doctor. Quoc Dat rushed upstairs, his face pale, his hands trembling as he clutched the door frame, seeing Diep lying motionless, her skin ashen, her lips pale, the heart monitor displaying a flat line. The private doctor shook his head: “No reaction. We’ve lost her.” Quoc Dat collapsed next to the bed. Ms. Le covered her mouth, pretending to cry, but a barely concealed relief gleamed in her eyes. Only Tung stood silently beside the bed, his hands resting lightly on Diep’s blanket, showing no grief, no tears, only an eerie calm, as if he had known all along.

The funeral was set up in the mansion’s main hall, done quickly and strangely. White flowers piled high, candles arranged in two long rows. A few close guests were called in that night, all whispering with suspicion.

In the middle of the service, a figure in black sneaked into Diep’s medical records room. He opened the cabinet, pulled out the file labeled “Toxin Symptoms,” and flicked a lighter, preparing to burn everything.

Just as the flame touched the first page, the room lights snapped on. Tung stood there, his eyes dark as an abyss: “Why are you so quick to burn the evidence? The person is already dead. What are you still afraid of?”

The man stammered, sweat breaking out on his forehead. The door behind him burst open. Police officers and two guards rushed in, tackling him to the floor before he could flee.

“Whose order?” A police officer asked sharply. The chef choked, his eyes wide with horror, looking toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

Just then, a servant’s scream echoed from the funeral hall: “The coffin! The coffin is opening!”

The entire mansion froze. The sound of burning candles was like insects chirping. Someone dropped a glass, the shattering sound sharp and cold.

Then, the coffin lid sprang open. Ngoc Diep pushed herself up, her breathing steady, her eyes sharp as a newly honed blade. Her white funeral gown was askew, making her look like a ghost risen from the dead, or a goddess of retribution returning to claim justice.

Whispers spread through the hall, everyone stepping back. Quoc Dat was rooted to the spot. Ms. Le’s face was ashen, her eyes wide to the point of tearing.

Diep stepped out of the coffin, walking straight to the center of the hall. In that very moment, her toes subtly wiggled, one step, then another. Slow but steady.

“The mistress! The mistress is walking!” The servant shrieked.

Ms. Le trembled, her voice cracking: “No! It can’t be!”

Tung emerged from behind, standing to Diep’s right, his eyes icy as he looked towards the figures in the shadows. His voice resonated through the funeral hall like a judgment:

“She is not dead. But someone else is about to die tonight.”

The night after the fake funeral, the atmosphere in the Golden Mansion was eerily silent, devoid of whispers or mocking laughter, only a vague fear spreading like poisonous fog. Tung knew the person behind the two poisoning attempts would never stop after their plan was ruined. As predicted, the horrific counterattack began.

Near midnight, Tung’s phone vibrated violently. An anonymous text, just three words: Your mother is here. It was accompanied by a photo of his mother’s finger, severed and placed on a blood-stained wooden table. It was no longer a warning; it was a true declaration of war.

Tung immediately grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the room. But as he reached the foot of the stairs, Butler Bay, the family’s loyal steward for 30 years, blocked his path, his face terrifyingly calm. “Mr. Tung, where are you going at this hour?” His voice was soft, but his eyes were sharp as knives.

Tung looked straight at him, his eyes darkening: “You know very well where I’m going.”

“I do.” Butler Bay smiled, a smile that sent shivers down one’s spine. “But it’s too late.” Just then, Butler Bay’s phone rang. The voice on the other end was rough: The cargo has been moved to the island. Did you lure the motorbike taxi guy yet?

Tung didn’t need to hear the answer. The final boss was not Quoc Dat, nor Ms. Le, but Butler Bay—the most trusted man of all.

“Why?” Tung gritted his teeth.

“Because 20 years ago, the one who stole my family was Ms. Diep’s father.” The confession fell like a gunshot.

Before Tung could react, four guards in black charged at him. Tung spun, knocking out two in three seconds, vaulting over the railing, rolling onto the lawn, and disappearing into the night.

3:00 AM. The small speedboat sliced through the waves towards Lone Grave Island (Hòn Mộ), a deserted, unpopulated place with no electricity. The sea wind hit Tung’s face, stinging and salty, but he didn’t blink. All his senses were focused on one thing: saving his mother.

On the island, a flickering firelight appeared among the trees. As soon as Tung set foot on the ground, a dark figure stepped out from a wooden shed. Scarred Hung. But not the Hung from a few days ago. His right arm had been replaced with a mechanical limb. The cold steel joints clattered with every step. “Welcome to Death Island.” He roared, lunging forward like a giant beast.

The battle erupted. Tung dodged the blow by a hair’s breadth, throwing a slash with a piece of metal he’d picked up from the ground. But Hung’s mechanical arm easily deflected it, sending the force back and throwing Tung far. Dust and stones flew. In the dark night, the sounds of impact were like thunder.

In the distance, Tung’s mother was tied to a wooden post, her mouth gagged. She couldn’t scream, only tears fell as she watched her son being pushed to the brink.

“Fight more! Let’s see if the miracle doctor can save himself!” Hung Sẹo laughed hoarsely.

A punch from the steel arm struck down. Tung braced himself with his forearm, the bone cracking. The pain shot through him, but in his eyes, there was only the image of his mother trembling in the firelight. He could not lose.

Tung inhaled deeply, gritted his teeth, and suddenly spun, pressing hard on the opponent’s elbow acupoint—where the remaining muscle tissue was attached to the mechanical part. The steel arm paused for a second—a second was enough for Tung to deliver a kick to Hung Sẹo’s knee. The sound of metal breaking rang out. Hung Sẹo collapsed, screaming like a beast whose tendon had been cut.

Tung rushed to cut the ropes on his mother. Amidst the smoke and sparks, the entire shed began to burn. His mother held him, choking back tears: “My son, run! There are many more of them!”

But Tung shook his head, his eyes sharp as a whetted blade: “No. I will bring you home, and I will end everything.”

Behind them, from the shadows, Butler Bay stepped out, holding a long-barreled gun, his face expressionless, his eyes so cold they seemed devoid of blood.

He spoke, his voice level, with no anger, no tremor:

“Someone must die tonight. And that person cannot be your mother.”

The true battle between two fates bound by the past had finally begun.

The next morning, the sun cracked lightly on the horizon, the first light filtering through the…