Three years ago, my friend was diagnosed with late-stage cancer, crying like a crybaby on the hospital bed.

I was suddenly hot-headed and came up with a lousy idea: “How about you open an account and trade stocks? It’s way more energizing than chemotherapy.”
He actually went. Three years later, this guy invites me to hotpot, looking ruddy and radiant.
I was curious how he managed to pull through, so he snatched the tripe off my chopsticks, hands and all,
clenching his teeth, growling: “Do you know how much I’m down? The moment I wake up every day, I’m thinking the main forces still haven’t finished slicing me. I can’t swallow this grievance— even the King of Hell would have to line up behind me.”
I instantly understood. Nothing—whether targeted drugs or immune shots—beats the account’s piece of green, vivid energy.
His condition is stable now, but his temper has grown, and he’ll roar off at the drop of a hat: “I’m not afraid of the stock market—I’m still afraid of cancer.”