Chapter 331: The "Miracle" in Pandora’s Hands

This was a private banquet of considerable prestige.

Every invitee was a prominent figure in the city—bankers, industrialists, politicians, and members of old-money families whose names always graced the society pages.

But regardless of who they were, the moment Pandora stepped through the entrance with Phoebe at her side, the previously bustling hall fell into a momentary silence.

That silence spread like ripples, radiating outward from the doorway, hushing conversations wherever it touched.

Nearly every pair of eyes turned toward her, as if by unspoken agreement.

Pandora was the last to arrive at this banquet.

But she was also, without question, the most important figure at this private dinner hosted by the “New Horizons Exploration Fund”—bar none.

The one presiding over the evening was none other than the cleanup squad’s team leader.

The young man with the air of a natural leader stood at the podium in the center of the hall, microphone in hand, a thin sheen of cold sweat on his brow.

He had been watching the entrance without pause.

When Pandora’s figure finally appeared at the doorway, the tension that had been wound tight in his chest at last eased.

The core and most crucial participant of this fundraising event for the entire cleanup squad’s future operations was Pandora.

If she didn’t show, the bait of the “Spring of Reversion” could never be cast, those calculating magnates would never part with their gold, and the entire fundraising effort would be gutted.

But he had been utterly unable to reach Pandora. Calls unanswered, messages vanishing into the void. He had nearly believed that the Third-Rank Lady would not come.

Thankfully—

Aside from being a touch late, everything could proceed as planned.

Instantly donning an enthusiastic smile, the team leader strode forward and, voice amplified through the microphone, announced to the assembly:

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the most honored guest of the evening—”

“The founder and creator of the ‘Spring of Reversion,’ Dr. Pandora Douglas!”

His voice boomed with infectious energy, reverberating through the banquet hall.

Applause followed, carrying the measured rhythm unique to social occasions—not overly fervent, yet appropriately decorous.

To every eye, Pandora’s presence was astonishing.

She held a doctorate, yet she was so astonishingly young.

So young that she scarcely looked like someone who had completed a doctoral degree at all.

Her skin glowed with the lustrous sheen of ivory under the lights, exquisitely smooth and refined, betraying not a single pore or any wrinkle of aging.

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Her features were delicate and composed, possessing the aristocratic quality of a classical oil painting, yet the calm and certainty in her eyes unmistakably belonged to an adult rich in experience.

Her appearance alone was enough to dispel a third of the skepticism the assembled wealthy harbored toward the “Spring of Reversion.”

After all—

Nothing carried more persuasive power than the developer herself appearing to be a living example of rejuvenation.

Phoebe followed quietly behind Pandora, drawing little attention.

She wore a simple, dark dress that seemed utterly unremarkable amid the hall’s glittering jewels and silks.

Every spotlight, every gaze, converged on Pandora alone.

Before long, the team leader guided Pandora through a path the crowd instinctively parted to form, leading her to the front and center of the venue.

A spotlight descended from the dome, enveloping her with precision, illuminating every fold of her dark gown with stark clarity.

Pandora’s expression remained serene, as though what was to come was merely a task of no great consequence.

The demonstration subject was soon brought onto the stage.

It was someone every wealthy person present knew well.

He was over seventy, the father of a certain industrialist—once a titan who took the business world by storm.

But some time ago, a cerebral infarction had left him half-paralyzed, unable to walk, confined to a wheelchair pushed by his servants.

He was alive, yes, but unquestionably, his existence held no quality of life whatsoever.

When a servant wheeled him onto the stage, he still looked exactly as everyone remembered:

Face slack, mouth and eyes crooked, one side of his features twisted as if pulled by invisible hands, a thread of uncontrollable drool trailing from the corner of his lips.

His left arm and left leg curled rigidly at one side of the wheelchair, a textbook display of post-stroke hemiplegia.

Some recognized him and murmured sighs.

Most merely regarded him with practiced indifference.

Until—

Pandora personally uncorked an exquisite crystal vial. She lifted the pale green liquid within—the so-called “Spring of Reversion”—and gently tipped it to the old man’s lips, helping him drink.

Then the miracle happened.

Before the eyes of the entire crowd.

In a matter of mere minutes.

The old man’s once-paralyzed facial muscles began to regain vitality at a rate visible to the naked eye.

The twisting of his mouth and eyes receded. Drool ceased to trickle from his lips. His eye, once dull and vacant, regained its focus.

He began to tremble.

First his fingers. Then his arm. Then his leg.

And this trembling was no feeble quiver; it was the signal of returning strength.

With the flustered assistance of his servant, he actually rose to his feet once more!

His legs quivered slightly, but he stood, undeniably, upon the stage.

The deep wrinkles on his face seemed to have receded considerably. His skin, once gray and lifeless, now regained a healthy color.

His cloudy eyes cleared, and as he looked around, a light belonging to a lucid, aware man rekindled in his gaze.

His entire spirit, in a span of little more than ten minutes, seemed to have rewound more than a decade of time!

The old man himself looked as though he scarcely believed it. He stared down at his own hands, turning them over and over, examining them. Then, with trembling effort, he tried releasing his servant’s arm.

He stood on his own.

Though it was only for one minute, that single minute spoke volumes.

The entire banquet fell into deathly silence.

No one spoke.

No one touched their wine glasses.

Even breathing grew cautious, as if fearful of disturbing something.

Then, what followed was a clamor all the more frenzied.

“Good heavens!”

“Did you see that? He stood up!”

“This is impossible... absolutely impossible...”

The team leader had long anticipated this reaction. He immediately seized the microphone and began laying down caveats for the elixir’s existence:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm! I must clarify several points!”

“The Spring of Reversion’s effects diminish sharply with repeated doses. It is not a fountain of youth that can be used indefinitely.”

“The current formula’s effects are not stable. We cannot guarantee results identical to what you just witnessed for everyone; individual variation is substantial.”

“Furthermore, it cannot take effect on individuals under forty. It targets those whose bodily functions have already declined.”

“And, most critically—the Spring of Reversion is, at present, extraordinarily difficult to produce. Quantities are extremely limited.”

He paused, his tone growing markedly solemn.

“The vial used tonight is the sole demonstration sample. Future production cannot guarantee full supply.”

“Therefore, I urge everyone—consider this with utmost care! With utmost care!”