Chapter 6: Overnight Sensation
As usual, Wu Yifan clocked out at midnight and trudged toward his apartment. The street was quiet, lit only by the warm glow of neon signs, with a few stragglers hurrying home. But near Liu's Wonton Shop—where he'd chased down the motorcycle thieves—chaos erupted. Police tape, three meters wide and over two hundred meters long, cordoned off the block. Even at this hour, a crowd lingered, some snapping photos, others gesturing wildly, their voices buzzing with excitement.
"Shit," Wu muttered. Had the mob really beaten those thieves to death? He didn't regret stopping them—he *hated* motorcycle gangs—but the spectacle made him uneasy. He had no idea his own 15-second sprint had turned into a viral phenomenon overnight.
The next morning, though, something felt off.
Everywhere he went, people wore the same eager, charged look. Groups huddled on street corners, whispering behind cupped hands. Liu's Wonton Shop was a zoo—lines snaked out the door, and Old Liu, red-faced with delight, was regaling a circle of customers, his hands flying.
"I swear, he ate here! A bowl of wontons, just like you!" Old Liu boomed, slapping his thigh. "Thirty-something, looked normal—*but* you could tell, y'know? That 'I'm hiding something amazing' vibe. Then he steps out, and bam! Those thieves didn't stand a chance. Dude ran like the devil was nipping at his heels—" He paused, grinning at a customer. "Six yuan a bowl today, boss! Fresh broth!"
So *that's* why the street was packed. His little sprint had blown up. Wu's chest puffed—agility ×3, and he'd barely tried. What if he cranked it to ×10? He'd probably outrun a cheetah. But the thrill fizzled fast. Fame meant attention, and attention meant questions—questions he couldn't answer without blowing his Enhancer secret.
He ducked into a newsstand, flipping through papers. Every front page screamed the same headline: *"The Running Emperor: 213 Meters in 15.65 Seconds—Humanity's New Limit?"* Local rags, national dailies, even *People's Daily*—all gushed, spinning wild tales. Witnesses described him as "a blur," "a ghost," "a man with lightning in his legs." One tabloid claimed he was "an alien in disguise." Only the photos were blurry—just a back, a flash of movement. No one knew it was him.
"Thank God," he muttered, shoving the paper back. Until he mastered the Enhancer—until he went from "fake god" to *real*—laying low was the only play.
After lunch, Wu wandered into Infinity KTV, and the buzz hit him like a wave. Hostesses clustered by the bar, phones out, squealing:
"Did you see the new memes? They photoshopped Running Emperor racing a bullet train!"
"My cousin in Shanghai texted—*everyone's* talking about him!"
"Imagine if he walked in here! I'd ask for a autograph… or a hug."
Wu slipped into his security booth, fired up his computer, and gaped. His video dominated every platform: 10 million views on major sites, trouncing even Ding Shihan's latest album—a pop prodigy hailed as "China's MJ." Forums overflowed with debates:
- *"Is this CGI? No way a human moves that fast!"*
- *"He's a hero! The police should give him a medal!"*
- *"South Korean netizens are claiming he's theirs. LMAO, as if."*
One comment made him snort: *"Running Emperor for president! If he can outrun crime, he can outrun corruption!"* Yeah, right. He could barely outrun his rent.
He slammed the laptop shut, lit a cigarette. Fame was a trap. Too many eyes, too many questions. He stubbed out the smoke and headed for the mahjong parlor across the street—his usual escape.
"Small bets keep the peace, big bets ruin lives," Wu liked to say. He stuck to nickel-and-dime games, winning or losing 100-200 yuan tops. But today, luck was on his side. Cards fell his way, and he raked in chips, grinning as the other players shot him dirty looks—part suspicion, part warning. *Cheat, and we break your legs.*
Wu just laughed, dealing another hand. Life was weird enough without starting fights.
The streak ended at 5 PM. A hostess burst into the parlor, panic etched on her face, yelling through the glass: "Wu Yifan! Trouble—drunk客人 (kèrén—customers) causing a scene!"
Wu froze. So much for laying low.
Time to earn his paycheck.
He stood, brushing off his pants, and headed for the door. The other players grumbled—finally, a reason to stop losing—but Wu barely heard them. His mind was already racing: Should he use muscle strength? Save points? Probably better to play it cool… unless things got ugly.
Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the KTV's neon sign in gold. Wu squared his shoulders and stepped across the street. Whatever waited inside, he was ready.
For the first time in years, he felt like he *belonged* here—not just slacking, but *doing* something. Even if it was just breaking up a bar fight.
Inside, the lobby had erupted. A table flipped, glasses shattered, and a burly man screamed at a hostess, his face red with booze. Wu sighed.
"Alright, let's wrap this up," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.
The real show was just starting.