Nicky placed the last box onto the shelf. Her dusty work vest was smudged with grime from the warehouse, sweat tracing a path down her temples and along her jawline—but her eyes shone with a fierce light. After a thousand years of fast transmigration, she'd mastered the art of turning "cannon fodder scripts" into "revenge arcs," and this time would be no exception.
"System: exchange heat value for primary reward — lifespan; secondary reward — cash," she murmured inwardly, her fingers unconsciously brushing against the $17.80 in change tucked in her pocket—her entire "liquid asset" now. Every cent counted.
Beep—Processing confirmed. Primary and secondary rewards successfully allocated. Wishing the host smooth progress. The emotionless system voice rang briefly in her mind before vanishing as though it had never been there.
Relieved, Nicky turned and headed downstairs, her steps noticeably lighter than before. With extra lifespan secured, she no longer had to fear her body breaking under the grueling labor. As for the cash—even if it was just a few dozen dollars—it was a start.
By the time she reached the ground floor, her live chat was exploding again. She skimmed the comments—90% were mockery and doubt:
[The acting is so convincing! Those boxes are probably filled with foam. Didn't she cry for half an hour last time she got a paper cut shooting a commercial?]
[Someone under 110 lbs carrying two 40-lb boxes up three floors? Yeah right. Use your brain.]
[Condé Nast is going bankrupt and she's still pretending to work hard? Can't wait till she's exposed.]
[Boycott Nicky! Don't let her profit from playing the victim!]
Instead of getting angry, Nicky found it almost amusing. She picked up her phone, panned the camera across the mountainous stacks of packages around her, then tapped a nearby digital scale—the screen clearly read "40.2 lb," exactly the weight of the box she'd just carried.
"What's inside isn't foam—it's something you've never seen called 'hard work.' You don't get to decide how heavy it feels. I'm the one carrying it," she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Just because you can't lift it doesn't mean others can't. Maybe hit the gym instead of being a 'keyboard warrior.'"
"And since we're correcting people: I'm in debt with frozen assets—not bankruptcy. Bankruptcy is a court-led liquidation process. Get educated before you embarrass yourself online."
Her last remark was like a stone tossed into water—the chat froze for a few seconds, then exploded with even fiercer backlash:
[Who does she think she is? Just another clout chaser. Next she'll be shilling products, right?]
[Don't fall for it! She's totally using this livestream to scam money. No tipping, no buying!]
[If you're so tough, why not work at a construction site for a month instead of streaming?]
Nicky's lips curled into a smile. Leaning against a stack of boxes, the sunlight from the warehouse skylight casting a golden glow over her dusty vest, she said, "Selling products? You're thinking too small." She paused, deliberately building suspense. "And I've disabled tips—how can I clap back at you with a clear conscience if I take your money?"
The chat was utterly confused. Some asked what she really planned to do; others accused her of being "cryptic." Then, fans of the original female lead, Luna, jumped in, taunting her for "being too scared to take a real challenge."
Nicky raised an eyebrow and tilted her chin toward the camera, her voice laced with provocation. "Since you all doubt me so much… want to make a bet?"
The wind whistled faintly through the warehouse, rustling her high ponytail. Ignoring the curious glances from nearby workers, she continued, "I bet I can pay off every cent of my $137,896,831.32 debt. If I win, everyone who joins this bet has to post a video saying, 'Sorry, Nicky,' sorted by the number of likes. No one gets off easy."
"What if you lose?" someone typed eagerly, practically dripping with anticipation.
Nicky smiled openly now. "If I lose, I'll leave the entertainment industry for good—no more public appearances—and I'll file for bankruptcy. You'll all be able to check the court records for my 'downfall.'" She added, "Oh, and if I lose, the top ten most-liked hate comments get to tell me what to do—anything, as long as it's legal."
Her words were like a bomb. Viewer counts surged from 2,000 to 8,000 in moments, and the chat scrolled wildly:
[She's actually making this bet? Screenshotting for proof!]
[Betting she loses! Don't you dare go back on leaving the industry!]
[Video apologies? Can't wait to watch her fail!]
[Am I the only one who thinks this is low-key cool? Win or lose, she's got guts.]
That last comment was quickly buried in the wave of mockery, but Nicky saw it. Giving a quick "OK" sign to the camera, she bent down and hoisted another box. "The bet is on. Starting now. I've got more boxes to move—you all keep chatting. And don't forget to share my livestream. The more viewers, the more motivation I have to pay this off."
With that, she stopped looking at the chat. Carrying the box, she headed back upstairs. Her boots echoed against the concrete floor, and the camera shook slightly with her movement, capturing the determined set of her shoulders.
She knew the bet was risky—paying off over $137 million by moving packages would normally take centuries. But she also knew only a "crazy" bet would draw enough attention. And attention was her cheat code—more heat meant more lifespan, more cash, and eventually, more skills. One day, she would move this mountain of debt, piece by piece.
The audience kept arguing—some taking screenshots, some inviting friends to "witness the bet," others guessing how long she'd last. No one noticed the number in the top corner of her screen—the heat value—climbing by dozens per minute, inching closer to the next reward threshold.
And this was only the beginning of her counterattack.