Deep into the night, Changle Tian lay hushed under the stars.
A young girl burst into the mahjong parlor, brimming with eager energy.
Moments later, she trudged out, soul-crushed, the spark in her eyes snuffed out like a dying ember.
She sported a simple blue skirt, her brown hair pulled into low twin tails that bounced behind her—a picture of youthful vitality from any angle.
Yet her face right now bore a weary, jaded melancholy that clashed with her age.
"Too late again... all my card buddies have bailed. It's been nearly a month without a game. If this keeps up, I'm seriously gonna tumble into that Demonic Yin Body."
Her soft mutter sliced through the quiet night, crisp as a bell.
It drew the attention of a Cloud Knight patrolling nearby.
But spotting her, they just rolled their eyes and moved on, unfazed.
Someone who harps on about falling into the Demonic Yin Body every day? They're the last ones who will.
Common sense.
Like in the ER—the screamers aren't usually the critical cases.
The silent ones? They might've checked out quietly a while back.
Qingque strolled the streets of Changle Tian, eyeing the warm glow of homes all around, a pang of wistfulness hitting her.
Her parents had sworn that snagging an iron rice bowl would mean smooth sailing—who knew it'd kick off the real nightmare?
The Taibu Division, buried in intel, calculations, and data? It was a bottomless pit of misery for slackers like her, no end in sight no matter how desperately you looked back.
The endless high-stakes grind had drained her dry. Years of navigating office minefields had armed her with slick survival skills, but even that couldn't hold out forever.
A pro slacker abided by three ironclad rules.
Don't initiate—unless the boss singles you out, it's not your circus.
Don't refuse—if it's handed down, handle it, but skip the extras or early finishes.
Don't own—drag in teammates for the heavy lifting, pass the praise along. No lone wolves, no credit grabs.
For years, Qingque had aced it. Departments rotated, bosses swapped out, but she clung to her rock-bottom Diviner rank like glue.
Then came the transfer to that Master Diviner... and the game changed.
Not because the workload ramped up—it was just slacking off that got a million times trickier.
Qingque had planned to level up her time-management game on expert mode, so any future spot would feel like child's play.
But as the saying goes, even the sparrow's schemes can't outsmart heaven's math.
Her every little ploy? All clocked by those all-seeing calculations.
Under the Master Diviner, she'd been caught slacking more times than she cared to count.
Qingque dug slacking, but she wasn't an idiot—quite the opposite. She'd funneled all her smarts into mastering it.
If her boss pegged her as hopeless, poof—there went her hard-won job security. So she swallowed the urge and toed the line.
After a spell of playing nice, the itch returned.
Before she could scratch it, overtime slammed down like a hammer.
A solid month of clocking out at midnight every night. By then, her mahjong pals were long gone to bed.
It was torture.
Not the grind itself—she could tough out the intensity.
No, the real pain? She wrapped up her assignments in record time.
But owning up to that? Suicide. No early outs, just a flood of fresh tasks.
So Qingque sandbagged her pace on purpose, grinding alongside the team till the lights dimmed.
"When's this hell gonna break...?"
She shook her head in resignation, meandering homeward with unsteady steps.
Three days without cards, and she'd be itching to tear the roof off.
A full month? She shuddered at what havoc she might wreak.
"Young miss, you look burdened by deep worries?"
Passing a dim alley, a voice cut in abruptly.
Lost in her thoughts, Qingque hadn't clocked anyone there. The surprise hit her like a jolt.
"Wahhh—!"
Her petite body vaulted back a solid two meters.
The piercing cry pierced the darkness—or more plainly, it tripped the motion-sensor light above.
Seeing a person at the alley's edge, Qingque let out a shaky breath.
"You can't just lurk there like a shadow and pipe up out of nowhere! You almost killed me!"
"Take it up with whoever stuck a motion light in a spot like this."
Qingque had nothing. A sensor there? Totally absurd.
Bathed in the faint glow, she finally got a good look at him.
He was strikingly young, wrapped in a white daoist robe over a fitted black shirt.
Cross-legged on a stool, he had a weathered wooden table before him, a black-and-white banner dangling nearby.
The banner proclaimed "Know Heaven's Will" in bold, serpentine strokes full of raw vigor.
The whole setup screamed long-lost fortune-teller.
Legends had it that in ancient Xianzhou days, these mystics wandered, divining fortunes and fates for the masses.
Then Jade Omen Technology emerged—supercomputers crunching data for pinpoint accuracy.
After that, the old fortune-tellers faded into obscurity.
Human intuition? No match for big data's crunch.
Science, kid!
Qingque wasn't buying the act.
The costume was pro-level, but the killer flaw? Too young. And drop-dead gorgeous.
Classic fortune-tellers were wizened elders with that otherworldly aura.
Only that vibe sold credibility.
Like choosing a doctor—folks flock to the gray-haired pros.
The ones hunting down handsome young ones? They're rarely there for the healing.
"Daoist, you read me like a book!"
Qingque didn't swallow the mystic bit, but as a seasoned office shark, she knew her pleasantries.
The man on the stool smiled faintly at her. "Your eyes lack luster, shadows under them thick. Mind fogged, energy bottled up—you're wrestling some real troubles."
"Left unchecked, it'll snowball beyond fixing. Slipping into the Demonic Yin Body? Not impossible."
Qingque's eyes widened with a spark.
"Daoist, you really see that far?"
"Any way to sort it out?"
He'd nailed her vibe in one go—she was intrigued.
The man nodded sagely, eyes half-closed as his fingers flicked through seals she couldn't parse.
"I see now."
"A month without true rest."
"That built-up stress? No release in sight."
"Better to vent than stifle. You're a pressure cooker on the verge—could blow any second."
Qingque's eyes bugged out. She hadn't breathed a word, yet he'd zeroed in so sharp?
"Daoist, you divined *that* too?"
He gave a soft laugh. "Heaven's secrets aren't for casual leaks."
His spot-on read melted her skepticism a notch.
"So, Daoist, what's the play?"
"I lack the full picture—no rash prescriptions."
"Huh?" Qingque frowned. "Can't you just calculate it out?"
He shook his head. "My divinations skim the surface; they might not hit the truth. Real solutions root in reality."
Lightbulb moment for her.
"Worth being the expert. My mistake for rushing."
She slid into the seat opposite, laying it all out.
"Our shop's been overtime hell. Wrap your stuff? No dice—you're stuck till the end."
"When the pressure mounts, I hit the parlor for rounds of Emperor's Tiles. But by shift's close, the crew's all tucked in."
She ruffled her hair in annoyance.
"Oh? Your productivity sounds phenomenal."
"Ahaha... it's nothing special. Just means more slack time when it counts, right?"
Setting aside her inborn genius—and Qingque was sharp as they come—her speed tied straight to slacking.
To slack right, she'd honed efficiency over years.
Nail the core duties first, *then* coast—that's slacker fundamentals.
Can't handle basics and still goof? That's not slacking; that's a liability.
"Daoist, got a hack to pull me through?"
Qingque fixed him with pleading eyes, like he'd tossed her a rope.
He chuckled. "Naturally. I'll pass you a technique—master it, and the sea of suffering parts."
"Lay it on me, Daoist!"
She planted her forehead on the table, hands clasped overhead in supplication.
The pose screamed begging a buddha more than querying a sage, but most couldn't spot the diff.
She waited a beat.
Then longer.
Qingque glanced up, puzzled.
He was still gazing at her, smile fixed.
"Daoist?"
She tested the waters.
No dice—he held the pose.
Patience frayed; she hopped up, sidled over, waved in his face.
Zilch.
She patted his shoulder—and her hand ghosted right through.
"Wahhh—!"
The shockwave hit anew, amplified by the midnight hour and her not being the bravest soul.
"Calm yourself, miss—no need for alarm."
That voice again—Qingque spun.
There he sat in *her* chair, grinning easy.
"Eh?"
"Ehhh?!"
She darted looks between him and the vacant stool.
"Daoist, what in the world?"
She'd half-thought specter at first.
Now? Some arcane feat, clearly.
"It's called Cicada Sheds Its Shell."
"Leaves a clone in place while you slip away."
The first line rang from her front.
By the second, it echoed from behind.
She whirled—another perfect duplicate stood there, matching the table-sitter beat for beat.
Qingque whipped her head side to side, gulping.
"Daoist... immortal arts, yeah?"
Slacking downtime often meant street shows for her.
Those illusions dazzled, leaving crowds buzzing.
Curious types would later unpack the tricks, demystifying the wow.
But this? Divine-level wizardry she'd never witnessed, let alone fathomed.
"Just gifting me immortal arts? That sits wrong..."
Veteran instincts yelled: everything costs.
Strangers didn't drop treasures like this for free.
"Our meeting? Fate's thread."
"It's your immortal destiny—no overthinking needed."
"Of course, if it's not for you, I won't push. Your choice."
He stayed serene amid her doubts, robe billowing softly, evoking true sage poise.
Were he older, she'd bite without hesitation. That fresh-faced, too-pretty mug? Credibility killer.
She mulled it over, long and deep.
At last, Qingque nodded.
Slacking's siren call drowned out the fear.
More than that, her gut screamed he meant no harm.
As a Diviner attuned to fortunes and fates, her instincts hit true every time.
"Teach me, Daoist!"
She bowed deep and earnest, hands pressed tight.
He skipped the rib on her form.
Not that he was a true daoist—and real ones might not bat an eye.
His fingers traced an arcane seal, blooming into brilliant light at his tip.
He pressed it to her brow.
*Cicada Sheds Its Shell* etched into her thoughts.
A stab of pain lanced her head, swiftly soothed by cool clarity.
It felt instinctive, like breathing. She invoked it, body drifting back unbidden.
Snapping to, she was yards away—and a clone lounged at the table.
Intrigued, she crept closer. The duplicate was eerily lifelike.
Distant view? Seamless fake. Touch revealed the ruse.
Wilder still: the daoist blanked her entirely as she looped around him.
"Am I... stealthed?"
Words out, his voice clarified.
"Cicada Sheds Its Shell? Pure escape tool for the fray."
"Clone anchors the front, you fade to shadow—flee or flank at will."
"Few pierce the veil. But chatter or clash? You're lit up."
Qingque nodded, piecing it together.
"Daoist... you see me fine, don't you?"
He smiled, silent.
She rubbed her neck, flushing.
*Figures—he caught the whole show.*
*Thank goodness nothing embarrassing—or I'd be mortified.*