Haaah. I'm tired.
Sitting in the bustling game center, surrounded by the constant clacking of keyboards and the muffled roar of gaming sound effects, Zhou Wendao let out a faint sigh. Reflected in the darkened monitor in front of him was a thin, slightly pale-looking boy—one whose name strangely matched his own from his previous life. The similarity was eerie, but at this point, "eerie" had become normal.
After all… he had reincarnated.
Not into a grand body blessed by heavens. Not into a genius bloodline. Not into some fantasy world full of magic and dragons.
No—he ended up in a noisy game center with the smell of instant noodles and sweat lingering in the air.
And the cheat he received?
A disappointing, borderline pathetic system that passively handed him 1000 RMB every day at 12 a.m. No cultivation boost, no martial arts manual, no secret bloodline awakening. Just… money.
Still, for a broke college guy like him, it was better than nothing.
Wendao rubbed his temples as his thoughts swirled. The memories of his previous life and this body's original owner were tangled like two outdated earphones forced into the same pocket. His head throbbed slightly, so he decided not to think too deeply about it for now. The best plan was to sit quietly, wait until 12 a.m., and use the first "daily income" to pay off the internet bill so he could leave.
After all, he was absolutely, miserably broke.
The previous version of "him" had spent almost everything chasing a girl from his class—an idol-like figure worshipped by simps far and wide. Every morning he had lined up early just to give her expensive cakes. Expensive! The kind he had no business buying with his nonexistent background and empty wallet.
A professional bootlicker through and through.
Wendao couldn't help but chuckle dryly. If his old self could see him now, he'd probably faint from embarrassment. Yet since the emotions of that self were still mixed into his soul, he also understood the desperation—the fear of graduating college without ever touching romance. A sad but relatable panic.
'Ding.'
'1000 RMB is ready to be accounted for.'
'Would like to get in host account.' 'Yes'/'No'
'Would host like to get in cash.' 'Yes'/'No'
'Would host like to get in cash and account partially.' 'Yes'/'No'
A translucent blue interface floated calmly before his eyes, unnoticed by anyone else in the room. The boy next to him continued shouting into his mic about "pushing mid" while the keyboards around him clicked like an army of mechanical insects.
Wendao chose the third option.
A faint warmth spread through his pocket—almost like someone had slipped money inside without him noticing. Checking, he found a crisp 100 RMB bill neatly folded there. Meanwhile, his phone vibrated slightly, showing a new incoming balance: 900 RMB.
His first income in this new life.
Wendao stood up from his seat, his chair scraping lightly against the floor. He navigated through rows of computers, passing gamers yelling at their screens, the smell of instant noodles wafting from a nearby table, and the humming of cooling fans.
He approached the counter.
There stood a pretty girl in her early twenties, youthful and slim, her long hair tied into a casual ponytail. She wore the shop's uniform hoodie, sleeves slightly rolled up, revealing delicate wrists. The soft glow from the counter light outlined her features—no wonder this shop was always crowded. Her presence alone accounted for a solid 40% of the daily business.
It was also the reason the old version of him often visited here before the reincarnation.
Thankfully, his seat today had been way in the back. When his soul swapped, he didn't scream or cause a scene. If he suddenly yelled about reincarnation in front of such a pretty girl, he would've died of shame on the spot.
Maybe… maybe it wasn't a soul swap. Maybe it was the memories returning. Or merging. Or awakening. There was no explanation, no dramatic death, no truck, and no lightning. He had simply woken up like this, with two lives tangled in his head.
But since he was alive… he wasn't going to question it too hard.
He stepped toward the counter, tightening his grip on the 100 RMB bill.
"10 credits per hour."
The pretty counter girl stated it casually while tapping a few keys on the computer beside her. The soft hum of the shop's ceiling fans filled the background, mixing with distant gaming shouts and the slurping of instant noodles somewhere behind him.
Wendao blinked.
That cheap?
For a moment he genuinely thought he misheard her. But recalling what the original owner remembered, this place always used a weird points system. Maybe the lower limit was one yuan = 100 credits or something. That would make sense.
He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingertips brushing against cold metal. Ten 1-yuan coins. He remembered faintly that the previous owner carried loose change instead of a wallet.
Wendao pulled out a single 1-yuan coin and placed it on the counter.
The girl glanced at her screen again and said, "That'll be 30 credits for the last three hours and 50 credits for the noodles."
Her tone was professional and soft, the kind that many regulars came here specifically to hear. She held out her hand expectantly.
"Sure! Here you go." Wendao smiled and placed the coin directly in her palm.
The moment the metal touched her skin—
Her expression froze.
Her pupils trembled slightly before her entire hand recoiled as if she had just touched a live wire. The coin slipped from her fingers, clinking sharply against the countertop. Her face drained of colour, and she stood there stiffly, hands locked against her body.
"I—I'm sorry, sir." She stammered, voice quivering. "I can't handle… that much! "
The air around them seemed to still. A few players even turned their heads briefly, sensing something strange.
Huh?
Wendao blinked, completely lost.
He looked down at the small, ordinary-looking coin resting innocently on the counter.
This thing? Too much?
If one yuan was too little, maybe the denomination here was different? Was the value so low that it needed more? Or… was it higher?
But the girl's flustered expression wasn't the look someone made when being given too little money.
It was the look of someone being handed a bomb.
The girl's reaction was so exaggerated that even the gamers who normally never looked up from their screens paused for a moment, glancing over before returning to their battles. Her cheeks were flushed a faint pink, not from shyness but sheer panic. Her fingers trembled as she clasped them together behind her back, almost as if she feared the coin might leap up and explode.
Her wide eyes darted around the store as though someone might rush in accusing her of theft or misconduct if she so much as breathed wrong.
That was when a faint memory surfaced in Wendao's head—something the original owner had never personally handled but had heard in passing.
One RMB was equal to ten million credits.
The girl's voice trembled as she finally confirmed it aloud.
"Sir… I don't know if you're joking or if you're new around here, but… one RMB—one actual yuan—is equal to ten million credits."
Wendao: "…"
His brain just… stopped.
The shop's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with an annoying, slightly flickering hum. The player behind him yelled, "Top lane missing! Top lane missing!" A bag of chips ripped open loudly, scattering crumbs on the table. Someone's phone notification pinged.
All of these tiny, mundane sounds seemed painfully vivid as the weight of that information sank into his skull.
Ten.
Million.
Credits.
For the single coin now resting innocently on the counter—so normal-looking, so unsuspicious, yet suddenly the most terrifying object in the room.
The girl swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue even though her gaze kept slipping away from the coin.
"Most people… they only use credit cards or scanning codes for payment. Physical RMB… it's too valuable. If something goes wrong during handling, I would be held responsible." Her voice dropped into a whisper, barely audible over the humming PCs. "I'm not authorised to accept actual RMB. I-I could lose my job if there's even a rumour of mishandling."
She fidgeted awkwardly, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve.
It was clear she wasn't angry—she was terrified.
She glanced at the coin again before quickly looking away, as if staring too long might summon higher authorities. "Some high-end places do accept RMB coins and bills… places with proper authorisation and equipment. But those are establishments normal people like us can't afford to step into. Not… small shops like this."
Hearing that, Wendao finally snapped out of his frozen state.
He quickly reached for the coin, scooping it off the counter as gently as if it truly were a live explosive.
"Ahh… Sorry about it," he said, forcing out an apologetic smile.
Even though he was the one apologizing, the girl let out a relieved breath, shoulders sagging slightly as though a massive weight had just been lifted off her. Only then did she dare to relax her posture—just a little.
"Thank you for understanding…" she murmured, clearly still recovering from the shock.
The faint buzz of the shop returned to normal volume again, as if the world itself resumed spinning.