As the clock struck five, the open-plan office of Horizon Tech became a tomb of stunned silence. In a culture where the "first one to leave" was usually the first one to be fired, the sight of Mo Jue casually throwing his jacket over his shoulder and strolling toward the elevator while Song Ruo's office light was still burning was nothing short of heresy.
The regular employees exchanged frantic glances, but the "Shadow Guards"—the two interns, A-Feng and Xiao Zhang—stood at attention. They didn't see a slacker; they saw a man whose aura was so dense he clearly operated on a celestial timeline.
Mo Jue didn't notice the stares. He was busy calculating.
Fifty thousand yuan a month... it is a pittance, he thought, his boots clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. I need three hundred thousand just to clear the air. Waiting for a 'payday' is a peasant's game. I am a Sovereign. If the world will not give me what I need, I shall harvest it.
As he entered the elevator, his mind hit upon a brilliant, dark logic.
The "Black Vulture Syndicate" were creditors. Creditors had money. They also had a habit of bringing physical violence to those who couldn't pay.
"They intend to come for my flesh," Mo Jue murmured to his reflection in the elevator's chrome doors. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face, and a low, gutteral laugh—the kind that used to herald the fall of sects—escaped his lips. "Why should I pay them with paper? I shall 'rob the robbers.' I will beat them until they offer me their treasury to stop the pain, and then... I shall ransom their broken shells back to their master. It is a perfect cycle of spiritual economy!"
The few other people in the elevator huddled into the corners, terrified by the handsome man in the suit who was currently cackling about "harvesting treasury."
The underground parking lot was a cavern of concrete and cold fluorescent hums. As Mo Jue stepped out, five men emerged from behind the pillars. They were led by a man with a jagged scar across his nose, breathing heavily and tapping a lead pipe against his palm.
"Li Tian," the leader growled. "You've been hard to find. We heard you tried to take a shortcut to the afterlife, but since you're still breathing, you owe us three hundred thousand. Plus fifty thousand in 'late fees' for making us look for you."
Mo Jue blinked, his maniacal smile fading into a look of genuine confusion. "Wait. You are my creditors? The ones Li Tian owed money to?"
"Who else, you debt-skipping rat?" another thug barked, stepping forward with a switchblade.
"Ah," Mo Jue sighed, his shoulders relaxing. "This is even better. I thought I would have to go looking for you. You've delivered yourselves directly to my door. I have no money for you... but I have 'fists' in a quantity you cannot possibly imagine."
The thugs didn't wait. The leader swung the lead pipe with a whistle of air aimed at Mo Jue's skull.
Mo Jue didn't move until the metal was an inch from his temple. With a movement so precise it looked like so awestriking, he caught the pipe. The concrete beneath his feet cracked as he redirected the momentum.
CRACK.
A single punch to the leader's sternum sent the man flying ten meters, his body skipping across the hoods of two luxury cars like a flat stone on a pond.
In thirty seconds, the parking lot was a gallery of agony. Mo Jue moved like a shadow, his "fists" finding joints and pressure points with terrifying accuracy. He didn't kill them—that would be a waste of resources. He left them just conscious enough to feel the weight of their new reality.
He knelt beside the gasping leader, grabbing him by the hair. "Now, about my fee. For the 'consultation' you just received, you owe me one million yuan. Call your 'Brother Qiang.' Tell him if he wants his dogs back in one piece, he must bring the tribute to—"
BZZT. BZZT.
The phone in Mo Jue's pocket vibrated. He pulled it out, expecting a nuisance call from Song Ruo. Instead, his eyes locked onto a text message from Xiao Ni.
Ge! Help me! There are men at the door! They're breaking the lock! Please—
The temperature in the parking lot didn't just drop; it plummeted. The air grew so thick with killing intent that the thugs, already broken, began to vomit from the sheer spiritual pressure.
Mo Jue's eyes didn't just turn violet; they became voids of black fire. The playful, maniacal light was gone, replaced by a cold, primordial stillness that was infinitely more terrifying.
"Rascals..." he whispered, his voice sounding like a thousand ghosts screaming at once.
He didn't walk to the exit. He turned toward the brick wall of the parking structure, his body flickering with a dark, unstable energy. He had no time for roads.