Mike fastened the top button of his collar, sprayed deodorant on himself once more, took a deep breath, forced a standardized smile, and hurried into the supermarket ahead.
"Good morning, Fiona."
"Mike, you're finally here. Oliver has been looking for you for three hours. You'd better be careful," Fiona whispered to Mike as she worked the cash register.
Mike nodded, then quietly and quickly made his way to the employee break room. He opened his locker, put on his apron, and cautiously opened the door to start his shift.
But as soon as he opened the door, he saw a bald middle-aged white man standing there—Oliver, the supermarket supervisor.
"Mr. Oliver, I'm sorry, there was an emergency. I tried to call you..."
"I don't want to hear your excuses!" Oliver said sternly. "You should understand that this supermarket took a risk by hiring you. You should be grateful, not skip work without reason. Your weekly bonus is revoked, and you must make up the hours today."
Mike's expression darkened. The weekly bonus accounted for forty percent of his wages. That meant his pay for the week would be cut by forty percent.
His hourly wage was only ten dollars. Working eight hours a day, he could only clock thirty-nine hours a week, earning just $390 before taxes. After taxes and the forty percent deduction, and then paying off his student loans and rent, he'd have almost nothing left.
He couldn't save money to help Wayne pay off his debts, and even his uncle's insulin was becoming a problem.
As he was about to defend himself, the white supervisor coldly added, "If the work pace here doesn't suit you, you can leave immediately. If this happens again, don't bother coming back."
Mike opened his mouth, but all his words condensed into one sentence: "Okay, thank you, Mr. Oliver."
Oliver nodded, clearly satisfied with Mike's compliance, and said, "Go move the newly arrived stock to the warehouse."
In silence, Mike walked to the storeroom and began moving the goods.
Inside the storeroom, a short, stout middle-aged Mexican man was tirelessly hauling boxes. When he saw Mike, he immediately greeted him, "Mike, brother, you're late today? Mr. Oliver has been looking for you."
Mike forced a smile and said, "Mr. Paul, I had... some things to take care of today."
Just then, he noticed that Paul seemed different while moving the boxes—he coughed every few steps, his gait suddenly unsteady, and he walked with a slight limp.
Mike quickly stepped forward to take the box from Paul's hands, frowning as he asked, "Mr. Paul, are you okay?"
Paul broke into a fit of violent coughing, then rubbed his leg and said, "It's nothing. I got caught in the rain last night while working as a market watchman, and I fell on my way home. Sprained my foot a bit. It'll be fine in a few days."
Then, lowering his voice, he pleaded, "Please don't tell Mr. Oliver. I have three children to feed..."
Paul sighed and said,
"But your ankle is swollen, and your cold is quite severe. If this continues, it'll only get worse..."
Paul gave a bitter smile and said:
"Bro, I can't afford the hospital. For someone like me without health insurance, three to five hundred might be manageable, but one hospital visit would bankrupt me - it'd cost at least a few thousand! Plus I can't take time off work. Do you know how hard it is to find a job paying $8 per hour these?"
As an illegal immigrant, he only earned $8 per hour and was working three jobs simultaneously.
Mike sighed, understanding that Paul had it even tougher than he did.
Even if Paul actually had health insurance, he wouldn't dare take time off to see a doctor, as that would mean losing at least 40% of his wages.
Suddenly, Mike thought of something and patted Paul's shoulder:
"Bro, if you trust me, I have a friend..."
...
[Spirit Bone: Basic Dark Magic Item Material, can be combined with Sugared Apple, Evil Corpse, sinew and hide to craft artifacts - the most fundamental of materials]
Inside the fire-ravaged tent, Wayne carried out a jar filled with bones.
The jar was made of clay, decorated with eerie patterns.
It contained several long bones piled together.
A Voodooism Bone Pile Artifact.
According to Voodoo doctrine, a bone pile isn't literally just randomly stacked bones, but rather a sacred space carrying complex religious symbolism, with its core function being a bridge for communicating with ancestors through spiritual mediums.
Somewhat similar to Tibetan Sizhou Zan Duo, though of course on a much smaller scale and level.
The bone pile represents the physical manifestation of the life cycle, serving as the dwelling place for ancestral spirits. Typically, Voodoo bone piles use animal bones.
However, Old John's bone pile was clearly much more authentic, having gained recognition from the dungeon system.
These bones were unmistakably genuine human remains.
Wayne couldn't help but wonder again how Old John, an old white man, had managed to obtain such authentic Haitian Voodoo secrets.
Unfortunately, as the most basic Dark Magic Item Material, these Spirit Bones needed to be combined with other materials to craft artifacts. For now, aside from showing off, they weren't particularly useful.
Wayne immediately stored the jar of Spirit Bones in his Dimensional Backpack.
The five-slot backpack now contained a bag of shrunken heads and one jar of Spirit Bones, leaving three slots empty.
He continued searching the tent but found nothing else of value. He memorized some geometric patterns Old John had drawn on the ground, planning to use them for show later.
Satisfied, he left the area.
He then found a discount supermarket and spent a few dozen dollars on a patterned blanket from Yiwu, East China. Draping it over his shoulders and wearing a face mask, Wayne began wandering the streets, hoping to find more opportunities.
Perhaps the freezing rain from the previous night had already claimed many victims through hypothermia, as the streets were noticeably cleaner than before.
There were plenty of living homeless people around, but no dead ones to be found.
His plan to find another skill to sacrifice for improving his general medical skills had failed.
With his tattered clothes and unkempt beard, he looked exactly like another homeless person as he wandered the streets, with pedestrians giving him a wide berth.
Before he knew it, he had arrived near the docks.
A cold, damp sea breeze blew in, carrying the scent of the ocean and the rich aroma from a roadside café, accompanied by the melodious sound of a violin.
At the outdoor seating of a café nearby, several tourists were gathered. A man in a worn-out suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and holding a violin, had placed his instrument case to the side as he played for the tourists.
A familiar Mandarin conversation drifted over:
"Look at America—this is truly the beacon of human civilization. Even the homeless can play the violin! How cultured!"
"Exactly. They've been developing for so many years, and this is real freedom. As for our Eastern Continent? Ha, we're miles behind."
"Just take the name of this place—Seattle. So romantic. Even the air smells sweet."
"Hurry up and give him a tip, a generous one. This is much better than donating to some charity. These people are artists."
"Child, study hard. When you grow up, get into an American university and leave that land where evil blooms behind for good."
[You have encountered a Parasitic Colonist, an Eastern Continental human remotely controlled by a Bewitching Evil Spirit of the Dark Court. Can be tamed into a Colonial Slave.]
Wayne raised an eyebrow and was about to go investigate, but he had only taken two steps toward the café when a sharp shout rang out:
"Sir!"
Wayne turned to see a police car with flashing lights pulling up beside him. The window rolled down, revealing a redneck officer wearing sunglasses, his expression stern as he said:
"Please leave this area immediately!"
Wayne shrugged and turned back the way he came.
Clearly, as part of the real America, he wasn't allowed to be casually seen by wealthy tourists.
But there was no rush.
By the time Wayne made his way back to the neighborhood near Chinatown, carrying a simple tent he had just bought and a large bottle of milk, it was already dark.
His wandering that day hadn't been entirely fruitless. Although he hadn't encountered anyone of value, he had at least familiarized himself with parts of Seattle's streets.
His health points had also recovered to 25 thanks to the medication, making him less fragile.
What was unfortunate, however, was that his plan to make money through illegal medical practice still hadn't gained any traction.
The main issue was finding patients to build a reputation.
If all else failed, he could always risk it and use his Dimensional Backpack to become a smuggler. That would definitely bring in money fast.
But establishing the necessary connections would take time. After all, he knew nothing about existing smuggling and distribution channels, and a week was far too short.
As he pondered this, Mike's voice suddenly called out:
"Wayne, brother, this is Paul. He's not feeling well and wants you to… ahem… help him out."
Wayne looked over and saw a burly, slightly nervous-looking Mexican man standing next to Mike by the tent.
Seeing Wayne wrapped in a blanket and wearing a mas
k, Paul hesitated and asked tentatively in a low voice:
"Um… Master, my ankle hurts, and I also have a cold… ahem… could you take a look?"
Wayne's eyes lit up, and he quickly replied:
"Ahem… I can, I can!"
Oh, he definitely could!