The morning light filtered through the cracked window of the apartment, pale and thin. Mo Jue, who had spent centuries meditating on peaks of eternal storm, found himself waking to the domestic clatter of a kitchen.
By the time he opened his eyes, the apartment was quiet again, but the air smelled of toasted bread and congee. On the small wooden table sat a simple meal: a bowl of rice porridge, a single salted egg, and a neatly folded note.
Ge, I saw you were back late. You looked so tired I didn't want to wake you. I have morning prep classes, so I ate early. Don't skip breakfast! You need your strength for the job hunt.
— Ni-Ni
Mo Jue sat at the table, picking up the cheap plastic spoon. He stared at the steam rising from the bowl. In the Nine Hells, he had consumed the souls of dragons and the nectar of celestial peaches, yet this humble offering felt strangely potent. It was a tether, anchoring his ancient, cold spirit to the warmth of this mortal life.
He ate every grain. For the first time in an eternity, he didn't eat for energy; he ate for the memory of the man who had died to keep this girl smiling.
Two hours later, Mo Jue stood before the gleaming glass towers of Xingtek Financial, the place where Li Tian's spirit had been crushed.
According to the memories of this world, when one was "discarded" by a company, they had to perform a ritual called clearing the desk. It was a peculiar custom—carrying one's life in a flimsy cardboard box, paraded past former colleagues like a prisoner of war.
Mo Jue walked through the lobby. He didn't slouch. He didn't look at the floor. His presence was like a cold shadow moving through the bright, sterile hall. He reached his old cubicle, ignored the whispers of "Is that him? I heard he jumped," and swept his few belongings—a cheap pen, a cracked mug, and a photo of Xiao Ni—into a box.
"Leaving so soon, Li Tian? I thought you'd still be in the hospital... or the morgue."
The voice was like a jarring chord. Mo Jue turned to see a man in a sharp, navy suit, flanked by a woman with heavy makeup and a smirk that didn't hide the malice in her eyes.
Manager Zhang and Wang Meili. The architect of the "incident".
"You're lucky the company didn't sue you for the trauma you caused the staff by jumping," Meili sneered, crossing her arms. "But then again, a loser like you always did like the attention."
Mo Jue looked at her. He didn't see a woman; he saw a minor insect buzzing before a storm. He said nothing, simply picking up his box to walk away.
"Hold on," Zhang barked, stepping into his path. "Security! Check that box."
Two uniformed guards, burly men with boredom in their eyes, stepped forward.
"I have reason to believe," Zhang said, raising his voice so the entire office could hear, "that Li Tian is attempting to steal proprietary company hardware and sensitive data. He's trying to smuggle out more than just his 'personal' trash."
The office went silent. It was a classic trap—one last humiliation to ensure Li Tian could never find work in this city again. If they "found" a company tablet or a hard drive in that box, he would be leaving in handcuffs, not a taxi.
"The box stays here," Meili added, her eyes glinting with triumph. "And you, Li Tian, need to get on your knees and apologize for the trouble you've caused this department. Maybe then we won't call the police."
The guards closed in, hands moving toward their batons. Mo Jue stood in the center of the circle, the cardboard box held casually in one hand.
A low, vibrating hum began to emanate from the air around him. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, then dimmed. Mo Jue's eyes, normally brown, shifted for a fraction of a second into a deep, abyssal violet.
"I have killed kings for less than this," he whispered, his voice so cold it seemed to frost the glass partitions of the nearby cubicles.
Manager Zhang laughed, unaware that he was standing inches away from a predator that could erase his existence with a thought. "What was that? Speak up, loser!"