The headquarters of the Su Group was a monolith of glass and steel that pierced the smoggy sky like a Divine Sword—if the Divine Sword had been designed by a committee of architects obsessed with "minimalism."
Chen Feng stood in the lobby, his spicy strips successfully consumed and his "I ❤️ NY" hoodie replaced by a black suit Su Meiling had forced him into. He looked uncomfortable. The fabric didn't breathe as well as silk woven from Moon-Spider thread, and the tie felt like a low-grade strangulation array.
"Remember," Meiling whispered as the elevator ascended to the 88th floor. "My father is being targeted by the 'Crimson Shadow' syndicate. They use... unconventional methods."
"Unconventional," Chen Feng repeated, testing the word. "In my day, that meant poisoning a well with Thousand-Year Rot or sending a literal mountain to crush your house. What does it mean now? Bad Yelp reviews?"
Meiling sighed. "It means professional assassins and, rumor has it, Masters."
The Interview of the Nine Hells
The boardroom was filled with men in suits who radiated an aura of self-importance. At the head of the table sat Su Long, a man whose face looked like it had been carved from granite. Next to him sat a middle-aged man in a traditional silk robe, sipping tea with an air of practiced mystery.
"Meiling," Su Long said, his voice deep. "You bring a boy in a cheap suit to protect the Su legacy? I already have Master Zhao."
The man in the silk robe—Master Zhao—looked at Chen Feng and let out a soft, condescending chuckle. "The boy has no calluses on his hands. His breath is shallow. He hasn't even opened his first meridian."
Chen Feng squinted at Master Zhao. He didn't see a Master. He saw a man who had practiced a breathing exercise for twenty years and managed to produce enough Qi to, perhaps, power a lightbulb for three seconds.
"Master Zhao is a practitioner of the Iron Palm," Su Long explained.
"Is he?" Chen Feng walked over to the table. He picked up a heavy glass paperweight. "Show me."
Zhao sneered. He stood up, gave a dramatic shout, and struck the paperweight. The glass cracked. The board members gasped, impressed by the 'superhuman' feat.
Chen Feng looked at the cracked glass. "Cute. My turn."
He didn't strike the table. He simply tapped the surface with a finger. He didn't use force; he used a microscopic vibration of stabilized Dao.
Clink.
The paperweight didn't break. Instead, it turned into fine, white sand that poured through Zhao's fingers. The table beneath it remained perfectly unharmed.
The room went silent. Zhao's face turned the color of a ripe plum.
"Internal power..." Zhao whispered, his voice trembling. "A Grandmaster?"
"I'm just a guy who wants a stable data plan," Chen Feng said, looking at Su Long. "Do I get the job?"
By the time Chen Feng returned to his apartment—now fully funded by a 'signing bonus' that had made Auntie Wang faint—he found a large box waiting for him. Meiling had sent over "essential modern equipment."
Inside was a circular, black robot that moved with a soft whirring sound.
"A mechanical familiar," Chen Feng observed, squatting down to eye level with the device.
"Small. Round. Lacks a soul, but possesses a hunger for dust."
He pressed the 'Power' button. The Roomba chirped and began to navigate the living room.
Chen Feng's eyes narrowed. In his previous life, he had raised a Star-Devouring Behemoth. This creature was much smaller, but its dedication to its path was admirable. However, it kept hitting the leg of his coffee table.
"Your pathfinding is flawed, little one," Chen Feng muttered. He reached down and traced a glowing gold symbol on the Roomba's plastic casing—a Heaven-Sensing Navigation Array.
The Roomba suddenly stopped. Its blue light turned a deep, regal violet. With a sudden burst of speed, it didn't just vacuum; it began to hover three inches off the floor, moving in perfect geometric patterns. It navigated the apartment with the grace of a flying sword, sensing dust particles before they even landed.
"There," Chen Feng said, satisfied. "Now you are a 'Dust-Slaying Spirit Beast.'"
That night, as Chen Feng sat on his balcony trying to figure out how to order a pizza on his new smartphone, a cold chill swept through the air.
He didn't look up from the screen. "You're late. The 'Crimson Shadow,' I presume?"
A figure dressed in tactical gear and a mask landed silently on the railing. In his hand was a high-frequency vibrating blade—tech designed to cut through steel.
"Chen Feng," the assassin hissed. "You interfered with the Su Group's fate."
"I'm trying to order a 'Meat Lovers' large," Chen Feng said, finally looking up. "The 'Fate' of this pizza is more important to me right now than whatever Sect you belong to."
The assassin lunged.
Chen Feng didn't move. The Roomba, sensing a 'large dust particle' (the assassin), suddenly zipped across the floor, hovered up to chest height, and emitted a localized gravity pulse that Chen Feng had accidentally programmed into it.
The assassin was slammed against the wall by an invisible force, his high-tech blade shattered into toothpicks.
"Good boy," Chen Feng said to the vacuum. He looked at the unconscious assassin. "I suppose I should call Meiling. But first..."
He looked at his phone screen, which had finally loaded.
"Is 'Extra Cheese' a form of cultivation? It sounds like a form of cultivation."