Song Wuli took a full six days off, and the marks on his body had mostly faded.
A good half of that recovery time was thanks to the self-healing ability of the young magical girl.
He didn’t bother going to the Contract Goddess—such a minor issue, not even worth the trouble.
But he was curious: why hadn’t anyone come to reclaim that Gravitational Sphere yet?
Could it be that it wasn’t a Genesis Artifact?
Pondering all sorts of questions, he sat lost in thought on the subway.
Today, he felt rather pleased with himself; clearly, the past few days of Mogui Training had paid off. No one dared come near him, leaving an empty meter-wide space all around.
Looking at the other subway cars, people were crammed in shoulder to shoulder—nothing like the space around him.
Obviously, they were all intimidated by his Killing Intent.
A student snapped a secret photo of him and sent it to a friend, with the caption: [Met a weirdo on the subway, wearing long sleeves and long pants in summer].
Summer break had arrived, and there were far fewer students on the subway.
Today was special, though—it was the last day of the college entrance exams.
Many children were accompanied by their parents; a lot of parents had taken leave to escort their kids to the test sites.
Seeing those parents with their children, Song Wuli’s thoughts drifted off into the distance.
A long time ago, this planet’s territories were divided by nations, and humanity was constantly at war with itself.
It wasn’t until the appearance of the Mediator Evil Demon that humanity slowly started to unite.
By then, more than half of humanity had perished.
After being thoroughly beaten by the Evil Demons, the humans, finally admitting defeat, formed the Human Alliance, retained the United Nations, and both sides continually schemed and undercut each other.
So, the Evil Demons kept mediating.
After getting beaten again by the Evil Demons, humans conceded once more, scrapped the United Nations, and consigned it to history. Now, only one political institution remained: the Human Alliance.
Yet the various countries of Europe, Africa, and Asia still caused trouble, fighting for land and resources.
Then came the background-actor Evil Demons, slaughtering again. After another painful beating, humans gave in once more, and the Earth was divided into several officially recognized zones by the Human Alliance.
Song Wuli looked at the various signs in the subway, which read: “Reminder from the Eastern Union: Performing, soliciting, eating, loud noises, and external audio are strictly prohibited in the subway cars.”
This was one of the major official zones: the [Eastern Union].
The Eastern Union contained over a dozen officially designated cities—also called defense zones.
If the nations tried to defend against the Evil Demons using traditional borders, the defensive lines would be too long to be effective.
So, the defense circles were shrunk to less than 10,000 square kilometers. If that number means nothing to you, just imagine a square 100 kilometers on each side. Cities were built within that 100 km area, though, of course, not right on the edge—multiple buffer zones were included.
The place where Song Wuli lived was called Yiri City. It was coastal, rich in seafood, with the Great River running nearby, which also made agriculture convenient.
In addition to surface-level farming, there were crops grown hundreds or even thousands of meters underground, along with light and heavy industry.
The underground Ecological Zone was thriving, too.
The world’s Technology Tree had branched into new directions. Once unimaginable underground and undersea Technology Trees had now been developed to impressive levels.
Not that any of this was thanks to Song Wuli; he was just a copywriter at a game company, an industry criticized by many.
“Corrupts the will,” “holds back humanity,” “wastes resources”—he’d been stuck with all those labels.
Luckily, Old Song had no conscience to speak of and never reflected on himself, so none of those labels ever fazed him.
Let others say what they want; he just lived his own life.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen.
Huang Yijun, who had borrowed 10,000 yuan previously, had just paid it back and transferred the money over.
Before he could even ask about it, Huang Yijun messaged first: [Paid you back, Old Song, thanks for last time.]
[So what did you do with all that money you earned?]
[No elders, no kids, no wife, you’re healthy, just a mortgage and supporting yourself—where did all your money go? I don’t believe you just saved it.]
Song Wuli typed back two words: [Secret.]
Huang Yijun: [Come on, we’ve been brothers for so many years and you’re still keeping secrets? Tell me!]
Song Wuli: [Secret.]
A few minutes later, the subway reached a major station. A mass of people got off, while another group squeezed on, pushing Old Song right up to the glass.
He glanced outside—it was an interchange station.
There was a red sign indicating transfers to the underground.
And a black sign pointing to even deeper levels underground.
The doors closed, and Song Wuli rode onward. Ten minutes later, he arrived at his destination, squeezed out of the crowd, and breathed in the fresh air.
Several people in business attire also got off, heading toward the nearby office buildings.
Many of the faces were familiar—he’d seen them for years.
They nodded at each other, a silent greeting.
Song Wuli clocked in at the company, almost on time.
“Good morning, Leader Song,” Xiao Liu greeted politely.
“Morning,” Song Wuli replied.
“Old Song, you’re here! You look great today. How’d you manage to get so many days off in a row? Must be nice!” Huang Yijun walked over, patted him on the shoulder, and then eyed his clothes. “Uh, Old Song, aren’t you a bit overdressed for summer?”
“The company’s air conditioning is cold—I’m worried about catching a chill,” Song Wuli made up an excuse, though it was a bit weak.
Huang Yijun didn’t bother pushing further and chatted with him for a while.
“By the way, do you notice anything different about me?” Song Wuli straightened up, inviting inspection.
Huang Yijun gave him a careful once-over. “Don’t see anything. Maybe take that coat off? Feels like you’re crazy to dress like that in summer.”
Song Wuli: “Really can’t tell? Look harder.”
How could he not see this overwhelming Killing Intent? Was he blind?
He didn’t say it out loud.
Huang Yijun looked him over again, then shook his head: “Other than you seeming a bit off, I really can’t see anything.”
Suddenly, a striking figure passed by, drawing the attention of everyone in Copywriting Group 2.
It was Greta. She greeted Old Song warmly, “Good morning, Mr. Song.”
Song Wuli nodded, then suddenly called out, “Wait, Greta, do you notice anything different about me today?”
He stood tall, chest out, eyes half closed.
Greta studied him for a long time, then shook her head. “I don’t see anything, but your clothes do look a bit strange.”
No taste at all.
Humans are just humans—a bunch of ordinary mortals, completely blind to the Killing Intent I’ve honed through hard training.
Heh. Mortals.
Song Wuli shook his head.