So he didn’t know their relationship was a bit strained. Yin Lin had left early and didn’t hear the last exchange between Jin Wan and Old Wang.
On the way home, after canceling her transformation, he walked along the street.
Seeing Old Wang reminded him of Diamond, and since the timing was right, he naturally thought of fried dumplings.
It was the same familiar small eatery. He didn’t get takeout; instead, he sat down to eat in the shop, placing his backpack with clothes and magic wand beside him.
“Hey, man, long time no see.”
The owner said while making fried dumplings.
“Work’s been busy.”
Song Wuli made up an excuse.
“Why didn’t you order more? Didn’t you always get takeout before?”
The owner asked casually, unaware of any unpleasantness.
“That was for a friend who was staying over temporarily. I brought it for him. He’s gone back.”
Song Wuli felt he had moved past the shadow of Diamond, but he actually hadn’t fully let go yet.
“Haha, you two must have been close.”
The owner flipped the dumplings skillfully.
A few minutes later, the fried dumplings were ready. Since he had eaten them often before, he immediately noticed something off about the plate.
He looked at the owner.
The owner replied, “You like them so much, so I gave you a few extra this time.”
Old Song nodded and started eating.
The taste was a bit different. Eating them hot in the shop—that was when they tasted best.
Taking them home in a container, they were only slightly warm, and the texture suffered.
The small eatery was empty now, so the owner found a seat and sat down, sipping a low-alcohol drink.
The atmosphere was a bit dull. The owner had seen all kinds of people and was naturally talkative, so he started a conversation, “Hey man, what do you do?”
Song Wuli: “I work at a game company.”
The owner paused: “What game company? What’s that?”
Song Wuli: “It’s those little characters you can control on your phone, fighting and stuff. It’s for young people.”
Owner: “I don’t get these young people’s stuff. What are those games for?”
Song Wuli: “They satisfy spiritual needs.”
The owner shook his head: “Nope, don’t get it. We can barely even eat properly, there aren’t many humans left, why bother with that spiritual stuff?”
Old Song gave an awkward smile and said, “It’s the opposite, boss. Precisely because the real world is so oppressive, if we didn’t have something to vent and relax, that’s when real problems would start.”
The owner sighed: “Still don’t get it. An old fossil like me is out of touch with the times. Don’t know what you young people are thinking.”
He took another sip.
Old Song didn’t explain further. He’d met many people like this before; this wasn’t the first time.
The older generation generally held this attitude toward video games, and it was hard to change their minds.
About ten minutes later, Old Song finished eating, left the place, and walked home.
But as he walked, he felt something was off. His body seemed much lighter, different from half an hour ago.
What exactly was wrong?
He scratched his head but couldn’t remember.
He even pulled out his phone and scrolled through the group chat of Jinyin Hong San Jiemei.
Huan Hong had posted some photos from the dinner just now—they looked very warm.
She was already home, but it was late at night, and she wasn’t sleeping; she picked up dumbbells and exercised for a long time.
The more Old Song watched, the more ashamed he felt. Huan Hong was a true hero, a model magical girl.
She had high attendance, fast response times, long battle durations, and long training hours, saving humanity from fire and water. Apart from lacking a bit in strength, she was almost flawless.
In contrast, Yin Lin, with the highest combat power and strongest perception, was rarely seen. Unless she happened to encounter a demonic creature or a stronger one appeared, she would show up.
Scrolling through his phone, he arrived home. He turned on the light and walked toward the sofa.
Out of habit, he lifted his shoulder and reached his right hand behind his back—grabbing nothing.
“Huh? Where’s my backpack?”
He stood frozen for a few seconds, then suddenly remembered something. He spun around and bolted.
At that moment, Song Wuli felt as if his high school self had possessed him; his body returned to his student days as he sprinted full speed.
Osteoporosis, rhinitis, hemorrhoids, cervical spondylosis—all left behind. In that moment, he felt he had returned to his physical peak.
Charge!
Downstairs, at the corner, he kicked off the wall to turn without losing speed.
At the second corner, he drifted straight through, maintaining high speed after the turn—like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon.
Once on the street, he kept accelerating: third gear, fourth gear, fifth gear!
An auntie riding a small electric scooter was startled as Old Song overtook her.
A delivery guy felt a gust of wind as a man sprinted past.
“Who’s that? A night running pro?!”
Old Song kept running, panting heavily. He even used the breathing technique, as if Tanjiro had possessed him.
He sprinted all the way until he finally arrived.
When he rushed to the entrance of the small eatery, he saw the owner reaching for the lone backpack—
Almost touching it!
“Stop!”
Old Song shouted.
The owner was startled, and the cigarette in his mouth fell to the ground.
Old Song looked a mess now, his hair and clothes disheveled.
Under the owner’s bewildered gaze, he grabbed the backpack: “Mine… sorry, I forgot to take it.”
He checked the zipper—it still seemed intact, untouched.
Good thing he had come a few seconds earlier; otherwise, who knew if the owner would have opened it.
He walked home slowly, drenched in sweat, took another shower, watched some TV naked, and then went to sleep.
The next day.
After getting up, his whole body was sore, especially his legs—they ached badly.
“Ah, this is what happens when you’re old. Getting old.”
The first thing he did after waking was send a message to Biaoji, then went to wash his face and wake that guy up.
When he got no reply, he directly made a voice call while preparing breakfast.
“You… motherf*cker!”
The voice of Biaoji came through the phone, teeth gritted.
“What’s your problem? Why are you cursing? Such bad manners?”
Song Wuli said while frying an egg.
“Spit it out already.”
The other party was clearly still in bed.
“It’s about work. The file I sent you just now, why haven’t you revised it yet?”
Song Wuli used the spatula to break the yolk, letting it flow out.
“Seriously, dude? It’s barely seven in the morning! And it’s Sunday! Are you rushing to a funeral or what?!”
Biaoji shouted through the phone.
“It’s people like you in the company that make work efficiency so low. So what if it’s Sunday? No work on Sunday?”
Song Wuli’s tone was calm, but his hostility was obvious. “Don’t you know the deadline is tight? We have to have a playable first version in a few days, and you’re still thinking about resting?”
Biaoji was furious: “You’re just a small group leader, who do you think you are to talk to me like that?”
“If you can’t do the job, go talk to the producer and resign. If you don’t do it, there are plenty of others who will.”
Song Wuli didn’t mince words.
The egg was done. He turned off the heat, and the leftover rice from last night was almost ready.
On the other end of the line, Biaoji was breathing heavily, clearly furious, then directly hung up.
He had originally gone into this line of work as a freelancer to avoid the nine-to-five grind.
And now, Song Wuli was reminding him of the fear of being dominated by the electronics factory.