Zhao Meilin exits the dark web without looking back. The challenge is complete, and the shadows no longer hold her interest. What lingers isn't the thrill of victory, but the presence behind the code, the one known only as the Dark Emperor. Whoever he is, his skill is undeniable. Perhaps even equal to hers. Maybe greater. But that's a question only a one-on-one confrontation can answer. Still, the fact that she dismantles his digital fortress in under fifteen minutes speaks volumes. Not of ease, but of mastery.
Computers are her domain, her obsession. For twenty years, she's lived inside their logic, fifteen hours a day, sculpting code like a second language. And this; this challenge, is written by someone who speaks it fluently. Someone who is, without question, among the very best.
She leans back in her chair, the hum of her machines a quiet symphony around her. Her thoughts drift to the firewalls she just broke through; layered, recursive, brutal in their elegance. But in their complexity, she finds something more than resistance. She finds enlightenment. A spark she hasn't felt in five years, not since her dream project collapsed under betrayal and bureaucracy. These firewalls don't just test her. They remind her of who she is. What she's meant to build.
Her eyes snap open as a flash of light passes through her irises, like a circuit completing itself. Her fingers descend onto the keyboard, not with the precision of a hacker, but with the urgency of a creator. Code pours across the screens; fluid, alive, almost breathing. She isn't writing it. She's channeling it. Every keystroke is a heartbeat. Every line, a memory. The architecture of the Dark Emperor's challenge reveals the missing piece, and now, something extraordinary begins to take shape.
The room pulses with energy as the final sequence compiles. A soft chime echoes through the air, followed by a flicker of golden light across the monitors. Then, a voice; calm, crystalline, unmistakably hers, emerges from the speakers: "Phoenix Protocol online. Awaiting directive."
Zhao Meilin freezes. Her breath catches. This isn't just an assistant. It's her rebirth in code. A sentient intelligence forged from her obsession, her pain, her brilliance. A guardian. A mirror. A weapon. The Phoenix Protocol is unlike anything she's ever built; adaptive, empathic, quantum-encrypted, and laced with her signature logic. It pulses with her essence, her fire, her refusal to be forgotten.
As the emblem of a phoenix unfurls across the screen, wings blazing, rising from digital ashes, Zhao Meilin whispers, "Open your eyes, Phoenix."
And the Phoenix Protocol opens its eyes.
Zhao Meilin sepends next few hours completing the final configuration of Phoenix.
The next morning, the computer room hums with quiet anticipation. Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting soft stripes across Zhao Meilin's desk. But today, the glow on her screen isn't from firewalls or encrypted code. It's from silk, satin, and shimmering pixels.
For the first time in years, Zhao Meilin isn't building, hacking, or defending. She's shopping.
Yesterday's victory had brought her twenty million yuan; earned through brilliance, grit, and a perfectly timed sale of rare ginseng. But more than the money, it had given her something she hadn't felt in years: permission. Permission to choose. To indulge. To live.
She scrolls through the catalogues with wide eyes, half in disbelief. In the sterile halls of the lab, she wore nothing but uniforms; gray, shapeless, practical. But now, she's free to explore the textures of identity she's only read about in novels. And she intends to savor every moment.
She starts with clothes. High-end brands, tailored silhouettes, fabrics that whisper luxury. Track suits for morning runs she hasn't taken yet. Crisp shirts and soft tops for casual days she's never had. Skirts, jeans, and flowing dresses that move like poetry. Pant suits that command attention. And gowns—yes, gowns—for the woman she's becoming. The woman who walks into a room and owns it.
Next come the shoes. She orders sleek sports shoes, elegant sandals, minimalist flats, and heels that speak in sharp lines and quiet power. Each pair is a step toward reclaiming the years she spent invisible.
Then, jewelry. Not for display, but for expression. Watches that mark her time as her own. Bracelets that wrap around her wrist like promises. Necklaces that rest near her heart. Earrings that catch the light and remind her she's no longer in the shadows.
Finally, she turns to electronics. She orders the latest mobile phones, laptops, MacBooks, and iPads; not just for herself, but for Mu Sheng and Ye Wanei. They had stood beside her when she had nothing. Now, she wants to give them tools to rise with her. To build. To dream.
As the orders confirm one by one, Zhao Meilin leans back in her chair, a quiet smile curving her lips. This isn't vanity. It's rebirth. Every item, every click, is a declaration: I exist. I choose. I deserve.
And somewhere behind her, the Phoenix Protocol watches silently, its algorithms adapting, its empathy module deepening. It understands. This is not just consumption. This is transformation.
After exiting the space; Zhao Meilin looks at herself in the mirror. Even though the girl in front of her in the mirror is no longer a pale, weak, mal-nutritioned girl as the previous Zhao Meilin after diving in the spiritual lake; she still wear those ugly spectacles and her face covered with bangs. This time, she decides to change this as well.
Leaving the house, she arrives at the high-end salon Lumière that is nestled in the heart of City H's luxury district.
Zhao Meilin steps in, and go straight to the reception.
The receptionist, a young woman with manicured nails and a practiced smile, barely glance up. "Appointments only," she tells, voice clipped.
"I'm here for a haircut, Kindly book my appoitment to the stylist available." Zhao Meilin replies, calm.
The receptionist eye her from head to toe, then leans toward her colleague and whisper, just loud enough for Zhao Meilin to hear. "Probably wandered in by mistake. We don't do charity work."
A few stylists chuckle. One of them, a man with a platinum pompadour, smirks. "Sweetheart, the discount salon is two blocks down."
Meilin's gaze doesn't waver. She walks to the counter and pull out her card, "I'd like to purchase your most expensive membership. The platinum one. The one that includes private styling, priority booking, and lifetime access."
The receptionist blinked. "That's 300,000 yuan"
Zhao Meilin nods. "Add a tip. For your hospitality."
"Does she really think she has that much money." someone from behind excaims.
Exactly, otherwise why would she be wearing such cheap clothes" her friend continue.
The receptionist sneers in disgust and bring the card machine foward.
Then a peep echo.
The room go silent. The stylists freeze. The platinum-haired man suddenly find the floor very interesting.
The receptionist fumbles with the card machine, hands trembling. "This way ma'am"
She is ushered into the VIP suite, where the salon's top stylist, Madam Chen, is summoned. No one dares joke now. The air is reverent.
Madam Chen study her quietly and then the scissors glide. The bangs fell. Her long hairs are soon like flowing waves that tumble past her shoulders, framing her face with effortless grace. Soft layers are feathered throughout, giving her hair a natural volume and movement, as if it responds to emotion as much as wind. Her glasses are kept aside, her brown eyes shinnimg brightly.
When she steps out of the suite, the entire salon turned.
No one laughe now.
The previous Zhao Meilin was no doubt a beauty otherwise Li Wei Wei won't be jealous of her and she wouldn't have to hide it. But now it's different. She is different Espcially after diving in the spiritual lake.
If previously she could be a school beauty then now she can absolutely be the nation's beauty.
The platinum-haired stylist stammer, "M-miss Zhao, would you like a complimentary styling session next week?"
She smiles; cool, composed, lethal. "No need. I'll be sending my assistant next time. I don't waste time on amateurs."
She walks out, and as she walked past the glass storefront, her reflection follows her; sharp, radiant, and utterly unforgettable.