At 1:47 a.m., the Nardo Gray Audi RS6 Avant slipped like a silent mechanical beast into the dilapidated embrace of East Los Angeles. Its matte finish barely reflected the broken streetlights, forming an absurd contrast with the rusted fire escapes, haphazard graffiti, and faint scent of decay in the air. Mason turned off the engine but didn't immediately get out. Inside the cabin, dead silence prevailed, wrapped only in the scent of leather and metal—the smell of money. The skin on the inner side of his wrist burned faintly in the dark, like a brand about to awaken.
The manor's fragrance, the pungent smell of disinfectant, the shattered light refracted by crystal chandeliers, the arrogant eyes hidden in lavish attire, and finally that nauseating yet strangely satisfying "disaster"... all these images churned in his mind. The warmth of Sophia Rockefeller's hand when she pressed the car keys into his palm seemed to linger. It all felt like an overly vivid dream. But the subtle texture of the steering wheel under his fingertips, the perfect support of the seats, the cold blue glow of the dashboard—all reminded him that a line had been crossed, even if in a way he himself hadn't anticipated.
---
Convenience store? He almost sneered. Just days ago, the bald, foul-breathed owner had called him, screaming through the receiver, spittle practically flying through the waves, cursing his "laziness," his "unrealistic dreams," and his "destiny to never crawl out of the gutter" when Mason asked for time off again (to prepare for the Rockefeller gala). The old Mason might have endured it, for the meager pay and lack of options. But now? He listened quietly to the stream of filth and, during a pause for breath, said in a voice coldly calm, "Shut up. I quit." Then he hung up and blocked the number. The motion was fluid, as if rehearsed a thousand times. His bank account held over forty thousand dollars—peanuts in high society, but enough to free him, temporarily, from that suffocating, hourly-wage existence. He wasn't just quitting a job; he was breaking free from a preordained, hopelessly humble life.
---
Pushing the car door open, the knife-like chill of the winter night slashed across his face, jolting him and scattering the last lingering warmth of luxury inside the cabin. He needed clarity, needed to digest everything that had happened tonight, needed... power. Not the random, fleeting kind that was used and discarded like a shooting star, but something real, something he could hold, accumulate, and rely on. The thought wasn't clear, more like a deep-seated instinct of unease and longing.
As he walked toward the peeling, loosely locked door of his apartment building, a mix of cheap perfume, stale sweat, and some sweet chemical odor assaulted him first. Then, from the shadowed alley beside him, piled with rotting garbage, a figure stumbled out.
---
"Canary." Mason had heard the nickname. She was one of the streetwalkers haunting the neighborhood at night, always trying to mimic the style of high-class escorts from movies, but her crude imitation and desperate reality made it all the more pitiful. Tonight, her state was visibly worse.
A black sequined minidress, the sequins mostly gone, clung to her overly thin frame, the hem barely covering the tops of her thighs. Cheap black fishnets encased her legs, severe runs at the knees and ankles looking like spiderwebs in the dim light. A man's denim jacket hung open over it, revealing bony shoulders and deeply sunken collarbones. Her heavy makeup was streaked by tears, showing pale, gaunt skin underneath, puffy bags under her eyes, pupils dilated, lips purple from cold, yet still holding a damp cigarette she couldn't light. She half-slumped against the cold wall, one high-heeled shoe discarded beside her, the other barely hanging on her toe, her exposed ankles red from cold, blue-purple veins visible through the runs in her stockings.
---
Mason's gaze was drawn uncontrollably to her legs—the taut, trembling lines encased in cheap fishnets. It wasn't desire, but a more primal "directive" driven by the suddenly intensifying heat on his wrist. As if countless tiny voices screamed in the depths of his consciousness: *Her! Now! Transaction! Tear that barrier!*
He paused, turned. The sound of his dress shoes stepping in a dirty puddle was jarringly loud in the silence.
Canary looked up slowly, her dull eyes struggling to focus on Mason. Seeing his tailored tuxedo (under the coat) and his incongruous aura, she first blinked in confusion, then an automatic, self-deprecatingly seductive look flickered in her eyes, quickly replaced by deeper numbness and physical distress. Shivering, she tried to force a professional smile, uglier than a grimace. "Sir... need... company? Cheap..." Her voice was hoarse, like sandpaper.
---
Mason didn't respond to her solicitation. He walked up to her, his shadow engulfing her. He pulled out his wallet, extracted five crisp hundred-dollar bills. Benjamin Franklin's face gleamed seductively in the sickly light. He didn't hand them over, just held them up, the edge almost touching her red, frozen nose.
Canary's breath hitched. Her unfocused eyes locked onto that green, pupils contracting. Five hundred dollars! For her, this meant a week of "good days," or a temporary escape from the streets, a few days of unconscious sleep on a cheap motel bed, away from the cold and the rough johns. The immense temptation made her bony fingers curl unconsciously.
---
"To buy your stockings," Mason's voice was utterly flat, terrifyingly calm, as if discussing the weather. "Now, immediately. Not for you to take them off. For me to tear them."
Canary froze, the remnants of her seductive smile gone, replaced by bewilderment, absurdity, and a flicker of offended shame. She looked down at the tattered, barely functional fishnets on her legs, then up at Mason's expressionless face, then at the five hundred dollars so close. Conflicting emotions warred in her alcohol- and drug-addled mind. *Tear my stockings? What kind of new perverted game is this? He looks so well-dressed... some rich freak with a weird fetish?* The humiliation made her want to refuse, but the cold, hunger, and the desperate craving in her bones for the next "fix" gnawed at her reason like snakes.
"You... you fucking sicko?" she tried to mask her panic with rudeness, but her voice wavered. "Find someone else to play with! I ain't..."
"Six hundred." Mason added another hundred, his tone still flat but carrying undeniable pressure. "Or I walk away now."
---
The raise was the final straw. Canary's last shreds of pitiful dignity and doubt were crushed. Six hundred dollars! Enough for a decent binge! Just tearing a pair of worthless stockings! She even thought maliciously: *Hope this freak tears them hard, maybe rips the dress too, might squeeze more "compensation" out of him!*
"...Fuck." She cursed under her breath, unsure if aimed at Mason or herself. She gave up all resistance, pressing her body tighter against the cold, rough brick wall, closing her eyes, turning her head away, a posture of surrender. Only her slightly trembling eyelashes and tense calf muscles betrayed her inner turmoil. The posture made her minidress ride up further, exposing more of her pale, black-stockinged thigh and the shallow red marks from the elastic edge.
---
Mason crouched down. Close enough to smell the stronger mix of cheap perfume, sweat, and a hint of something unclean. He reached out, fingertips touching the fishnets on her calf. The fabric was cheap and rough, carrying her cold body temperature and slight dampness. Canary flinched but didn't pull away; instead, she slightly parted her legs, as if cooperating or silently urging him on.
Mason's fingers found a large run in the stocking, pinching the edge. He could feel the stiffness of the skin beneath and a faint pulse. Without hesitation, he gripped both sides of the run and, with all his strength, tore diagonally upward—
*Riiiiip—!*
The tearing sound was piercingly sharp in the silent early morning! The cheap fishnet fibers offered no resistance, ripping from the side of her knee all the way up to mid-thigh, creating a huge, jagged gap! The torn black mesh curled back disgracefully, like violently torn spiderwebs, completely exposing the pale, delicate but lackluster skin beneath, dulled by cold and poor nutrition. The edge of the tear even scraped the more tender skin on her inner thigh, leaving a faint red mark.
---
Canary gasped lightly, her body trembling again. She opened her eyes a slit, glanced quickly at her torn stocking and exposed leg, a complex expression flashing across her face—shame, humiliation, but mostly a strange, numb relief of a completed transaction. She didn't even bother to cover the exposed skin, just turned her face tighter against the wall.
---
Almost the instant the stocking tore, the mark on Mason's wrist burned like red-hot iron! Instinctively, following a deep urge, he raised his right hand and snapped his fingers sharply beside him.
**Snap!**
[Trigger condition met. Initiating random manual draw (1/3).]
[Drawing…]
[Manual generated: The Secret Arts of Extreme Physical Contortion & Cellular Vitality Preservation]
[Status: Permanently Mastered (First Layer: Initial Fetal Curl)]
[Effect: Daily requirement: Assume the specific "Fetal Breath Curl" posture within a confined, narrow space (volume ≤ 0.5 cubic meters) for at least two hours, practicing the accompanying breathing method and mental guidance to temper all joints, ligaments, and superficial cellular connections. Long-term practice may slightly enhance overall body flexibility, mildly improve posture, and have an extremely weak effect on slowing signs of superficial skin aging. Interrupting practice for three days results in stiff, sore joints; interrupting for seven days causes flexibility regression, with a risk of random minor joint misalignment; interrupting for over a month may lead to a tendency for posture to hunch and solidify. Attachment: Complete holographic diagram and breathing/mental incantation for the First Layer "Fetal Breath Curl" (infused).]
---
A torrent of information, mixed with countless dynamic images of human bodies contorting, folding, and squeezing into impossibly tight spaces at bizarre angles, along with a set of guided words for slow breathing and focusing mental energy on relaxing joints and circulating energy, blasted into Mason's mind like a high-pressure hose! He even "saw" a person squeezing into a standard-sized suitcase and giving a thumbs-up from inside!
Mason remained crouched, still holding the torn edge of the stocking, utterly frozen as if struck by lightning, his facial muscles twitching violently.
*Bone-shrinking art?! With cosmetic benefits?! Two hours daily crammed in a box? Or else risk becoming a hunchback?!*
For a moment, Mason's mind erupted with a flood of absurd mockeries:
*What use is this? To campaign for the world's most flexible criminal? Or perform "escape from a safe" for billionaires with claustrophobia?*
*"Extremely weak effect on slowing skin aging"? I cram myself into a suitcase for two hours daily, just to maybe delay wrinkles by two days? The cost-effectiveness is beaten by high-end skincare products by a factor of eight hundred!*
*"Fetal Breath Curl"? Sounds profound, but it's just curling up like a ball and meditating while holding your breath?*
*Was the creator of this art some unlucky soul constantly hunted by enemies, forced to hide in cellars or coffins, who came up with this "how to maintain figure and skin in cramped spaces" manual out of sheer boredom?*
*And the interruption penalties… random joint misalignment? What kind of devilish design is this? If I forget my "box time" one day, I might wake up with my elbow suddenly pointing backward?!*
---
Disappointment doused him like ice water, extinguishing all his vague expectations. Yet, the burning sensation on his wrist didn't fade; instead, it flared hotter! A stronger, more peculiar pulse came.
**Snap!** A second snap of his fingers escaped almost uncontrollably.
[First manual draw completed. Secondary energy guidance initiated… Initiating random manual draw (2/3).]
[Drawing…]
[Manual generated: The Meditation of Extreme Emotional Tempering]
[Status: Permanently Mastered (Introductory Chapter: Forging Through Dual Extremes)]
[Effect: A mind-cultivation method using extreme emotions as fuel and forge. The practitioner must daily actively induce and immerse themselves in "extreme ecstasy" (requiring a degree of overwhelming, uncontrollable joy) and "extreme grief" (requiring heart-wrenching, desolate sorrow) for at least two hours each, accompanied by specific visualization and breathing techniques, thereby tempering mental fortitude and slightly enhancing psychological resilience and sensitivity to subtle emotional shifts in others. Long-term practice has a very low probability of condensing minuscule "Joy Crystals" or "Tears of Sorrow" at the mental level during emotional peaks (specific effects unknown). Interrupting practice leads to mental lethargy and attention deficit; long-term suppression or avoidance of genuine strong emotions may cause severe mental imbalance, inducing deep depression or manic tendencies. Attachment: Introductory visualization charts (e.g., "Chart of Ecstasy from Sudden Windfall," "Chart of Grief from Eternal Farewell to a Loved One") and basic emotion-inducing incantations (infused).]
---
A second, even more chaotic stream of information, filled with images of extreme emotions (laughing to tears, crying to suffocation) and bizarre visualizations (gold bars falling from the sky knocking oneself out, suddenly imagining a loved one's gruesome death while looking at their photo), along with incantations on inducing intense emotions through psychological suggestion and breathing rhythms, slammed into Mason's consciousness!
Mason nearly lost his balance, steadying himself against the cold wall, his face now as dark as a storm cloud.
*Have to deliberately make myself hysterically happy for two hours, then hysterically sad for two hours every day?! Or else become a distracted lunatic or straight-up depressed/manic?! And "Joy Crystals," "Tears of Sorrow"? They sound like trash materials from some third-rate fantasy novel!*
---
At this moment, Mason's inner monologue wasn't just venting; it was bordering on absurd association. He recalled some poorly dubbed Chinese martial arts TV shows or movies he'd seen by chance. There was always that legendary, peerless manual, claiming mastery would dominate the martial world, invincible under heaven. Yet, the very first line of that manual was often one that made all male characters instantly pale and break into a cold sweat—"To master this art, one must first castrate oneself."
"Castration," as he understood it, meant... self-inflicted removal, becoming neither fully male nor female. While these two manuals didn't demand such an extreme, bloody "initiation ritual," one required daily two-hour box-cramming (physical self-torture), the other required a daily four-hour emotional rollercoaster (mental self-harm), with side effects scarier than the last (hunchback/mental illness). In terms of being "ridiculous" and "messing with people," they were remarkably similar in their "ingenuity" to that legendary "castration manual"! Both were the kind that made you deeply question your life choices before possibly gaining any power.
Where was the promised miraculous power akin to the *Sunflower Manual*? These two were practically the embodiment of the word "parody"! Zero practicality, maximum shame factor, terrifying side effects!
---
He looked at the torn stocking piece in his hand, then at Canary still curled in the corner, oblivious to her fate, and suddenly felt those six hundred dollars were a colossal waste. Money that could have given this poor woman a few days of relative comfort, exchanged for two sets of "practice guides" that might make his own future a living hell?
---
Yet, before this wave of intense disappointment and absurdity could fully ferment, a third, distinctly different pulse slowly but surely welled up from the deepest part of his soul...