Mo Jue sat in a high-backed leather throne that cost more than Li Tian's entire apartment building. On the frosted glass door, gold lettering announced his new, utterly nonsensical title: Executive Consultant of Strategic Metaphysics.
Song Ruo had clearly chosen the name in a fit of spite, hoping the sheer absurdity would embarrass him. Instead, Mo Jue found it fitting. He was, after all, a strategist, and his existence was certainly metaphysical.
While the rest of the floor was a hive of frantic typing and hushed phone calls, Mo Jue was engaged in the most difficult battle of his new life: Modern Accounting.
He sat hunched over a laptop, his eyes narrowed as he navigated the company's internal portal. "Basic Salary: 50,000 Yuan... Housing Allowance: 10,000... Performance Bonus: TBD." He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—the debt tally he had extracted from Li Tian's memories.
Three hundred thousand to the Black Vultures. Fifty thousand in back-rent. Twenty thousand for Xiao Ni's upcoming semester.
"At this rate," Mo Jue muttered, tapping a rhythm on the mahogany desk that sounded like a war drum, "it will take me six months to clear these parasites from my ledger. In the Nine Hells, I would have simply refined their souls into spirit-stones and bought a city. Here, I am defeated by 'Monthly Installments'."
Realizing he couldn't spend twelve hours a day staring at a glowing box if he wanted to cultivate his soul, Mo Jue decided he needed a Sect. Or, at the very least, a few loyal disciples to handle the "Strategic Metaphysics" while he was away.
He stepped out into the open-plan office. Most of the employees scurried away like mice, but he spotted two young interns—A-Feng and Xiao Zhang—who looked particularly overworked and terrified of Song Ruo.
"You two," Mo Jue beckoned.
The boys jumped. "Yes, Consultant Li?"
"I am a man of... deep meditation," Mo Jue said, his voice dripping with ancient gravity. "Often, my spirit must leave this physical shell to contemplate the 'Strategic' side of this business. During these times, my office door must remain locked. If the woman—I mean, Director Song—asks, you are to tell her I am in a high-level teleconference with 'overseas entities'."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of high-quality tea leaves he'd found in the office pantry—the "Song Family Private Reserve."
"Keep the office quiet, and you shall find your careers... blessed," he whispered.
The interns looked at the expensive tea, then at the terrifyingly calm man before them. They didn't know what "Strategic Metaphysics" was, but they knew a hidden boss when they saw one. They bowed instinctively.
"Understood, Consultant!"
Behind the glass wall of the executive suite, Song Ruo watched this entire interaction. She was holding a stress ball so tightly it looked ready to burst.
Her secretary stepped in. "Director, Mr. Li has just assigned two of our junior interns to 'guard' his door so he can take a nap. And... I believe he just bribed them with your father's favorite Dahongpao tea."
Ruo closed her eyes, her chest heaving as she practiced a breathing technique her yoga instructor had promised would prevent a stroke.
Bottle it up, she told herself. He saved Father. He's a lunatic, but he's Father's lunatic. Just let him sit there. Let him be a useless, tea-stealing, title-holding parasite. For the sake of the family legacy, I will not kill him today.
As the sun began to dip behind the skyscrapers, casting long, bloody shadows over the city, Mo Jue stood up and grabbed his jacket. His workday was over.
He felt a slight tingle in the air—the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. In his realm, it meant an assassin was nearby. Here, it was the feeling of several men with baseball bats and ill intentions gathering in the underground parking lot.
"It seems," Mo Jue murmured, a dark smile touching his lips as he left his office, "the interest collectors have arrived. I should go greet them. It would be rude to keep them waiting."