? a gloomy, rundown apartment on the outskirts, the air was saturated with the sour smell of cheap alcohol. On the floor, liquor bottles rolled around like dogs in their own home.

  Sitting on an old wooden shelf that creaked under his weight, a young man with copper-colored hair and brown eyes stared fixedly at the bundle of banknotes clenched in his hands. His fingers trembled as an electric jolt of adrenaline ran down his spine.

  "Hahaha… At st! At st heaven smiles upon me!" —he let out a hysterical ugh that echoed against the peeling walls.

  With force, he clenched the ring hanging from his neck. The cold metal seemed to burn against his skin, vibrating in tune with his fury. Four days. Four days had passed since his world had shattered.

  "They will pay for this humiliation… shameless pair of scoundrels," he muttered through clenched teeth, and his brown eyes seemed to ignite with a faint golden glow. "Qin Moshen… Su Liang'er… I swear I will drag you into the same mire you left me in."

  Lin Feng closed his eyes, and for the first time, the tide of information flooding his mind began to subside, leaving only a faint headache behind. He could feel it. The "Mind's Eye" had awakened.

  Tomorrow, the antiques market would open. Tomorrow, that bundle of banknotes —his st savings and what he had obtained by selling his old motorcycle— would become the foundation of his empire. He would no longer be the delivery man that everyone trampled on.

  Reaffirming that resolution, I clenched my fists so tightly that my nails dug into my palms. But I felt nothing anymore; hatred was a powerful anesthetic. That physical pain was merely the switch that shut off my present and hurled me back onto the miserable asphalt of four days ago.

  .

  .

  ?

  "Lin Feng! Did you go deaf or did you become even more stupid than usual? Move your ass and take this order immediately!"

  "Ah… yes, boss. Right away."

  I gnced sideways toward the counter as I stuffed the order into my backpack. The manager was especially irritable that day. "What a mood she's in… no wonder she doesn't have a husband," I thought to myself, muttering softly.

  "Bastard! What are you staring at? Do I have something on my face, or do you want me to help you leave with a kick?" —she shouted, grabbing a kitchen rag.

  "N-nothing! Nothing! I'm leaving already!" —I excimed, bolting out before she could hit me on the back of the head.

  Despite her filthy mouth and bad temper, the manager was not a bad person. In fact, she was my savior; she was the only one who didn't sm the door in my face when I needed it most. I owed her far too much to compin about a couple of shouts.

  I got on the motorcycle and made my way through the city traffic. After a few turns, I arrived in the heart of the financial district. My gaze soon lifted, almost by instinct, toward the imposing gss skyscraper that dominated the skyline: the Q Hotel. It was a modern pace of luxury, a pce attended only by celebrities, tycoons, and/or high-ranking politicians. A world apart, so distant that I couldn't even dream of getting close to it.

  I looked again at the order ticket and let out a small bitter ugh.

  "I suppose even in heaven they get tired of caviar and crave a little five-dolr fried chicken," I murmured to myself, feeling inexplicably uneasy.

  After exchanging a couple of words with the security guard at the side entrance, I walked toward the reception with the order in hand. I had no idea that, beyond those doors, my entire life was about to take a 360-degree turn.