"Stop running! Freeze!"
In a clean and green residential community, three security guards were chasing after a young man in a cheap tank top and jeans, yelling as they ran.
"Freeze? Only an idiot would stop!" The man, in his early twenties, had short, windblown hair. His face bore a few scattered pimples, his features and build were average. The only thing that stood out was his bright, spirited eyes—though his height of just about 170 cm quickly evened the score. He was the epitome of "completely average." A worn-out messenger bag hung across his body, the zipper undone from the rush, with a few non-stick adhesive fliers spilling out as he ran.
The fliers, white with red text, were the reason for the pursuit.
"Repairing and recycling old appliances, cell phones, computers..."
One such flyer had been slapped onto a building entrance nearby, clearly violating regulations and damaging property.
A security guard appeared in front of him, trying to cut him off. Panting heavily, Xu Bin didn't dare stop. If he got caught, he'd be fined 500 yuan and forced to peel off the flyers himself. Up ahead, between two buildings, was the back wall of a row of street-level shops. A thick, makeshift exhaust pipe stretched downward.
Without hesitating, Xu Bin dashed forward, planted a foot on the wall, grabbed the steel bars securing the exhaust pipe, and pulled himself up. In one smooth motion, he hoisted himself onto the roof, fueled by either sheer desperation or the fact that the cash in his pocket was barely enough to buy food for the month.
"Don't let him get away! After him!"
"Old Zhang! From the barbecue shop! Open the back door!"
Some security guards ran toward the back alley, shouting for the shop owner inside to open up.
Xu Bin had no plan. He charged forward and spotted a small cart full of compressed charcoal briquettes near the entrance. Without a second thought, he leapt off the rooftop straight into the cart—better than slamming into the concrete below. A misstep could mean a twisted ankle or worse, and getting caught would be inevitable.
Thud!
He crashed into the pile of charcoal, instantly smearing his face and clothes in soot. His head slammed forward, sending a sharp pain through his forehead. Wincing, he cursed the vendor—what the hell kind of charcoal was this?
What he didn't notice was that the piece he had hit was not ordinary. At the moment it split his skin, a mysterious light entered his forehead, and the odd piece crumbled into ash, blending into the rest.
"Huff... huff... damn it! That's the last time I hit a clean property neighborhood. If I'd been caught, I might as well head back to my hometown. No future left in Spring City."
Half an hour later, he hailed a taxi—rare luxury—and watched the meter like a hawk. Just before it hit the base fare limit, he shouted for the driver to stop, even leaving a bit of distance as insurance. The driver, experienced, let the car glide a little extra anyway.
As he neared his "store," Xu Bin spat on the ground. "What a crap day. Damn shame about my ride."
Said ride was a beat-up, multi-speed bicycle worth maybe 30 to 50 yuan.
His place was far from the city center, but technically still within city limits, two stops from the ring road. Hidden among shabby markets and old housing blocks, it was a chaotic mess of street stalls and makeshift structures—some steel-roofed, some brick, some just wood and tarp.
Xu Bin walked deep into this maze, past a narrow lane barely wide enough for two cars to pass. At a small converted ground-floor apartment facing the market, he pulled out his key. The creaky, half-wooden, half-glass door opened to a warm, greasy scent—motor oil and stale air.
This was his store. His home. His entire world in Spring City.
Wedged between makeshift market stalls, a few meters from any foot traffic, it was a dead spot for business. Most customers were regulars from the nearby community or people who called him in.
He ignored the cut on his forehead, slapped on a band-aid, and stripped off his filthy clothes, tossing them into an ancient washing machine. After washing the soot off his skin, he lit a half-smoked cigarette from an ashtray and sat down, sighing at the miserable day and his dwindling funds.
With the door locked, he went into the back room—once a kitchen, now his bedroom. Collapsing onto his single cot, he stared blankly out the window before drifting into a shallow, imperfect yet oddly comforting nap...
"Binding Icebound Interstellar Merchant System... Matching host compatibility..."
"Loading Galactic Earth data..."
"Heat-rich planet... Abundant thermal energy and edible fuel... Perfect..."
"Weekly mission issued: Refurbish three old color TVs. Reward: Attribute Spin-Wheel (1 spin). Early completion allowed. Mission can repeat. Failure within Earth-week triggers: Negative Spin-Wheel (1 spin)."
"Monthly mission issued: Earn 30,000 yuan through the system. Reward: Skill Spin-Wheel (1 spin). Early completion allowed. Mission can repeat. Failure within Earth-month triggers: Random natural disaster punishment."
"Refurbishing requires heat energy. Host currently stores 1/3 units. Physical fitness: 2/3 of Earth average."
"Main mission issued: Acquire heat energy. Reward: 3,000 yuan. Time limit: 3 hours. Failure = Erasure."
Xu Bin jolted awake, forehead soaked in sweat, mind echoing each word from the chilling voice. Was that a dream? It felt... too real.
"Phew..."
He wiped his forehead, sat up in bed, and muttered, half-joking, "Refurbish old into new? Damn, if I really had that... I'd be unstoppable. Come on, let's refurbish something."
"Would you like to refurbish the blue plaid cotton bedsheet? This will consume 1 heat unit. Proceed?"
Two glowing words appeared in his mind: YES and NO.
He froze. Shocked. But years of hopeless daydreams—from lottery wins to secret billionaire heritage—had trained his mind to tolerate wild fantasy. With a casual shrug, he tapped YES in his mind.
Ten seconds later, his eyes bulged.
The bed sheet beneath him—once stained, burned, and unwashed for weeks—now looked brand new.
A minute passed. Xu Bin stood there dumbstruck, petting the sheet like an idiot.
Three minutes later, he dashed into the tiny bathroom, doused his head in cold water, pinched his waist, stared into the mirror. His face was contorted with excitement, fists clenched, trembling.
"This is it. My lucky break! I'm finally the chosen one!"
Ten minutes later, he sat in his rickety office chair, grinning dumbly. He scrolled through the system in his mind again.
"'Interstellar Merchant System' huh? Whatever. To me, this is the ultimate flipping system."
Old to new—if this was real, he had the world's most powerful supply chain. Marketplaces? Shops? Transport? Pfft. He didn't need any of that. He could make anything new.
From time to time, Xu Bin clenched his fist and swung it through the air. He couldn't wait. He slapped his hand onto the dusty old PC tower under his desk.
"Refurbish!"
"Warning: Required heat exceeds current storage. Execution denied."
Xu Bin blinked. The flashing 0/3 heat unit indicator mocked him. His joy twisted into disappointment.
Like watching your lottery ticket match the numbers... only to realize it was last week's draw.
He jumped up, ran to his bedroom, gripped the pillow, veins bulging, muttering—then shouting:
"Refurbish!"
"Insufficient heat. Execution denied."
Still no go. But wait—before, it said "exceeds storage." Now it says "insufficient heat." Does that mean...
Maybe, just maybe, the computer was impossible to refurbish right now. But the pillow? That was possible... with enough energy?
Xu Bin shook his head, slapped his cheeks, and psyched himself up.
"Xu Shuangquan, you've got this. You've always been different. This is your moment. Stay sharp. Don't miss it."
He calmed himself and carefully reread every detail of this so-called Flipper System.
"…Damn! Erasure?!"