Li Ge carried the headset over to the west-facing window—one of the only spots in his room that got any sunlight in the afternoon. The other three walls were almost completely shaded.
He pulled over a chair and placed the headset in the sunbeam.
As soon as the light hit the surface, a mechanical voice chimed in:
"Charging initiated. Estimated time to full charge: 60 days."
Sixty days?!
Li Ge stood there, speechless. That was way longer than he expected. And the voice only triggered when sunlight hit the device—meaning it had to be exposed constantly for two straight months. Factor in cloudy days or poor lighting? It could easily take four months.
That was unacceptable. His room only got two or three hours of sun a day, max. At that rate, the headset might never finish charging.
He had no choice. He needed to move.
Now that he understood how powerful Transcendent Mind truly was, it was clear—the headset was his key to changing everything. He had once told himself that he'd never touch the device again after escaping the game world. But now?
Now he was laughing at himself.
So this is what they mean by "the law of too good to resist."
Just one beginner mission had unlocked a life-changing ability. What else could he gain if he kept playing?
The risk? He didn't even care anymore.
The thought of someone else getting their hands on the headset made him anxious. So moving into a new place—a place where he could keep it safe and charge it fast—was now urgent.
Truthfully, he'd grown sick of his current rental anyway. The constant noise, the hellish subway commute—nearly two hours a day just to get to work.
He pulled out his phone and opened a rental app, searching for places near his office.
After about an hour of scrolling, he finally found something promising.
A high-end building called Champs Élysées Gardens—right next to a subway stop, just three stations from his office, no transfers. The unit was on the 21st floor, top level, 110 square meters, with full east-west exposure. Sunlight all day long.
Perfect for charging.
But… the rent was brutal.
12,000 yuan a month, quarterly payment required—so 36,000 upfront.
A few months ago, he wouldn't have even clicked on a listing like this. But now? He was seriously considering it.
Some expenses were negotiable. This one wasn't. This was an investment in the headset.
And Transcendent Mind had already proven to be more valuable than anything money could buy. If he could get back into the game sooner, unlock more abilities, this rent would pay for itself ten times over.
Plus, the building had strict security, 24/7 surveillance, and solid management. Ideal for protecting something as valuable as the headset.
Li Ge made up his mind. After claiming his lottery winnings tomorrow, he would rent the apartment immediately.
But first—he had to take a day off.
He opened his contacts and scrolled to "Zheng Shaohua." Just seeing the name made his face twist with disgust.
Zheng was his department manager. A petty, power-hungry manipulator.
Li Ge worked at Anming Trust, a subsidiary of Anming Group. He was in the personal wealth sales team—his job was to sell high-end financial products produced by the firm. Minimum investment? One million yuan. Their clients were all high-net-worth individuals or institutions—banks, brokerages, insurance firms, and so on.
He'd been at it for six months. And to be honest? It sucked.
The hours were long, the business trips endless, and the client dinners exhausting. Plus, everything was commission-based. Your salary depended entirely on how much you sold.
For top performers, the income gap was insane. One team member could earn ten times more than another.
Some months, Li Ge only made 5,000 to 6,000 yuan. Good months, maybe 12,000. On average? 7,000 or 8,000.
Meanwhile, there were veterans in the department pulling in 400,000 to 500,000 a year. Sometimes, his monthly salary wasn't even a tenth of theirs.
He knew why he lagged behind: no connections, no wealthy friends, no family backing. Just a fresh grad trying to stay afloat in a cutthroat industry.
The real thorn, though, was Zheng Shaohua.
The guy manipulated the team's performance reports, redirecting sales numbers to his favorites—just enough to inflate their bonuses while quietly shaving from others.
At Anming Trust, commission rates scaled by volume. Sell 10 million yuan worth of product, and you'd get a 0.3% commission—30,000 yuan. But hit 20 million? That same 10 million would be worth 0.4%—40,000 yuan.
That difference—10,000 yuan—was Zheng's playground.
Every month, before submitting final numbers, he'd "adjust" the figures. A team member who had only sold 9 million? Zheng would top them up with 1 million borrowed from someone else, so they'd hit the 10-million bonus tier.
The lucky one might get an extra 3,000 yuan. Zheng? He'd skim 6,000 for himself.
He even paid off the person who lost their sales credit—throw them a few hundred yuan to keep quiet. Everyone walked away with something, so no one complained.
And the company? Completely in the dark.
Zheng managed a team of over 50 people. The opportunities for abuse were endless.
Li Ge had fallen victim more than once. When his paycheck looked low, he confronted Zheng, who put on a show—checking "records," pretending it was a mistake.
A few days later, Zheng would call him in and say, "Ah, I found the issue. Give me your bank account, I'll send over the missing bonus directly."
At first, Li Ge thought it was weird, but didn't think much of it.
But then came the retaliation.
Zheng started docking his performance, reassigning the most difficult clients to him, giving him no support.
Still, Li Ge didn't quit.
He'd finally built up a small client base, and even if the environment was toxic, it was better than starting from scratch elsewhere.
He clenched his phone tightly. One more day. He just needed one day off to cash in the tickets and change his life—for good.