Fat Landlord Bob scrubbed himself in the shower five full times after escaping the "Chili Powder & Lube" nightmare. Yet, he still felt a lingering, pungent sourness in his nose, and his hair seemed permanently greased with industrial oil.

  He stood before the mirror, staring at his face—swollen like a pig’s head from allergies—and the massive lump on his forehead courtesy of an empty soda can.

  "Humiliation... Absolute humiliation!"

  Bob smashed an expensive bottle of cologne onto the floor. This wasn't just physical pain; it was the collapse of his "Face" (Reputation).

  He was the sub-landlord of this block, the Guild's proxy, the local tyrant of the 13th Street. People used to bow and scrape. Now? He’d been soaked like a drowned rat in front of a bunch of paupers and mocked by a damn skeleton for swimming like a toad!

  If word got out, how could he hustle in the underworld? How could he pretend to be a big shot in the Upper Sector clubs?

  "John Doe... you want to play games?"

  Bob's eyes flashed with venomous spite.

  "Bulldozers can't move you, huh? Got lots of traps, do you?"

  "Fine. You have traps; I have the switch."

  He picked up the phone and dialed a number. On the other end was his brother-in-law, Tom, a supervisor at the Municipal Power Department—his biggest backer for bullying tenants.

  "Hello, Tom. It's me. I need a favor."

  Bob's voice sounded like it was squeezed through clenched teeth.

  "Cut the water and power to Building 404. 13th Street... completely."

  "Yes, everything. Not just the meter—weld the underground water mains shut! And the network! Block the signal tower too!"

  "I want that broken fortress to become a living coffin with no water, no light, and no net! I want him to kneel and beg me for a sip of water!"

  [The 13th Street, John's Clinic]

  It was high noon, theoretically the brightest time of the day. But suddenly, the room plunged into darkness.

  ZZZT—

  The overhead fluorescent light, recently repaired, flickered twice and died.

  Following it were the humming refrigerator, the working air purifier, and... the holographic screen in front of Margaret, where she was undergoing a remote consultation.

  Fzzzt.

  The image vanished. The kindly old TCM doctor on the other side had just said halfway: "...after drinking this medicine, the most critical step is..."

  The signal cut before he could finish.

  "What happened? Power outage?" Margaret looked blankly at the black screen. She had just finished the hot medicine; her body was sweating—a critical phase of detoxing.

  "Probably a tripped breaker." John didn't think much of it initially. Circuit aging was common in the slums.

  He walked to the sink to get a cup of water for his mother to rinse her mouth.

  He turned the tap.

  Gurgle... Pfft.

  No water came out. Only a burst of turbid rust dust, followed by dry silence.

  John's hand froze.

  A power outage was explainable. A water cut?

  He pulled out his phone to call the power company.

  [No Signal]

  He couldn't even make an emergency call.

  "Something's wrong." John's heart sank.

  He ran to the window and looked at the neighbors.

  Uncle George's hot dog stand next door was still steaming; the laundromat across the street was brightly lit. The entire street had power. Only their building stood like an isolated island, plunged into dead silence and darkness.

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  "It's targeted." John gritted his teeth. "That fat bastard."

  "Boss, we have a problem." Bone walked out of the shadows. His Soul Fire was bright in the dark, but it couldn't light up the home. "We don't have much water stored, maybe enough for two days. And... Mom is still detoxing."

  Margaret, sitting in her wheelchair, began to shiver.

  The medicine was meant to induce sweating. Now, with the heating cut (the electric radiator stopped), the room temperature was plummeting. The damp sweat on her body turned into a layer of ice-cold wet cloth.

  "Cold... John... so cold..." Margaret shrank her neck, her face turning pale.

  "Mom!" John rushed over, wrapping all the blankets around her. "Bone! Fire! Chop up the old furniture!"

  "Can't do it, Boss!" Bone said urgently. "Master Lu Ban sealed this place too well against poison gas. If we start a fire, the smoke won't vent, and we'll all suffocate!"

  No electricity. No heat. No hot water.

  For a healthy person, this was inconvenient. But for Margaret, who was critically weak and undergoing special treatment, this fatal temperature drop could allow the cold to invade her system, undoing all their efforts and even accelerating the crystallization.

  "What did the doctor say? What was the critical step?" John was sweating anxiously, but he couldn't contact the doctor anymore.

  "Grace! Grace!" John slapped the black screen of the iPad.

  No response.

  The iPad was an artifact, but it still needed charging. After last night's battle and the all-night surveillance, Grace's backup power was already in the red. Now, with the power cut, she was like a ghost stranded on an island—completely disconnected.

  "I'll go find power!"

  John grabbed a screwdriver, intending to rush out and pry open the external distribution box.

  But as he reached the door, he found a note slipped through the crack.

  Thought it through yet?

  Pay the 3200. or get out.

  Friendly Reminder: There's a cold wave tonight. Good luck.

  —Bob

  John crumpled the note.

  He rushed to the distribution box downstairs. It had been welded shut and wrapped in barbed wire with a [High Voltage Danger] sign.

  Worse, the main line connecting the box had been physically severed, the cut end filled with industrial superglue. Intentional sabotage.

  "Damn it..."

  John tried to splice the wires with his screwdriver, but while he knew necromancy, he was a novice at electrical engineering. The complex wiring diagram made him dizzy.

  Just then, his smart wristband flickered weakly.

  Grace used her last bit of backup power to forcibly project her consciousness. But this time, she didn't appear as the cute holographic girl; she was just a line of green code.

  [Boss, I just tried to assault the main control system of the power grid.]

  [But... I failed.]

  [Their firewall has been upgraded. It's a military-grade 'Logic Lock.' And they physically severed the interface to this building. If I force a breach, I need massive computing power—which would instantly drain my battery—and it would trigger an alarm, summoning 'Electronic Hounds' designed to hunt spirits.]

  [The old me would have rushed in regardless, even if it meant mutual destruction, to get the power back.]

  [But... I remembered what you said.]

  ['Anger doesn't save people. Calmness does.']

  [If I drain my battery or get caught now, you lose your eyes and ears completely. In this critical moment, I cannot let the team lose intelligence support.]

  [So... I came back.]

  [Boss, I'm sorry. I couldn't bring back the light.]

  John looked at the faint text, his eyes moistening.

  This usually tsundere, impulsive cyber-ghost, after surviving last night's ordeal, had finally learned... patience.

  This was a growth far more precious than simple strength.

  "It's okay, Grace." John whispered to the wristband. "You did the right thing. As long as the green hills remain, there'll be wood to burn."

  He returned to the room.

  Margaret was drifting into semi-consciousness. She was burning up with a fever. The stress reaction caused by the cold invasion was eroding her fragile immune system.

  "Cold... John... so cold..."

  Bone detached one of his own ribs (heating it with his Soul Fire) and carefully placed it at Margaret's feet, trying to provide a little warmth.

  But it was a drop in the bucket.

  Without power, the life support system couldn't run.

  Without power, there was no hot water.

  Without power, this wasn't a home; it was an ice cellar.

  John stood in the dark living room, looking out at the city lights.

  The neon of the Upper Sector dyed the sky purple. People there enjoyed climate control, 24-hour hot water, even heated toilet seats.

  Here, just because of a landlord's ego, just because of a Guild order, they had to wait for death in the cold night.

  Is this civilization?

  Are these the rules?

  "Since you cut off the light..."

  John clenched his fists, nails digging deep into his flesh.

  "Do you think we'll kneel in the darkness?"

  He walked to the shrine and rummaged through the dusty "Newbie Gift Pack" left by Daoist Singularity.

  He dumped the pile of messy talismans onto the table, flipping through them one by one by the moonlight.

  Immobilization Talisman... Cleansing Talisman... Exorcism Talisman...

  Finally, at the very bottom, he found a yellow paper drawn with strange lightning symbols.

  It was an... [Electro-Induction Talisman] (Lightning Rod Talisman).

  But having the talisman wasn't enough. He needed someone who could convert this raw "energy" into stable "electricity."

  A true... Lord of Thunder.

  John took out the iPad and used the last bit of Psionic Power in his body to force the screen on.

  Merit Points: 0.

  New Currency: 0.

  But suddenly, a golden envelope icon popped up in the top right corner of the screen.

  [System Notification: Congratulations, Agent 9527.]

  [In view of your successful repulsion of the Guild's advanced armed forces in the previous "Battle of Changban," maintaining temporary stability in the area (13th Street), the Underworld Risk Control Department has re-evaluated your "Credit Rating."]

  [Current Credit Rating: D (Potential Stock with Investment Value).]

  [Special Approval: The Underworld Accountant has authorized a one-time "Emergency Overdraft Limit."]

  [Limit: 50.000 Merit Points (One-time use only).]

  "Fifty thousand..." John looked at the number and laughed bitterly.

  This money was a credit limit bought with his life.

  It was also his only hope now.

  "Grace, give me your last bit of power."

  "Boss?"

  "I need to make a call. To a madman who can turn the lightning in the sky... into energy for our lightbulbs."

  John looked at the gloomy sky outside the window, a crazy smile curling his lips.

  "Since you won't give me electricity."

  "I'll make it myself!"

  He pressed that name.

  [Nikola Tesla].

  [Message from Singularity]

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