The calm before the storm is always particularly precious.

  Tonight, the lights of District 13 seemed exceptionally warm. Although the outside world remained that cold, cybernetic dystopia filled with wanted posters, inside John Doe’s dilapidated shipping container apartment—now converted into a "Community Makeshift Clinic"—the air was thick with a long-lost scent of domestic normalcy.

  A large long table, cobbled together from several door panels, sat in the center of the clinic, occupying what used to be the living room.

  The table was piled high with food. It wasn't a feast of delicacies, but for this family that had always struggled on the poverty line, it was a banquet.

  A golden-brown, aromatic roast turkey occupied the center stage (C-position). It was a prize John had snatched from the supermarket’s near-expiration clearance bin using his last few coins. Although small, after being marinated with Margaret’s special spice blend and roasted with Bone’s millisecond-precise heat control (using a fire made from scrapped circuit boards), it was sizzling with oil.

  Beside it were several side dishes: a tower of mashed potatoes made from cheap synthetic tubers, a salad of carrots and cabbage, and a bottle of red wine—half-full—bartered from Veteran Harry.

  "Dinner time! Time to eat!"

  Margaret sat in her wheelchair, directing the operation. Her complexion was much better than before, and her left arm was wrapped in thick bandages packed with the special herbal pouches Singularity had sent. Although the disease wasn't cured, the shadow of death that had loomed over her head had finally dissipated for now.

  "Bone, don't just stand there like a statue, bring the soup!"

  "Coming, coming, Mom!"

  Bone looked like a child afraid of being scolded for making a mistake, carefully carrying a pot of steaming cream of mushroom soup. He shrank his massive skeletal frame, terrified of bumping into anything.

  "Careful, hot, hot," Bone placed the soup in the center of the table, then stood awkwardly to the side, unsure where to sit.

  "Sit down," John pulled out a chair and pressed him into it. "Family dinner today. No standing allowed."

  "But Boss... I can't eat," Bone pointed to his drafty jaw.

  "You have to sit even if you can't eat. It's about the ritual." Margaret glared at him, then pushed the glass of red wine in front of her toward Bone. "Smelling it counts. That's the vibe."

  "Where's Grace?"

  "I'm here!"

  A flash of blue light. Grace's holographic projection appeared above the table. She had changed into a new skin for the occasion—a cute red plaid skirt with a Santa hat on her head (even though it was summer).

  Although she couldn't eat, she was in charge of the BGM. She queued up a cheerful, old-school jazz track: "What a Wonderful World."

  Louis Armstrong's raspy, warm voice instantly filled the drafty little shack.

  John sat at the head of the table, looking at this table of "family."

  A hemophobic necromancer.

  A mother fighting a terminal illness.

  A skeleton with no flesh.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  A cyber-ghost living in a tablet.

  And the divine beast turtle, Xuanwu, hiding under the shrine, secretly gnawing on a chicken bone.

  What a freak show of a family.

  But it was this group of freaks who, in this rotten world, huddled together for warmth, supported each other, and stubbornly lived out a semblance of humanity.

  "Come, raise your glasses."

  John raised his cup filled with sparkling water.

  "To... today."

  John said softly.

  "To us still being alive. To this meal. To this home."

  "To living!"

  Everyone cheered in unison. The cups clinked together with a crisp sound.

  After dinner.

  John quietly slipped away from the crowd and walked onto the balcony.

  The rain outside had stopped. The air was still murky, but tonight, a few stars were actually visible.

  "What? The big hero is feeling sentimental?"

  Daoist Singularity’s voice came through the earpiece.

  John smiled and looked at the Yin-Yang iPad in his hand. On the screen, the red number representing his debt was still glaring.

  "Master, I'm not a hero," John whispered. "I was just... lucky."

  "Luck is part of strength," Singularity’s voice was lazy. "But don't celebrate too early. You broke the game this time because you caught Moriarty off guard. Next time, he will calculate your every move to death."

  John’s hand gripped the railing tight.

  "I know. So I have to get stronger."

  His gaze turned cold and sharp.

  "Relying on summoning isn't enough. I need my own power. At least... I need to learn how to fight without fainting from blood."

  "Teachable." Singularity laughed. "So, I've prepared a 'New Feature' and a 'Summer Special Training Plan' for you."

  Singularity tapped the screen a few times, and the interface of the Yin-Yang iPad changed. Next to the original [Heroic Spirit Summon] icon, a new button appeared: [Cross-Boundary Aid (Beta)].

  "What's this?" John asked.

  "Remember your livestream room?" Singularity explained. "That Eastern internet platform isn't just a streaming site; it's a massive talent pool."

  "[Hell Connect] has upgraded. Besides summoning dead Heroic Spirits (consuming Merit), you can now use this interface to directly contact living 'Real-World Experts' from that plane."

  "Real-World Experts?"

  "Correct. This is called 'Knowledge Payment.' It doesn't consume Merit, only bandwidth fees and New Bucks (money from livestream tips). If you want to learn self-defense, you can hire a martial arts champion for private lessons; if you want to learn psychological regulation, you can hire a psychiatrist."

  "But I have no money," John laughed bitterly.

  "If you have no money, there are ways to train without money." Singularity suddenly became serious, pulling up a document titled [Daoist Basic Cultivation Manual (Cyber Edition)].

  "As an Underworld Agent, your physical fitness is trash. Hemophobia happens because your 'Shen' (Spirit/Mind) cannot suppress your 'Qi' (Physiological Reaction). So, starting tomorrow, you will practice these four things:"

  1. Bigu (Intermittent Fasting):

  "Don't misunderstand, I'm not telling you to starve. I mean eating only 'High Energy, Low Waste' foods to reduce the burden on your gut and put your body into a 'Low Power, High Sensitivity' state. This helps purge toxins and saves money on food."

  2. Five Animal Frolics (Wu Qin Xi):

  "This is the good stuff left by Hua Tuo. Tiger Style for bones, Deer Style for tendons, Bear Style for digestion, Ape Style for agility, Bird Style for cardio. Practice this with a video tutorial every morning; it’s a hundred times better than lifting tires in that junkyard."

  3. Entering Samadhi (Meditation & Mindfulness):

  "This is to cure your hemophobia. Spend one hour every day thinking of nothing, focusing only on your breath. When you can control your own heart rate, you won't faint at the sight of blood. This is called 'Forced Calm'."

  4. Plum Blossom Piles (Balance Training):

  "I've set up a formation on your roof. It's basically a bunch of wooden stakes of varying heights. Walk on them without falling off. This trains 'Footwork' and 'Focus.' Next time you're chased, at least you'll run faster than everyone else."

  John looked at the dense schedule and swallowed. "Master, isn't this... a bit too retro?"

  "Retro? This is classic!" Singularity glared at him. "These are 'Human Body Optimization Algorithms' precipitated over thousands of years. Once you master them, even without Zhao Yun possessing you, you can take on ten guys! Plus, training these will increase your spiritual energy reserves. Later on, your summoning time can go from 5 minutes to 10 minutes!"

  "Alright, cut the crap. Up at 5 AM tomorrow, start training!"

  Beep—

  The call ended.

  John put away the iPad, turned around, and looked through the window at the warm light inside, at the smile on Margaret's face.

  Although the road ahead was still treacherous, although he was still a pauper buried in debt.

  He had a direction.

  He was no longer the waste who could only hide behind others. He was going to become strong, using his own two hands to protect this hard-earned home.

  "No matter who comes."

  John straightened the hoodie that was worn but washed clean, his eyes burning with a flame called "Hope."

  "As long as I'm standing, this place... is a Restricted Zone."

  (Volume 1: The Hemophobic Necromancer — End.)

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