Chapter 1: Three Days of Destiny

"Three days? But I don't want to die just like that—"

The nightmare that haunted the young man lying in bed was shattered by the sudden shrill of a phone.

"I'm above the sun and the moon—"

The ringtone of an old-fashioned phone jolted him fully awake.

"Who the hell—"

His curse followed swiftly.

An elderly phone from 2019 was a rare thing, after all.

As Zhang Ze picked up the phone, he heard a groan coming from the adjacent room.

"Damn!"

"Fatty, you'll end up drowning yourself one of these days!"

There was no response from the other room, but the phone in his hand continued to roar.

After all the commotion, Zhang Ze was now completely awake. The nightmare still lingered in his mind, but when he saw the name on the screen, his anger dissipated, replaced by a sycophantic smile.

"Fatty Three—"

The nickname was swallowed before it reached his lips; after all, this was his benefactor.

"Kid, whose belly was so soft that you dragged your feet answering my call?"

A rough female voice sounded from the other end.

Just from the voice, one might well imagine a two-hundred-pound woman.

But Zhang Ze grinned and replied, "Of course not, sis. You wouldn't believe it, I was just in the bathroom."

"Hmph."

A cold snort.

"Cut the crap. I’ve got a lucrative job for you. Do you want it or not?"

The moment she finished, Zhang Ze responded eagerly, "Yes, yes, yes..."

"As you say, who can say no to money?"

"At noon today, twelve o'clock, at the entrance to Willow Grove, someone will meet you."

"Eight thousand, just transferring some goods."

Knowing her ways, Zhang Ze had already guessed what this meant.

Eight thousand, just like that?

"Alright, sis."

Wise enough not to ask further, Zhang Ze’s reply was a bit greasy.

"Sister Three, about those pills I asked you to handle before..."

He hesitated, remembering the items he’d entrusted to her.

"Heh."

"Didn’t forget, did you?"

"Of course not," Zhang Ze deflected, then fell silent.

"Don't worry. These things always have a market. You’ll get your money this afternoon."

"Thank you, sis."

His flattery was extreme.

But for Zhang Ze, this was routine.

"Heh."

"Beep—"

Birds of a feather, she had no intention of questioning the origin of the pills.

To her, Zhang Ze’s goods were merely small change.

…

"Ah—"

As soon as he hung up, a satisfied groan echoed from the next room.

Whether it was the groans next door or the memory of the fat woman on the phone, Zhang Ze felt nauseated.

He tidied himself up, and was soon ready to leave.

"Ten thirty."

He muttered, glancing at the calendar on the desk—June 7th, 2019.

He had drifted through this world for nearly two hundred days now.

And the time left to him was dwindling.

…

Muttering to himself, Zhang Ze stepped outside.

"Fatty, I’m heading out."

He shouted at the tightly closed door beside him and received only a feeble reply, but he was used to this.

Leaving the rented apartment, his thoughts lingered on the calendar.

"Since I haven’t torn off today’s page, does that make it June 8th?"

He checked again with the old phone.

Seeing the date on the screen, Zhang Ze’s expression was bitter; he shook his head.

Distracted as he was, he knew these alleys well.

A few steps, and the bus stop was in sight.

…

"So by this count, I have three days left?"

His expression was as helpless as ever.

At the stop, with no bus in sight, he couldn’t help but recall his miserable two hundred days as a transmigrant.

…

"Others who cross worlds end up as saviors, children of destiny, all kinds of big shots. Why is my fate so wretched?"

He cursed the heavens. In the bright sunlight, a faint interface appeared before him:

Wealth: 38,000

Cell Strength: 120

Cell Mentality: 120

Skills: Shield (Next skill will be born in three days.)

Looking at the last line, Zhang Ze was both angry and resentful.

One skill in a hundred days, and he’d been in this world for one hundred and ninety-seven.

The only skill he had was utterly useless.

…

"Beep, beep—"

His thoughts were interrupted by the bus horn.

He was familiar with the driver of Route 250; Zhang Ze glanced at him and boarded.

Seeing his gloomy face, the driver frowned slightly.

Not wanting to ruin his own mood, the driver ignored him.

With a roar, the bus merged into traffic.

Seated, Zhang Ze’s thoughts returned.

…

"Well, only three days left—"

"There’s no need to be so cautious about the pills anymore."

With this in mind, Zhang Ze’s demeanor lost its earlier defeat.

The memory of dying poor and frustrated in his previous life still lingered.

He’d let go of the obsession with cell strength and martial prowess that everyone here pursued.

With a cell strength of 120S, Zhang Ze had already crossed the threshold of a first-grade martial artist.

Unfortunately, the flaws of his system remained unresolved.

His martial path had seen no progress since.

…

Twelve twenty.

Zhang Ze arrived at Willow Grove Lane.

The weather was scorching, and at noon, not a soul was visible along the hundred-meter stretch.

Which suited him; he had no idea if the other party would bring a tail.

Ten minutes later.

A slight figure approached from the distance.

As the man drew near, Zhang Ze could see his face: middle-aged.

"Thud—"

Before Zhang Ze, still several meters away, the man stopped.

With a dull thump, the black shoulder bag in his hand landed in Zhang Ze’s arms.

"Heh."

"Quite a talent."

The man laughed softly, muttering as he looked at Zhang Ze.

With cell strength over the limit of 100S, the other clearly noticed.

Zhang Ze could roughly judge the man was likely a second-grade martial artist.

"No wonder I felt suppressed."

Seeing Zhang Ze’s grave expression, the man relaxed further.

Having 120S before even breaking through first grade meant Zhang Ze had strong martial talent, but for a second-grade, it was insignificant.

First grade was only the beginning.

Some spent their whole lives forging their bodies; even without breakthroughs or connecting meridians, the ultimate cell strength could reach 199S.

But if they never broke through to first grade, they’d never step into the ranks of martial artists.

…

"Kid, judging by your cell strength, you’ve surpassed the limit."

"Let me tell you, for paupers like us, breaking through the limit isn’t necessarily a good thing."

As if the man had touched a nerve, Zhang Ze’s expression turned icy.

He whispered in his mind, "Shield—"

The words echoed in his mind, but the man showed no reaction.

Shaking his head helplessly, Zhang Ze replied coldly, "You talk too much. If you’ve nothing more to say about this, you can go."

"Heh."

Seeing Zhang Ze’s shame and anger, the man shrugged and laughed, "Someone will come to collect it."

With that, he walked away.

…

"Damn it, go to hell!"

"Useless golden finger, worthless skill!"

After cursing, Zhang Ze felt powerless.

The chief of the Investigation Division, a seventh-grade martial artist and the strongest in Anqing Province, had no innate skills.

Let alone a second-grade martial artist.

"Martial artists have nine grades; cell strength is the foundation."

He muttered, his tone growing heavier and colder.

Before the second skill was born, if he didn’t master the first—Shield—Zhang Ze would die.

The flaws of his system left him powerless.

His shield skill was nothing but chicken ribs in this world!

Here, people pursued the extreme body, terrifying cell strength.

As in novels from his former world, this was a world of body refinement—where was the magic skill to be found?