"Chapter 1: Fiction vs. Reality

The late spring night was ink-dark, choked with clouds. A sudden explosion of curses tore through the ramshackle shantytown sprawl outside Panjiang City in Zhongzhou Province.

""Fuck me! How come this Wang Wei’s shit luck is just like mine? But I’ve got it way worse than him! Piece of crap author, you ain’t fair! Why the hell did he get that insane software that could make all those badasses his slaves? Why do I get jack shit?"" In a dim, dilapidated rental room, a shirtless man who looked middle-aged, huddled under a tattered quilt while shivering and browsing the internet, slammed his book shut and threw open the window. He glared into the murky night sky and roared his grievances.

Hao Da. His father had been mighty proud of that name for days after bestowing it, boasting about its imposing, authoritative sound. The reality, however, was that Hao Da had taken countless beatings since childhood, often ending up black-eyed like a panda because of it. Despite endless protests and tantrums demanding a name change, nothing ever stuck. He eventually gave up and accepted his fate.

The only silver lining was during Hao Da’s brief, more prosperous years, when acquaintances stopped calling him ""Brother Hao"" and upgraded him to ""Big Bro."" His father seized the moment: ""See? I told you I was great at names! Okay, maybe yours ain’t as powerful as mine, but it’s still pretty damn good.""

Hao Da cursed inwardly. I’d rather smash my head in than have a name like your joke of a moniker! At least I wouldn’t get beat up every other day. Why don’t you brag about how you hid indoors for years scared shitless of getting your ass kicked? You might wonder, what kind of legendary name could invite years of beatings? Brace yourselves: Hao Da’s father was named Hao Zuzong (Hao Ancestor), his grandfather Hao Da Die (Hao Big Daddy), and his great-grandfather Hao Da Ye (Hao Grandfather)...

""Sigh! Who asked for this batshit crazy family? Gotta accept the hand life dealt me,"" Hao Da muttered bitterly.

Currently, Hao Da was one of Panjiang City’s ""Southern Drifters"" – migrant workers who poured into the city after devastating southern floods. Before the deluge, folks in Panjiang lived comfortably, even the outsiders could make decent cash. But with entire provinces worth of labor flooding in practically overnight, human effort became dirt cheap.

Doctorates fared okay. Anyone with a Master's degree or lower? Screwed. Nearly starving and jobless. Forget about folks with diplomas from junior colleges or less.

Like Hao Da. School dropout. Barely into his twenties, yet he looked prematurely aged – hunched shoulders, slouched back, and the knock-kneed shuffle of someone chronically indoors: lacking affection, calcium, nutrition, and exercise. From afar, he resembled a man in his seventies or eighties. His lungs were shot (history of tuberculosis), his leg tendons cramped, turning him into a scrawny wreck. No construction site would hire him, even to lug bricks.

Just yesterday, jobless after another fruitless search, he witnessed a scene at the employment office. A construction site was hiring a few toilet cleaners for a measly 1,000 bucks a month, no meals, no housing included. Yet a crowd of kids with junior college diplomas were shoving each other to sign up. Arguments flared, escalating into a bloody brawl.

""This fucking world! Ain't giving nobody a chance!"" Hao Da screamed, overwhelmed by fury witnessing it.

His outburst triggered disaster. A kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen, clearly teetering on the edge under life’s pressure, snapped. After Hao Da’s shout, he started muttering frantically to himself, burst into manic laughter, then wailed, ""What kinda fucking world is this?! Who can live like this?! Come on, let's go to hell together!""

The kid went full psychotic. He pulled out a rusty kitchen knife from god-knows-where and started hacking at the applicants and the interviewers. Naturally, as the instigator, Hao Da wasn't spared. He caught two vicious slashes.

""Goddamnit! Can’t even shout without starting shit? Un-freaking-believable! Damn curse!"" Trembling violently, Hao Da stumbled towards the hospital, pulling out his last few crumpled bills.

""What?! 300 bucks per stitch?! 1,500 per night?! You bastards might as well rob me! Is this a hospital or a bandit's den?!"" Hao Da pounded the reception desk glass, yelling at the mildly attractive cashier.

""Either pay up or get lost! We don't treat penniless beggars! Ever hear ‘Money opens all doors, but debt pins you to the floor’? Ancient wisdom says one penny can crush a hero. And buddy? You ain't no hero. Quit your yapping!"" The cashier girl, meticulously filing her nails, delivered her piece of profound wisdom without a glance.

""Alright! Fine! I’ll pay! Just take it, goddamnit!"" As the saying goes, one drop of essence equals ten drops of blood. Firmly believing in ""YY for the strong body, masturbation for the strong nation"" and the core doctrine of unleashing fantasies on enemy women if you couldn’t defeat the invaders, the ever-patriotic Hao Da beat his meat religiously to JAV every midnight. This ‘patriotic health regimen’ had already drained his kidney energy; countless nocturnal tributes to Japanese AV stars had left his body weak and hollow.

Now, arteries slashed on both arms, blood soaking his clothes. Worse, the knife was rusted. Tetanus was a death sentence if it set in. To avoid ""dying before defeating the Japs,"" Hao Da, eyes brimming with bitter rage, gritted his teeth, counted out three crumpled notes, and slammed them onto the counter.

Stitches done, leaving the hospital, too broke for the bus, Hao Da fueled his human-powered ‘11 Bus’ – his own two feet – and trudged over ten miles back to the suburbs. He finally crawled up to his wind-threatened, illegally-built shack. Like a dead dog, he opened the door and collapsed onto his broken cot. Checking his cash: only three bills left! Fuck me sideways! Can’t survive like this! That goddamn flood took everything: home gone, family dead, nearly-got-laid girlfriend flown the coop.

Now stranded, broke… What to do? God, what do I do?! The despair deepened. Summoning his final reserves before starvation hit, Hao Da hobbled to the nearby, exorbitantly priced bandit-disguised-as-convenience-store and blew his last cash on a stash of instant noodles. Back in his shack, huddled with his laptop, he embraced utter defeat. Fuck it all.

""This life... ain't livable. I'm giving up. Once this ramen's gone... I'm joining the gangs. Got nothing left to lose. Get caught? Free government meals. Eighteen years later? Back as a new man! Not that I didn't try, Destiny's just got it in for me! Think about it! A genius like me? Talking at one, writing at two, dancing by five, mastering human anatomy by twelve, poetry and skirt-chasing by fifteen. Maybe I couldn't wrestle tigers or wrangle dragons, but in the underground arts? I was unmatched! I ain't bragging, but I'm damn sure better than that shameless troll Luo Yufeng!”

Standing in his shack’s doorway, running a hand through his wildly artistic hair, Hao Da sighed profoundly. That weathered silhouette – it was deep, far-reaching, stirring endless emotion in anyone who glimpsed it!

This profound state lasted days... until a street vendor pushing his tricycle couldn't take it anymore. Passing Hao Da’s wretched shack again, he aimed at the ""deep, far-reaching"" silhouette and spat: ""Damn it! Since when do trash-pickers get poetic?!""

Why me?! Did the heavens envy my talent?! Contemplating existence by the door each day yielded precisely nothing. After days of fruitless pondering, Hao Da surrendered to fate's cruel hand. Shivering with injured arms, enduring the biting cold in his garbage-adjacent, wooden shack, he raged at the heavens while nursing a bottle.

The rotgut was godawful fake Erguotou, costing 1.50 a bottle. Buying it, Hao Da chuckled darkly: Fake as hell. Pure grain alcohol, guaranteed. He took a swig and nearly choked on rage. No buzz?! Fake booze watered down?! Four bottles robbed me of six bucks! Like I got money to burn?! Stone-cold sober after four bottles, Hao Da saw red, smashing the empties against the wall in bitter fury.

Unable to drink himself stupid or fall asleep, he crawled back online. To rub salt in the wound, a once-in-a-decade cold snap hit – like Heaven itself was trolling him. No way to heat water for a bath, freezing his ass off. Unwashed for a week, he trawled Feiku Novels, desperately seeking a protagonist worse off than him. A bit of escapism might restore balance. Humans are sick creatures; seeing someone else suffering worse feels perversely good.

After several novels? Nothing. Not one character suffered more. Why so cursed?! The question gnawed at him.

Wait. Protagonist?

spark ignited in Hao Da’s chilled, book-blurred brain. He jerked upright, trembling violently with excitement. If life’s a show… what if I'm the protagonist? Does that mean some shitty author… or maybe a god… is snickering up there, pulling the strings of my fate?!

The thought took root, growing more unsettling. Unable to contain it, Hao Da burst through his door, yelling with all his might into the void:

""Author! I FUCK YOUR SISTER! I FUCK YOUR LITTLE SISTER! If you’ve got ears up there, open your damn eyes! Other heroes start out living it up! They’re some ancient god’s bro or a deity’s sworn brother! After a tiny bit of adventure, they conquer worlds, slaughter armies! So why the hell is THIS hero – ME – so fucking pathetic?! Name one hero worse off! You tell me?! HUH?!""

""IS THIS FAIR?! I’m talking to you! CAN YOU HEAR ME?! GODDAMN GARBAGE AUTHOR! I’M SAYING… I… FUCK… YOUR… LITTLE… SISTER! …AAAAAHHHH!!!!""

As the last syllable echoed – BOOM! A lightning bolt ripped through the cloud-choked darkness. The clouds contorted, twisting into a colossal, skull-like face visible to the naked eye. Within it, clouds spun into a vortex, sucking in air with a terrifying WOOSH. A voice, louder than any thunder, pierced the heavens, accompanied by blinding flashes:

""SHUT THE HELL UP! Keep yelling and I’ll blow you to hell! Get lost and read 'The Slave Master'! That JB hero Wang Wei had it way worse than you! He struggled through it! An entrance needs impact! Can’t handle a little hardship? Then you ain’t fit to be some lousy hero! Bug me again and I’ll descend and castrate you myself!""

The voice faded, the thunderous echoes dying away.

Enlightenment struck. Hao Da stood frozen, tears carving tracks down his grimy cheeks. Gods are real. I’m really the hero! But… what unholy sin did I commit? My patron god is a thug?! No wonder his decent self turned so crude! Bad leadership corrupts. Hang with scum, become scum.

If you can't beat fate's forceful entry... might as well relax and enjoy it. Calm settled over Hao Da. He obediently clicked on the link that would alter his destiny...

And thus, we return to where this chapter began."