Xu Bin had no idea how many types of rewards the Attribute Wheel offered, but just a glance revealed there were at least a hundred different options. And yet—despite the odds—his second weekly reward spin gave him the same result: +10kg Strength.
"Weekly Mission: Refurbish 5 Televisions. Reward: Attribute Wheel Spin."
A new mission was issued. Xu Bin had hoped it would involve phones or something new, but it was just an upgraded version of the first task. A little disappointing, sure—but the solid rewards made up for the monotony. It was like grinding the same map in a game—boring, but rewarding enough to keep going.
Maybe he didn't have enough heat energy to refurbish a phone yet, or maybe he was completing the weekly tasks too quickly. The monthly mission still wasn't done either.
He looked at the last fridge in the shop. He didn't fully trust his former master, Li Jiuren. When money's involved, human nature could be dangerous. Having more strength for self-defense? Never a bad thing.
He could feel the power coursing through him. With a firm grip, he hoisted the fridge—nearly 50kg—without breaking a sweat. Even if everything fell apart, he could make more money doing hard labor than scraping by with a repair shop.
He closed the shop and treated himself to a buffet hotpot. During the meal, a few repair calls came in. But judging by experience, they weren't worth the effort. His interest in repairs had dwindled; now he cared more about acquiring secondhand goods from clients.
He stopped by Han Ge's secondhand parts store and bought several TVs and fridges. Since he purchased in bulk, Han Ge even covered the transport fee.
Before the evening rush hit, Xu Bin cycled to the train station and into the bustling downtown. This time, he didn't act like a cheapskate. He stopped at two different real estate agencies, stated exactly what kind of shop he was looking for, and left deposits—with the condition that the lease would start a week later.
A week to gather cash—just in case the perfect spot showed up at a slightly higher price.
In the past, when Xu Bin squeezed through rush-hour crowds on his beat-up bike, he always felt out of place in the city. A nobody. Someone who didn't belong. The pressure made him want to quit—head back to his hometown and live a quiet life. He couldn't even promise his sisters a trip to visit. The city was beautiful, but not for people like him.
Now, it was different. Now, he held his head high. With this system, as long as he worked hard, someday—he would own part of this city. A home, a business, a place where he belonged—not just a tenant or passerby.
Back at his shop, silence greeted him as usual. In the past, he'd distract himself with online games or mindless phone chats. No girlfriend, no looks, no money—his only weapon was a silver tongue and blind optimism.
But today? Today was different. He had pizza. It sucked, but still—it was pizza. He bought two full bags of groceries: one for high-calorie intake, the other just for pleasure. He closed the shop, dimmed the lights, and began organizing.
He used his new strength to move fridges and TVs around, getting in a bit of physical training to burn the fat from all those calories.
Looking at his tools and old junk, he realized: there wasn't much to take if he moved out. Most of it was worthless scrap. He spent the evening collecting copper wires and iron pieces, planning to sell them the next day.
By midnight, he was still going—not because the system was slow, but because he couldn't eat fast enough. Luckily, being a foodie helped. Coke flowed freely. One fridge was plugged in just to chill it. Heaven.
He had spent nearly a fifth of his current wealth on new stock: three fridges and four LCD TVs from Han Ge. One of the fridges was a three-door deluxe model, and the TVs included a 42-inch and a 36-inch—hot items in malls. If they weren't so beat-up, Han Ge wouldn't have sold them cheap.
He lay in bed, trying to sleep, but excitement kept him up. He scrolled through WeChat, looking at random posts and photos. Eventually, he opened "People Nearby"—just wanting someone to talk to.
He found a profile: a 28-year-old woman, pink sunglasses, stylish, body pic, no album posts. He messaged a simple "Hi."
It was just small talk. Neither cared to know the other's real life. They chatted nonsense for over two hours, until Xu Bin sent a message and fell asleep waiting for a reply.
2:35 AM.
Xu Bin had just spent two hours chatting with a woman who would someday change his life forever. But that night, all they exchanged was fluff—just like the early days of QQ chatrooms.
Still, it worked like a charm. They both fell asleep without even knowing how close they actually were.
Xu Bin woke naturally, sunlight already beaming in. The lack of morning calls only proved what he already knew: his repair business was dead.
For once, he was the customer. The real estate agent had two spots ready for him to view at 3 p.m. Both landlords were fine with giving him a few days before move-in. His "unreasonable" request turned out to be completely acceptable.
Feeling good, Xu Bin covered his new appliances with cloth. One call came in for a washing machine repair. He debated ignoring it—but in the end, went anyway.
After a quick meal and grabbing a Coke, he biked to the client's place. The issue was simple. The spin drum on an old twin-tub washer had stopped turning. A newbie might think it was serious. Xu Bin took one look and already knew.
He pretended to examine the control panel. "Timer switch is busted," he said, tapping it with a screwdriver.
"How much to fix?" asked the owner—a nostalgic type, judging from the well-maintained old appliances in the house.
"Parts 25. Labor 15."
They tried to haggle, but Xu Bin stood firm. He replaced nothing. The timer switch was fine. He cleaned the old one, reattached it, and even faked a broken part as the "replacement." The real issue? A loose belt. He reconnected it like a bike chain.
It wasn't fraud. It was... the industry norm.
If the customer had just removed the back panel, they'd have seen the issue themselves. But they didn't. And he got paid.
Sometimes, people don't pay for skill—they pay for certainty.