The night was deep. In the 13th District, the long-lost lights finally dimmed as the pre-dawn hours approached. Most people had fallen into a heavy slumber. John couldn't hold on any longer; although the crushing weight of the 25,800 credit debt still sat on his chest like a concrete slab, physical exhaustion dragged him into the abyss of sleep.

  However, this was not a peaceful rest.

  Ding—

  A notification sound—extremely faint, yet capable of triggering neural resonance—exploded directly within the depths of his cerebral cortex.

  John snapped his eyes open—or rather, he thought he did.

  He found that he wasn't lying in his drafty rental unit.

  He was sitting in the back seat of a speeding luxury hypercar. Outside the window was the glittering neon nightscape of the New Babylon Upper Sector. Inside, expensive jazz flowed like silk, mingling with the aroma of vintage champagne.

  "Mr. Doe, your itinerary for tonight is set."

  A secretary wearing black stockings, with a body hot enough to melt servers, turned around holding a file. Her voice was sweet and sticky, like a spoonful of fresh honey, every syllable landing precisely on John’s pleasure points.

  "This is the property deed for the 'Black Gold Tower' you just acquired. This is your dividend report for the quarter... Oh, and this..."

  The secretary leaned in close. Her face, exquisite and flawless, wore an expression of dizzying adoration.

  "This is your 'Soul Debt Waiver.' Just sign here, and all the money you owe will turn into fuel for this car."

  She handed a glittering gold contract to John, sliding a Montblanc fountain pen into his hand.

  John instinctively gripped the pen.

  The tactile sensation was too real. The grain of the leather seats, the fizz of the champagne, the body heat radiating from the beautiful secretary... everything screamed: This is real. You made it. You won.

  "Sign it, Mr. Doe..." The secretary held his hand, guiding the nib toward the signature line.

  In that instant, John’s heart hammered against his ribs.

  If I sign, I won’t be chased by that damn Scholarship Fund anymore.

  If I sign, Mom can move into a luxury tower to recover.

  If I sign...

  "Wait."

  John’s finger froze.

  He looked down at the contract. While the main clauses were written in flowery prose, there was a line of fine print at the bottom, small enough to be missed by a microscope:

  【Party A (John Doe) voluntarily forfeits 100% of frontal lobe ownership rights and 99% of liver ownership rights as collateral for this agreement.】

  "Frontal lobotomy?" Cold sweat instantly drenched John’s back.

  He shoved the secretary away.

  "I’m not signing! What the hell is this?!"

  "My, my... John-honey is being naughty~"

  The smile on the secretary’s face didn't vanish, but it stiffened slightly, like a cheap AI texture glitching out.

  "Since you don't like Office Play, shall we switch to another scenario?"

  Snap.

  The hypercar, the night view—everything shattered into millions of pink data fragments.

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  Before John could catch his breath, he found himself in a new location.

  This time, it was a high-end hospital ward reeking of disinfectant, yet inexplicably charged with an ambiguous, erotic atmosphere.

  He lay on the bed, his body completely drained of strength.

  A "Big Sister" type wearing a super-short nurse’s uniform and a pink stethoscope walked in. She held a massive syringe filled with a glowing pink liquid.

  "Patient 9527, time for your injection~"

  Nurse Big Sister walked to the bedside, looking down at him. Her eyes flashed with red heart symbols.

  "This is the latest 'Oblivion Serum.' Once injected, you will never feel pain again. Debts, your mom’s illness, the shame of being expelled... you’ll forget it all."

  She bent down, her heaving curves almost pressing against John’s face.

  "Come on, be a good boy and give me your arm. Just one little prick, and you can go to heaven."

  "Oblivion Serum?" John looked at the syringe. The label clearly read: 【High-Concentration Neurotoxin · Lethal Dose】.

  "Get lost! That's euthanasia!"

  John struggled desperately, trying to roll off the bed, but found his limbs felt like they were filled with lead.

  "Don't be afraid... it doesn't hurt at all..."

  Nurse Big Sister’s expression began to twist. Her beautiful face morphed into something hideous, revealing sharp fangs in her mouth.

  "Give me your life... GIVE ME YOUR LIFE TO PAY THE DEBT!!!"

  She raised the syringe and stabbed it down viciously.

  "AHHH!!!"

  John screamed and rolled backward, falling off the hospital bed.

  But he didn't hit the floor.

  He fell into the next scene.

  This time it was a Japanese-style hot spring inn. Several girls in skimpy yukatas surrounded him, holding sake cups and... Organ Donation Agreements.

  "Onii-chan, drink this sake and give us your kidney, okay?"

  "Your corneas are so pretty, dig them out as a gift for me, please?"

  Scenes switched one after another.

  Casinos, harems, even the amusement park he craved as a child.

  In every scenario, there were countless meticulously designed Succubus Avatars, using the gentlest voices to speak the most venomous words, guiding him to sign that contract named "Relief"—which was actually "Slavery."

  John felt like he was going insane.

  He knew it was fake. He knew this was the "Soul Direct Link Technology" developed by the Necromancy Academy—an electronic virus.

  But he couldn't escape.

  This tech targeted his cerebral cortex directly, hacking his dopamine reward system to trap him in an addiction loop where he knew it was poison but couldn't stop.

  Like a hardcore net addict who knows the next game might cause cardiac arrest, but whose hand uncontrollably clicks "Next Match."

  "No... I have to get out..."

  John held his head, crouching in the fake hot spring pool, surrounded by the encroaching succubi.

  "I can't die here... Mom is still waiting for me..."

  He tried to focus, to sense the real world.

  He remembered the tablet Singularity Daoist gave him. Even in the dream, he could feel the soul-bound contract was still active.

  "Call for help... I need to call for help..."

  John reached out with a trembling hand, swiping wildly in the void, trying to summon the familiar [HellApp] interface.

  "It's useless, big brother."

  The original OL Secretary Succubus appeared again from nowhere. This time, she was gigantic, looming over him like a goddess.

  "This is the deep layer of your subconscious. Your firewall has been breached. Right now, you are just a lab rat without clothes."

  She reached out with a massive hand, intending to crush John.

  "Be a good boy and hand over your soul. Your credit rating is already F-. Only by dying can your corpse be worth a few credits."

  Despair washed over him like a tidal wave.

  John looked at the approaching giant hand, looked at the grinning succubi around him.

  He suddenly remembered what Singularity said: "The next battle depends on your willpower."

  Willpower (定力).

  He didn't have that sh*t. He was a vulgar man. He was horny, greedy, and afraid of death.

  "Since I don't have willpower..."

  John gritted his teeth, his fingers finally touching that cold, familiar icon in the void.

  "Then I'll find the man with the MOST willpower to deal with you banshees!"

  He slammed his finger on the [Random Summon] button, screaming a string of keywords in his mind:

  【Keywords: Zero Lust, Tightening Spell, Nagging, Anti-Thot Expert!】

  DING!

  A crisp, echoing bell sound exploded within this pink, misty dreamscape.

  Immediately after, a beam of golden Buddhist light descended from the heavens, tearing right through the giant palm of the OL Secretary.

  "AMITABHA!"

  A voice—solemn, majestic, yet carrying a nagging frequency that made one’s scalp numb—echoed through the dream like 3D surround sound.

  "Patron! This poor monk sees your dream is filled with demonic energy and chaotic code. I fear a great omen of misfortune is upon you!"

  "These female patrons, though they have fine textures and high-poly models, are ultimately pink skeletons—false data! Look at their underlying logic! It is full of BUGS! Full of glitches! Full of Greed, Hatred, and Delusion!"

  The golden light dispersed.

  A monk wearing a red kasaya, holding a nine-ring tin staff, with a head bald and shiny enough to reflect light, sat cross-legged in front of John.

  Tang Monk (Xuanzang).

  He looked at the scantily clad electronic succubi around him. Not only did he not waver in the slightest, but he also revealed that compassionate yet terrifying smile reserved for "lost lambs."

  "Come, come, come. Female patrons, do not panic. This poor monk does not tell lies, nor does he take life."

  Tang Monk waved his hand, and countless golden sutra texts spewed from his mouth like a danmaku barrage.

  "This poor monk simply wishes to recite a passage from the Heart Sutra for you all. To cool your fire, clear your cache, and incidentally... refactor your sinful algorithmic logic."

  "Wukong! Bajie! Set up the sound system for your Master!"

  "Tonight, we are having a soul-level... Open Class!"

  [Message from Singularity]

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