Chapter 1: Money Is Hard to Earn, and Shit Is Hard to Eat (With Illustration)

Wang Xiaoqiang was fast asleep, lying face-down on the bed with his chest bare, a mysterious smile plastered across his face and drool pooling at the corner of his lips.

“Buzz… buzz… buzz…” The phone on the bed vibrated relentlessly.

Still half in dreamland, Xiaoqiang flailed blindly until, just as the buzzing stopped, his hand finally snagged the device wedged into the crack by the bed’s edge.

He squinted at the screen. *Yaoxing Calendar, Year 1024, June 24th, 6:00 AM.*

He groaned under his breath. “Come on, man—*so close*. Damn it.” He writhed on the mattress for another five minutes, tossing and turning like a man wrestling fate itself, then sighed deeply. “Why can’t I even remember what a pretty girl looks like anymore? Ugh.”

With a reluctant grunt, he dragged himself off the bed, shoulders slumped in quiet despair. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth, boiled two eggs, downed a glass of milk that expired in two days, and scarfed down a massive chunk of buckwheat bread and two thick strips of bacon. Only then did he feel slightly less like a zombie.

At the bedside table, he picked up his weighted vest—the old ritual. Ever since childhood, when he’d been small and always getting knocked around in fights, he’d learned to fight back not with fists, but with weight.

Back then, he’d noticed how the guys who carried heavy sacks—warehouse workers, delivery men—were all built like tanks, and nobody dared mess with them. So he started copying them: lugging grain bags around every day, volunteering for the toughest jobs, running laps with a sack on his back. And somehow, over time, he got stronger. Solid. Unbreakable.

One day, a boy two years older than him tried to shove him again. This time, Xiaoqiang shoved back—hard. The kid went flying onto the ground. It felt almost effortless. Then, fueled by adrenaline and pride, Xiaoqiang pummeled him with quick little punches. The boy screamed like a wounded animal.

That moment changed everything. From then on, carrying weight became more than habit—it became identity. Even now, at 25, 184 cm tall, weighing 85 kg, he still wore the vest. The lead plates inside had reached 90 kilograms. His goal? Twice his body weight. But the size was becoming a problem. Maybe he’d need to switch to a different kind of material.

After strapping on weights to his calves, forearms, and torso—now looking like a mobile armored truck guard—he slipped on a loose sports jacket, grabbed his car keys, and headed downstairs to the parking lot.

Yesterday, he’d accepted a ride request on the ride-hailing app—airport drop-off. Early morning rush meant big money: 120 yuan. If he could snag a return passenger later, he’d have already completed half his daily target.

He checked the tires on his Airola—plenty of air. Arriving at the hotel two kilometers away right on time, he called the passenger to confirm he was there. Ten minutes passed. Finally, the passenger emerged from the lobby.

Standard protocol: if you wait more than ten minutes past pickup time, you’re allowed to cancel without penalty.

But in reality? Showing up early, wasting fuel and time, only to lose the job because of a delayed rider? That’s a double loss. Not just money, but also your service rating—silent, invisible damage.

And here’s the irony: many of these app rules *sound* like they protect drivers. In truth, they’re just subtle ways of squeezing more work out of us.

Take drunk passengers who scream and curse. You report them after they get out. Next thing you know, the customer service rep calls *you*, warning you to stay calm, avoid conflict. Sounds protective, right?

But no real consequences for the passenger. Alcohol becomes an excuse. Like watching a fight where someone steps in—but only tells the victim to stop fighting. Never says a word to the aggressor.

That’s exploitation. Real, systemic. No meaningful change in the driver-passenger dynamic. Just resentment building—quiet, steady, until one day, it explodes.

Xiaoqiang had seen countless news stories about conflicts between drivers and riders. Not once had a driver received a favorable verdict. Public opinion never sided with them either. Nobody asked why this imbalance existed. Instead, drivers were told to attend mandatory offline training: “Improve your professionalism.”

It’s like lecturing the honest while ignoring the bullies. That’s the life of the working class. Everywhere you look—delivery riders, cleaners, couriers—they’re all caught in the same trap.

Every day, Xiaoqiang saw delivery riders out on the streets. Working over twelve hours a day, risking their lives just to feed their families, chase dreams, live with dignity. They didn’t steal. They didn’t cheat. Yet they’re squeezed from both ends—by platforms, by customers, by systems designed to extract value.

Service score. Late pickups. Completion rate. Complaints. Bad reviews. These aren’t just metrics. They’re chains around their necks.

On Douyin, many rider videos look funny—comedic, exaggerated. But behind the laughs? Raw truth. The brutal reality of people being stripped of dignity, exploited, worn down.

When kindness is mocked, when hard work is scorned, when dignity is trampled—then we must ask: Who keeps preaching virtue? And who, day after day, is destroying it? Who pushes people toward moral decay? Who is eroding the most precious things in humanity?

And let’s not forget the others—office workers, shop assistants, warehouse staff—legally entitled to eight-hour shifts, but routinely forced to work ten, sometimes fourteen. The surface details may differ, but the core remains the same: profit maximized by sacrificing the rights of the poor.

There’s a saying that captures it perfectly: *Money’s hard to earn, and shit’s hard to eat.*

If Xiaoqiang canceled this ride now, he’d feel a brief sense of satisfaction. But his completion rate would drop. Lower completion rate means fewer rides assigned. The platform doesn’t care if the cancellation was justified. It just sees numbers.

So he said nothing. No anger. No blame. Because none of it changes anything. Life is like being stuck in a situation you can’t escape. If you can’t fight it, might as well enjoy it.

He reminded the passenger—still wearing a mask—to buckle up. Checked the left turn signal. Pulled onto the road.

The passenger was a woman, quiet, eyes closed, probably too tired to talk. After about an hour, they arrived at the airport terminal. Paid the fare. Helped her unload her luggage. Then stood beside the car, stretching his back, letting out a long, low whistle. “Anybody heading back to the city? I’m going that way—easy ride!”

Maybe heaven was making up for the unfinished dream earlier that morning.

A voice cut through the air. “Hey, young friend—going to Hulukou Village in Yumin Township?”

The voice was high-pitched, a little sharp. Xiaoqiang turned. A middle-aged man approached—slightly sleazy-looking, thin mustache, gray coarse-cloth robe, hair tied in a knot on top of his head, clutching a large suitcase. His eyes darted around nervously.

Dressed like a Daoist priest. Xiaoqiang stepped forward, bowed slightly, hands clasped in a salute. “Young master greets the elder monk.” Then pulled out his phone. “Let me check the location—I’ve never heard of that place. Please wait a sec.”