Chapter 4: Yuan's Lunch Box

Meanwhile, deep in a quiet forest village, three middle-aged Taoist monks sat together, staring eastward with grim faces. The sleazy-looking one spoke first: “Senior brother, all disciples have been evacuated to remote areas. I’m the last to return. I don’t know if we’ll survive this calamity.”

The plump monk sighed. “Our elders have foreseen it through divination—this disaster will strike within the next two days. This time, less than one in a hundred will make it. After a century of cultivation, we’re powerless before such fate. Tragic, isn’t it?”

The stern-faced elder replied coldly: “Defying Heaven’s Way brings self-destruction. Why trouble yourself over it?”

Then he turned to the sleazy monk. “You secretly taught your art to outsiders without Master’s permission. That’s improper.”

The sleazy monk chuckled. “No harm done. With the great calamity coming, better to plant a good seed. Too bad I’m too old—missed my prime years for training. Would’ve made a fine disciple otherwise. Such is life—born at the wrong time.”

The stern monk glanced at him, surprised, but said nothing. All three stared silently toward the east, saying not another word.

Wang Xiaoqiang rocked along to a high-octane dance remix, nodding rhythmically to the beat. His bulk and the weight on his back made every sway send a subtle tremor through the vehicle.

Cars behind him blared in disbelief—*How is this guy even doing that? Is he *car-shaking*?* One driver stepped on the gas, overtaking with the noble intention of warning him about reckless driving… until he caught sight of Wang Xiaoqiang’s expression—eyes wide, jaw clenched, like someone had just been electrocuted. Instantly, the driver flipped him off and sped away.

Xiaoqiang responded with an even bigger middle finger.

After 40 minutes of violent shuddering, the car finally pulled over at a gas station.

But there, right in the center of the lot, stood a sign:
**Gas Station Closed for Maintenance – Normal Operation Resumes May 25th.**

Xiaoqiang checked his phone. Today was the 24th.

A wave of pure rage surged through him. The excitement from landing that big ride earlier that morning, the joy of mastering a new technique—all vanished in an instant. He grabbed his hair, screamed into the air, then slammed his fists against the fragile steering wheel of the Erolo. The car lurched violently. Passersby craned their necks, eyes wide.

After three minutes of furious pacing and muttering, Xiaoqiang finally slumped forward, defeated.

He looked around. About 400 meters away, a few roadside eateries huddled under flickering neon signs. Whatever happened, he hadn’t eaten since hitting the road. Might as well fill up.

He drove to the cluster of small restaurants, found a parking spot, and walked into one called "Driver’s Box." Thirteen yuan per person. The food wasn’t great—ingredients were questionable, taste mediocre—but it came in generous portions. Xiaoqiang decided to turn grief into gluttony.

Two scallion pancakes, paired with a cold salad to start. Five minutes later: eight taels of rice, ten chicken necks, two chicken livers, and a mountain of stir-fried dishes. Fifteen minutes after that: a massive plate of dumplings and a bowl of dumpling soup.

He patted his slightly bloated belly. Still only 80% full.

Suddenly, he felt a hot stare burning into him. Glancing sideways, he saw the owner’s wife watching him with a look of quiet despair.

Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and boomed: “Great food! I’ll be back next time!”

Then he bolted out the door, fleeing under a storm of imagined daggers from the back of his head.

Full and dazed, Xiaoqiang wandered around the area for ten minutes, digesting slowly, before returning to the car and pulling out his phone. He scrolled through the latest news.

Ever since he started driving for rideshare, Xiaoqiang had developed a habit: sifting through political updates, economic trends, industry shifts—anything that might reveal a golden opportunity. Time was abundant behind the wheel, after all. But so far, nothing had struck gold. The tragedy of being ordinary.

The top story today: Cyber, a high-tech company in the White Eagle Nation, unveiling its newest AI robot, Mia.

Footage showed her mowing lawns and shuttling people around. Her movements were stiff, almost clumsy—but she completed every task with flawless precision. Slow, yes, but accurate. No mistakes.

It reminded Xiaoqiang of how human minds probably worked—methodical, step-by-step.

Cyber claimed Mia could now simulate 34% of human daily scenarios. And soon, a new batch of AI household robots would hit the market—finally freeing humans from tedious chores.

In the background, protesters gathered outside the company’s headquarters, waving signs:
“AI stole our lives.”
“Humans opened Pandora’s Box.”
“Stop AI!”

The report ended with a leaked agenda: At 2 PM on May 25th, the White Eagle Congress would hold a hearing on AI development. Key topics included: AI taxation, ethical guidelines, legal rights for artificial beings, and whether emergency shutdown mechanisms should be mandatory.

Xiaoqiang exhaled heavily.

“Since the Great Pandemic three years ago, the global economy’s slowed down, unemployment’s sky-high, inflation’s out of control—ordinary people have fewer ways to get rich than ever.

Now AI keeps showing up, stealing jobs left and right. My own ride-hailing business? Over-saturated. In many cities, the number of cars exceeds quotas. Yet autonomous vehicles already make up over 11% of the fleet. Massive job losses are already happening. If robots and self-driving cars take over completely… what’s left for me?

I’m not smart. Not educated. Can’t even drive a car anymore. Maybe I should just find some rich woman to marry? Settle down?”

He lowered the sun visor and glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

No way. Not even close to a fresh-faced young star. Thick brows, strong features—solid, rugged, but lacking finesse. Sigh.

Maybe save up, get some plastic surgery. With this physique, who knows? Someone might actually want me. Then I’d win at life—easy mode. Wahahaha.

He flipped to celebrity gossip. A movie star divorcing. A singer remarrying. A mistress flaunting luxury goods—then suddenly exposed for corruption. Drama upon drama. Looks like tabloid reporters make decent side income too.

After a while, the buzz faded. He opened his photo album—dozens of pictures of his ex-girlfriend.

His chest tightened.

They’d split peacefully a month ago. She said her family arranged a match—boyfriend from a wealthy local family. Eighty-eight thousand yuan dowry. Her parents pressured her to accept. She had a younger brother—this money would pay for his wedding. She told Xiaoqiang not to contact her again.

That feeling—like being discarded like old rags—had frozen his heart. For two weeks, he’d been numb.

Now, looking back, he realized he had nothing. No home in the city—just a rented apartment. No real job. Born into a farming family. Maybe it was better this way. He couldn’t offer her anything. Better not drag her down.

Finally, he checked the calendar and weather forecast—the essential pre-shift ritual.

May 25th. Lunar Calendar: 7th day of the 5th month.
Dragon’s direction blocked.
“No cooking on Bing”—bad luck, fire hazard.
“No crying on Chen”—grief, heavy loss.

After a long day of chaos and a full stomach, sleep crept in. He played soft music on his phone, leaned back, and drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.