Chapter Eleven: The Gathering Storm

The next morning, as the first pale rays of sunlight—laced with the city's distinctive cocktail of car exhaust and drifting dust—pierced the dense "handshake-building forest" of the urban village like a spotlight, they struggled to squeeze into Lu Chen's cramped ten-square-meter rented room, heavy with damp mildew and the sharp tang of instant noodles. Instinctively, he sprang up from the single bed so rigid it felt like iron.

He had not slept a wink.

His eyes, bloodshot with exhaustion and frenzied anticipation, burned fiercely; his temples throbbed as though countless steel needles were being driven in—after all, his haunting ability, the "Heart-Hunter's Scale," had left him utterly drained. Yet his spirit blazed like a peerless blade just forged in scorching flames: battered and scarred, yet radiating a chilling, almost manic, edge.

He knew his time was running out. Whether it was the landlord's wife, Liu Guifang, delivering her final ultimatum—"Pay the rent in full by five this afternoon, or pack your bags and get out!"—or the despicable Wang Hai's three-day "death warrant," both loomed overhead like two glimmering Damocles swords, ready to drop at any moment and snuff out this insignificant ant's last shred of hope.

He had to strike at the first pivot that could change his fate—Jiang Wanxing.

Moving with urgent precision, he finished his morning routine, even lavishing precious effort on the collar and cuffs of his only semi-decent white shirt with a nearly spent bar of cheap soap, hoping to appear less pitiful. Then, from beneath the bed—inside a dust-choked cardboard box—he retrieved the most expensive outfit he had ever purchased: an outdated, budget-brand suit he had once bought for his university graduation interviews.

In every respect—cut, fabric, craftsmanship—it fell worlds short of the "high-end, grand, and classy" image that Jiang Wanxing International represented. In fact, it probably couldn't compare to the everyday work attire of the company's lowliest assistants. But for Lu Chen, it was his finest "battle armor."

Dressed, he faced the mirror—a cracked scrap of glass salvaged from the downstairs trash—and meticulously groomed his hair. He tried to give his gaunt, sleep-deprived face a more spirited look. Above all, he dared not let the legendary "Demon Queen" Jiang Wanxing dismiss him as either a fraud or a madman at first glance.

When Lu Chen's lean silhouette—bolstered by some inner force—reappeared exactly on time in Sales Department Group A of the FeiChi Group, that familiar yet oppressive workspace fell silent. In an instant, every pair of eyes snapped toward him like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

Their expressions were even more spectacular than yesterday's: undisguised shock, mingled with disbelief so profound it bordered on farce; a cruel delight at watching him crash and burn; and, lurking beneath it all, an unspoken, barely acknowledged curiosity—could this fool really attempt the "impossible"?

"Oh my god! Look, it's that scrawny Lu Chen… He actually came in today! And wearing a suit?" squealed the office gossip, her voice a shriek of mock astonishment that drew the bored onlookers like bees to honey.

"She must think that shabby suit will make her believe he's a success story, sneaking into Jiang Wanxing's 'Men's Slaughterhouse.' Doesn't she know that's just delusional?" jeered a glamorously garbed female salesperson, her eyes brimming with scorn.

"I bet he figures he's as good as dead, so he might as well go out with a bang, making some grand finale of his pitiful career," proposed another, smirking at the prospect.

"Exactly! Maybe he thinks if that 'old witch' Jiang Wanxing is blind, she'll fall for his scrawny face and everything will change—he'll snag the big break and turn into a phoenix overnight! After all, didn't rumors swirl about her extravagant romances with young, well-built studs?" someone hissed, their malicious speculation buzzing around Lu Chen's ears like a swarm of flies.

In the past, such venomous insults might have crushed him; he would have wished to vanish into thin air. But now, his heart was unnervingly calm—tinged with the thrill of an impending battle.

Ignoring the mocking clowns, he strode to his desk, opened his computer, and plugged in the encrypted USB drive. There lay his life's work: a terse, three-page "Informal Concept Proposal for the Youthful Rebranding of Jiang Wanxing International," the product of last night's marathon effort.

It was hardly a conventional business plan—no lengthy market analyses, no complex data models, no empty jargon. Instead, it distilled his fledgling insights from the Heart-Hunter's Scale and his bold, precise hypotheses about Jiang Wanxing's hidden "pain points," "itch points," and "excitement triggers."

With an audacious directness, he aimed to strike the queen's most secret nerve, enough to provoke even a hint of curiosity in someone as exalted as her.

He knew it was a gamble of unimaginable scale. He lacked any real standing to negotiate with a multinational titan like Jiang Wanxing International. If she saw through his gambit, she could dismiss it as offensive spam, extinguishing his last hope in an instant.

Yet he understood that through official channels, he would never reach her top lieutenants—let alone challenge her directly within three days of Wang Hai's deadly deadline.

"Better to risk everything than to cower and be swept aside like a street dog," he murmured, his gaze sharpening like a honed blade. "If there's even a sliver of hope, I must seize it."

He inhaled deeply, scrutinized every word and punctuation of the three-page proposal, ensuring each element carried its intended "hook." Then, he attached it to an email addressed to the obscure submission portal he had painstakingly hunted down on Jiang Wanxing International's official website—a channel for "Global Brand Strategy Partnerships and Creative Proposals."

His finger hovered over the cold, unforgiving "Send" button for a long moment.

That ordinary click would cast his fragile hopes into a vast sea of uncertainty: would it unleash a tsunami that swept away every obstacle, or sink without so much as a ripple?

Just as his palms began to sweat and his heart thundered, a familiar, clear voice—tinged with concern and warmth—rang out like a warbler emerging from its nest behind him.

"Lu… Lu Chen, you… you look different today."

Startled, he froze, instinctively aiming to close the email draft—but it was too late. He turned to see the face that had once brought him comfort even in his darkest hours.

It was Xu Tingxia.

Today, she wore a pale yellow chiffon blouse edged with delicate lace, a playful bow at the collar accentuating her porcelain features. A navy pleated skirt swayed with her every step, revealing legs sheathed in sheer stockings. She clutched a stack of files, her wide, luminous eyes brimming with genuine concern… and an unrecognized flutter of emotion.

"I was passing by and saw you… you seemed to be working on something important," she stammered, voice barely more than a sigh, eyes darting shyly away.

Looking at this innocent, rosy-cheeked girl, all his pre-battle jitters subsided. He summoned his Heart-Hunter's Scale, intending to probe her pure thoughts—no crushing headache this time, perhaps because her heart was as clear as crystal, or maybe his control had sharpened after last night's desperate practice.

A gentle, warm stream of her secret musings flowed into his mind:

"He's looking at me like that… My heart's pounding… He's wearing a suit—he actually looks handsome… Even if it's old and ill-fitting… But his eyes are so bright, so alive… Could he really challenge Jiang Wanxing? That's so dangerous… Yet… I can't help feeling… hopeful? Foolish, Xu Tingxia, stop these daydreams! You're in trouble yourself, and here you are…"

This lovely revelation, like the sweetest melody, sent a thrilling current through Lu Chen's veins. He realized she felt something for him beyond pity—she, too, saw a spark in him.

Nature's lightning bolt cleaved through his remaining self-doubt. His heart, long numbed by Wang Hai's merciless schemes, awakened to a pure, intoxicating thrill.

"Thank you, Tingxia," he said, offering her a warm, confident smile more vivid than ever. "I'm working on something… very, very important. Something that could change my fate."

Xu Tingxia's astonishment rendered her speechless. Her blush deepened, and her heartbeat thundered in her slender chest.

"After I finish this," Lu Chen said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned close, "maybe we could… have dinner together?"

With that, he turned back to the screen, his gaze steeled anew on the "Send" button.

For survival, for dignity, for the chance to cease being a trammeled ant—and for the girl whose caring glance had stirred his heart—he raised a trembling finger and pressed down decisively.

"Whoosh—"

A faint system chime signaled the dispatch of his heartfelt proposal—his fragile vessel cast into a sea of uncertainty.

Outside, the once-clear sky had quietly darkened, thick black clouds gathering overhead, suffocating the city beneath a vaulted shroud. It felt as though a tempest of the century was about to unleash itself upon Star City…