The Hound-Slaying Hero Who Returned from the Infinite Realms

One must admit—the potential of the human spirit is truly limitless.

—Though stripped of enhanced physique and combat prowess by the stingy "Lord God," the will to trade life for life, forged in countless trials of death and survival across the infinite realms, still allowed intern city inspector Wang Qiu to stand his ground. Armed with nothing but a watermelon knife, he fought a vicious pack of rabid hounds to the bitter end.

After yet another earth-shaking, ghost-weeping clash, by the time the previously deserter-like Comrade Old Sun returned with reinforcements in tow, Wang Qiu was barely more than a blood-soaked wreck. His body bore bite marks and claw wounds from head to toe, his city inspector uniform reduced to little more than tattered rags. Unable to even stand, he collapsed against a roadside tree, groaning: "...Being city management really isn't a job for ordinary men…"

Still, as the saying goes—even mad dogs fear madder men. The fruits of his desperate struggle were undeniable: one hound died on the spot, skull shattered; three had their spines broken; six were beaten unconscious; and one particularly rabid beast was gutted with a single strike, intestines spilling to the ground—death imminent.

Ironically, this scene of canine carnage, once captured in photographs and posted online, provoked a chorus of condemnation from countless brain-dead dog lovers.

Alas, in this bizarre age of warped public opinion and twisted moral standards, brute force often seems the last dependable refuge.

—What followed, naturally, was a trip to the hospital: ambulances, disinfectant, stitches, and a rabies vaccine... Fortunately, despite extensive soft tissue damage, Wang Qiu miraculously avoided broken bones or disfigurement. The injuries were superficial—painful, but with no long-term consequences.

Even more fortuitously, the photos, eyewitness testimonies, and forensic analysis of bite patterns confirmed that among the subdued beasts were two infamous offenders: the killer hound that mauled a four-year-old girl in Dongshan Village, and the "notorious felon" that bit a municipal party secretary on live television.

Thus, the city's Canine Management Bureau not only met its quota of "Three Hundred Dogs in June," but even received accolades from the municipal government. The grieving parents of the murdered child came in person, beating gongs and bearing banners of gratitude. Misfortune, it seemed, had turned into a strange blessing.

—A gruesome aside: that murderous dog, according to hearsay, was hacked limb from limb by the child's parents and boiled alive for an hour before it died.

Wang Qiu, bloodied and battered but hailed as a hero, did not go unnoticed. The city's Chief of Urban Management—a grizzled brute with a face like craggy stone and retirement looming—visited him personally in the hospital. Clapping Wang Qiu's shoulder with a hand like a palm-leaf fan, he exclaimed: "Kid's got fight in him! Just the kind of lad we need for the dog-busting unit!"

Next came the bureau's portly director—coincidentally, a distant relative who had helped Wang Qiu land the internship. Smiling broadly, he urged Wang Qiu to rest and recuperate, no rush to return. Then, more subtly, he hinted that Old Sun would retire in two months, and if Wang Qiu performed well, a simple assessment would suffice to secure the position.

—Appointing the right man can inspire multitudes; the wrong one discourages legions. Recruiting such a dauntless intern brought the director no small measure of pride.

Wang Qiu, of course, expressed deep and humble gratitude—just short of pounding his chest and swearing eternal loyalty.

Soon after, he was discharged and returned to his modest villa nestled within the city's urban village, just off Cabbage Street.

…

"...An unfamiliar ceiling… No, wait—finally, a familiar one again."

It was a sweltering summer night. The cicadas shrieked in waves, adding to the stifling air. Only the gentle breeze of the air conditioner offered any relief.

Wang Qiu lay motionless on his long-missed bed, sore, exhausted, and aching in every limb. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling above, mind murky, thoughts thick as syrup—too drained even to deliver a proper sarcastic quip.

The house was once again empty. His mother, who had rushed over from out of town to visit, had already left.

On the floor near the wall lay the entirety of his spoils from the recent venture through the infinite realms.

—Perhaps, in the moment the "Lord God" forcibly ejected him from the cycle, he had been accidentally enveloped by Doraemon's dimensional pocket. For while his physical augmentations, treasured weaponry—including the majestic Desert Eagle—and all gear were confiscated, his memories and soul-bound storage space remained intact.

The problem was, Wang Qiu hadn't anticipated being ejected so suddenly, and had made no preparations.

As such, his storage now contained only a pile of haphazard junk.

First, the weapons: a Remington shotgun, an AK-47, three RPG launchers, a mortar, twenty shells, four military-grade tri-edged bayonets, and six American-style pineapple grenades… Quite the arsenal, yet utterly impractical in a modern city. If he dared venture out with them, he'd be surrounded by armed forces before reaching the second street corner.

So, not only were they useless for personal defense or resale, he didn't even dare take them out.

Next, several crates of U.S. military rations and canned goods—greasy, but edible.

Then came a tent, a sleeping bag, two med kits, some heavy coats, camouflage gear, a bulletproof vest, portable stove, entrenching tool, and fire axe—useful, perhaps, if stranded on a deserted island.

Following that, a small silver crucifix and a handful of U.S. dollars—worth maybe two or three thousand yuan, roughly a month's wages for a temp worker. Not much, but in a world of supernatural terror, money had rarely been necessary.

As for the storage space itself—its only practical applications seemed to be performing party tricks or shoplifting. Best to keep it hidden, lest he become some lab's dissected specimen.

Finally, two sealed vials: one containing the T-virus, the other its antidote. Horrifying items indeed—Wang Qiu dared not even touch them, lest he trigger a local zombie apocalypse.

He also had a universal translation ability… but it only worked for spoken language, not text. Essentially, he was now a well-spoken illiterate in every foreign tongue. Having failed his CET-6 exam three times, Wang Qiu doubted this gift would help him pass now. So much for dreams of translating academic papers for profit.

Its practical uses? Overseas travel, entertaining foreign guests, or—perhaps—online banter with international netizens. If a subtitling group offered payment, he might even earn a bit translating American or Japanese dramas.

But after such a harrowing, near-fatal odyssey through worlds of horror, this paltry return felt like a cruel joke.

Still, not all was lost. Hanging on the wall above his bed, the banner proclaiming him "Dog-Slaying Hero" offered at least one tangible reward.

—Thanks to his singular feat—facing down a pack of dogs alone and capturing two high-profile "criminals"—the portly director had assured him that with steady performance during his internship, a place in the city patrol was all but guaranteed. A civil servant post might be out of reach, but a public institution slot seemed likely.

Alas… Are all city inspectors forged in battle?

Job security aside, life as a city inspector in a small town was hardly glamorous. The base salary was less than two thousand yuan, and bonuses were negligible.

In the last century, before the nation embraced the rule of law, the urban management bureau had been a haven of easy power: no capital, no skill—just shout "Inspection!" in the street and thrash a few vendors. Then, from TVs to soap, everything could be "confiscated" and brought home.

But times had changed. Today's urban enforcement emphasized civility. Regulations grew ever stricter. Confiscated goods rarely ended up in personal hands. Fruits seized from vendors often rotted in storage. Though corruption surely still existed, blatant daylight looting was largely a thing of the past.

Yet the risks hadn't lessened. City inspectors still faced stabbings and assaults on patrol.

Commerce officials might still skim profit from street crackdowns, but for city inspectors dealing with swarms of unauthorized vendors, the dilemma remained: turn a blind eye and risk dismissal, or enforce rules with force. Civilized enforcement rarely succeeded. Excessive force, however, brought media scrutiny. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Reports of inspectors stabbed in the line of duty were nearly monthly.

Yet they still clung to violence as policy—after all, dressing up like Doraemon or Black Cat Detective and waving "Dear citizen, no vending here please!" signs wouldn't solve anything.

It'd only attract more vendors. Don't overestimate their sense of shame.

As for the dog control unit—let's not even speak of it. Any inspector without at least a dozen bite scars wasn't considered seasoned.

Survival demanded struggle. Many urban inspectors were laid-off workers with no other choice. Their clashes with street vendors weren't battles of good versus evil, but of the poor versus the poorer—no morality, only survival.

Thinking of that viral video—of the inspector sobbing, "My balls are broken!"—Wang Qiu sighed. Such a high-risk job for such pitiful pay... was it really worth it?

But that was a problem for another day. He was still only a college junior, with a full year left before graduation—enough time to plan his future and decide whether to embrace this brutal but strangely affectionate profession.

The more pressing concern… lay in two peculiar, sci-fi objects on his nightstand.

Staring at the spherical "Lord God" device and Doraemon's four-dimensional pocket, Wang Qiu fell into deep contemplation.

—Should he dive into the pocket's other side… and see for himself the wondrous, dreamlike world of Doraemon?