Volume Two, Chapter One: Another Ordeal for the Corporate Drone

Zhang Xiaowai had convinced himself that after the "Oolong Eye" fiasco, he could finally slip back into the comforting monotony of corporate drone life.

Clock in on time, clock out on time, slurp instant noodles while doom-scrolling short videos, and maybe indulge in the occasional daydream of a promotion or a raise.

These small, mundane joys were all he craved after that bizarre ordeal.

Of course, the company didn't reward his "accidental heroics" with a bonus or even a measly commendation letter.

Instead, they docked two days of his perfect attendance pay for the leave he'd taken during the chaos.

His cubicle now came with a new nickname—Oolong侠 (Oolong Hero)—and the lunch break group chat churned out fresh memes about him daily.

But Zhang Xiaowai was content.

Compared to being chased by cryptic symbols and shadowy figures, he'd take the soul-crushing pressure of KPIs any day.

That was, until a late night found him trapped in the dingy office of Oolong City's central office building, drowning in a sea of Excel spreadsheets that seemed to multiply like roaches.

The room's fluorescent lights cast a sickly yellow glow, the computer fan droned like a dying insect, and his instant noodles had gone cold, the broth separating into a sad, oily mess.

He glanced at the clock—23:17.

"Another late night. My life's a tragedy," he grumbled, sipping the cold noodle broth from the container. A stray drop splattered onto his keyboard with a soft plop.

"Shit!" He scrambled for tissues, frantically wiping the keys, muttering prayers that the keyboard wouldn't short-circuit.

As he fumbled, the desk drawer beneath creaked open with a slow, eerie squeak, and an old, yellowed envelope slid to the edge of the desktop, as if nudged by an invisible hand.

Zhang Xiaowai froze, staring at the envelope.

Its paper was brittle and faded, like some relic escaped from an archive.

What sent a chill crawling up his scalp was the red ink scrawled across it—identical to the ominous notes from the Oolong Eye incident.

The Map Shall Emerge, Oolong Rises Again.

He flinched, nearly dropping the noodle container. "No way! Not again! I've had two days of peace!"

With trembling fingers, he tore open the envelope.

Inside was a crumpled sheet of paper, folded into a mess.

It bore a bizarre symbol—a twisted, maze-like gossip that looked like an eight-trigram sigil gone rogue.

Next to it, in hasty but legible handwriting, was a single line:

Tonight, file room, find the truth.

His rational mind screamed to flee, but a sinking instinct told him: You can't outrun this.

"Damn it, this aura really is a curse," he growled, grabbing his jacket and skulking toward the company's file room.

The file room was at the end of a dimly lit corridor, where the lights flickered like a cheap horror movie set. Zhang Xiaowai pushed the door open, and a gust of cold air hit him like a slap.

What he saw inside made his breath catch.

The file cabinets had been ransacked, their contents—contracts, reports, memos—strewn across the floor like the aftermath of a heist.

The air reeked of old paper and rusty metal. In the corner, a black folder lay quietly, a sticky note plastered to its cover.

The handwriting was hauntingly familiar, like a nightmare looping back for an encore:

Zhang Xiaowai, this is for you.

He picked up the folder with shaking hands and flipped it open.

Inside was a single, yellowed sheet—a photocopy of half a map, its edges brittle.

Strange symbols marked several points, one of which matched the twisted gossip from the envelope.

In the bottom right corner, written in bold brushstrokes, were three words:

Oolong Map.

Scrawled in the margin were cryptic notes: "Suspected burial site of bloodline fragments," "Second seal breach," "Target location: Oolong Tower."

Zhang Xiaowai's expression cycled from terror to confusion, settling into a weary acceptance he knew all too well.

Just as he considered torching the map and pretending he'd never seen it, a booming voice jolted him from the doorway:

"Yo, Xiaowai! Sneaking a midnight snack, huh?"

Zhang Xiaowai whipped around to find Wang Dazhuang, decked out in his security guard uniform, nightstick slung over his shoulder, grinning like he'd just caught him red-handed.

"You scared the crap out of me!" Zhang Xiaowai hissed, shoving the map into his pocket. "I'm… organizing files."

"Organizing?" Wang Dazhuang eyed the noodle container skeptically.

"Bro, the smell's wafting up to the third floor. I thought the building was on fire. And this file room looks like it got mugged. You sure you're not hunting for buried treasure?"

Zhang Xiaowai forced a nervous laugh.

"You're overthinking it. I'm just a lowly clerk—where's the drama in that?"

"Then how 'bout a cold joke? Why's the file room ghost-free?"

"If you say 'because ghosts are scared of overtime,' I'm done with you."

"Ha, you nailed it!" Wang Dazhuang cackled, looking as thrilled as if he'd pulled a rare card in a gacha game.

As the two bantered, the office lights flickered and died with a sharp pop, plunging the corridor into darkness.

A flurry of rapid footsteps echoed from above, as if someone were sprinting across the ceiling.

"…The top floor?" Zhang Xiaowai clutched the map tighter, muttering, "Not the 'ghost shadow' routine again."

Wang Dazhuang snapped into action mode, whipping out his flashlight and cursing.

"I'm pulling five night shifts this month. Whoever's messing around tonight's getting a one-way ticket to pain!"

The beam swept across the ceiling—nothing. But on the floor, unnoticed until now, lay a fresh note.

Red ink.

You're at it again, Zhang Xiaowai.

Zhang Xiaowai's face drained of color.

Before he could vent his frustration, Manager Old Zhang burst into the file room, face twisted with rage. "Zhang Xiaowai! What's going on in here? Where's that client contract? It's gone! Did you screw this up?!"

"I-I just got here—"

"Save it! If you don't find it by 8 a.m., kiss your paycheck goodbye!"

He stormed out, slamming the door, leaving behind a cloud of cheap cigarette smoke and fury.

Zhang Xiaowai slumped to the floor, teetering on the edge of a corporate drone meltdown.

Wang Dazhuang sighed, shaking his head. "Man, your luck's straight-up cursed." He paused, then clapped a hand on his shoulder. "But don't worry—the Chosen One's got your back."

"I don't need a Chosen One. I need a 6,000-yuan salary and no overtime," Zhang Xiaowai groaned, burying his face in his hands.

But deep down, he knew there was no escaping this.

What was the Oolong Map? How was it tied to the Oolong Eye? Why did this mysterious figure keep targeting him?

He needed allies.

Liu Piaopiao, the melodramatic sleuth with her magnifying glass and Sherlock Holmes obsession.

And Old Zhou, the janitor who'd been sweeping floors for twenty years but gave off vibes of a secret agent working off the government's books.

Zhang Xiaowai stood, pocketing the map.

Oolong City was stirring again, and his "corporate drone detective" life was about to hit its second season.

The elevator chimed with a soft ding.

The doors slid open, revealing an empty car.

But one button glowed—an impossible floor.

Basement One.

Zhang Xiaowai gritted his teeth. "Fine. Bring it on. I don't even have a year-end bonus to lose."