# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 1
The clock had just struck midnight when the rain began to pour down without warning. By the time Su Yao limped into the old residential building, her trouser cuffs were soaked through, the cold fabric clinging to her ankles like a wet rope. The voice-activated light in the stairwell had long since burned out, so she groped her way upward in the darkness, each step eliciting a groaning "creak" from the wooden planks, as if they might splinter beneath her at any moment. The door to the seventh-floor apartment stood ajar, leaking a dim yellow light. Su Yao's heart sank, her keys twisting nervously between her fingers. When she pushed the door open, a pungent mix of jasmine perfume and damp mildew hit her nostrils—the landlady was sitting at her chipped wooden table, tapping her fingernails against the surface in a rhythmic "tap-tap," a crumpled rent notice spread out before her. "Xiao Su," the landlady looked up, her crimson-painted nails—still dust-lined around the cuticles—glinting faintly, "it's been half a month now. I know it's tough for A girl striving in a big city, but rules are rules." Her gaze slid over the cardboard boxes huddled in the corner, containing all of Su Yao's worldly possessions: a few faded T-shirts, a rubber-banded stack of design sketches, and a ceramic cat figurine missing an ear. Su Yao dropped her canvas bag with a dull thud. Inside were two cold steamed buns from the restaurant where she worked—tomorrow's breakfast and lunch. "Sister Zhang, just three more days," her voice rasped from pulling all-nighters, "I'm working a double shift this weekend, I'll definitely have it then." "Three days turns into another three days," the landlady stood, her pearl necklace catching the dim light with a cheap sparkle, "if it's not here by Monday, you'll have to move out." The door slammed shut behind her, shaking loose several sheets from the tattered calendar on the wall. Su Yao collapsed onto her folding chair, staring at the loose patch of plaster dangling from the ceiling. Her phone lit up—a bank alert: 127.5 yuan remaining. She opened her photo album, the latest image taken last week on Huaihai Road—a dress made from recycled plastic bottles glowing in the spotlight of L'etoile's window, its neckline rippling like ocean waves. She'd stood in the rain staring at it for twenty minutes, until the shop assistant gave her a questioning look and she slunk away. The rain intensified, battering the windowpanes with a relentless clatter. Su Yao rose to close the window, But when her fingertips touched the cold glass, a blinding blue light suddenly shot through from outside. Unlike lightning that flickers and fades, this light moved like a living thing across the floor, finally coalescing into a fist-sized ring hovering six inches above the ground. She stumbled back, knocking over a cardboard box. Design sketches spilled everywhere, their pages trembling in the blue light as if come alive. "Who's there?" Su Yao's voice quavered, grabbing the ceramic cat from the table and clutching it tightly, its edges digging into her palm. The blue light pulsed violently, and an emotionless mechanical voice echoed in her mind—not in Chinese or any language she knew, yet perfectly comprehensible: "Interstellar Upgrade System Model 2077 successfully bound. Host: Su Yao. Vital signs stable. Mental resilience index 89. Eligibility confirmed." Su Yao felt her heart clench in an invisible fist. She thought of the sci-fi movies she'd watched as a child—was this an alien invasion? But what could this shabby rental room possibly offer, besides herself? "W-who are you?" Her teeth chattered, the ceramic cat pressing deeper into her palm. "This system assists low-dimensional intelligent beings in breaking survival barriers," golden data streams cascaded from the light like a waterfall, "Host's current predicaments identified: economic crisis (threat level 72), career stagnation (threat level 68), social resource deficiency (threat level 81). Activating novice mission module." The blue light on the floor suddenly expanded into a translucent virtual screen, displaying crisp text: "Novice Mission: Obtain assistant designer position at L'etoile studio within 48 hours. Reward: Real-time French-Italian translation module, Basic Fabric Identification skill pack. Failure penalty: System forced detachment. Host will experience persistent memory fragmentation." Su Yao's gaze froze on "L'etoile studio." She remembered the stunning dress in the window, the job listing's rigid requirement for "equivalent qualification to Paris College of Art," and a bitter taste rose in her throat. "That's impossible," she shook her head at the empty air, "I never even went to a proper design school. They'd never hire me." The text on the screen suddenly shifted to a harsh red: "Mission difficulty adjusted to 'Hard.' Reward pool supplemented: Digital copy of L'etoile founder Alain's early design manuscripts. Detected relevant host skills: Basic hand-drawing (proficiency 76%), sustainable materials research (self-taught, proficiency 63%), street fashion observation (proficiency 92%). Comprehensive assessment: 31% success rate. Completion possible." Rapid knocking interrupted her thoughts. Su Yao nearly dropped the ceramic cat, but peeked through the peephole to see Lise, the French girl from downstairs, holding a broken umbrella and a large sketchpad. She opened the door as rain dripped from Lise's blonde hair, pooling small puddles on the floor. "Yao! Look what I captured!" Lise set the sketchpad on the table, flipping it open to reveal a drawing of a sanitation worker in an orange uniform—his worn raincoat reimagined with a fitted waist and small daisies tucked into the hem. "I knew you'd love this!" The French girl's blue eyes sparkled, "Hey, did you apply for that position at L'etoile? My dad knows their HR—might be able to help." Su Yao's heart skipped a beat. She glanced at her scattered sketches, one depicting a sanitation worker's windbreaker with hidden tool pockets and star patterns embroidered in reflective tape. After staying on guard for a whole night in a row, she finally completed this painting. At that time, she had been observing at a garbage transfer station., thinking those who worked at dawn deserved dignity in their clothing. "I... I haven't dared apply yet." Su Yao's voice dropped. Lise suddenly grabbed her wrist, cold fingertips still damp from rain: "Don't be silly! Your designs have more soul than those brand-obsessed fools!" She pulled an envelope from her bag, "This is my sister's old shirt from when she assisted at Chanel—press it and it'll work for the interview. And this—" she produced a business card like magic, "Marco Botti, Milan Fabric Association's China rep. Mom says he loves innovative young people—you should contact him." Su Yao squeezed the gilded card, feeling a faint sting in her fingertips. The virtual screen flickered at the edge of her vision, the success rate jumping to 47%. The rain had lightened outside, moonlight seeping through cloud cracks to touch her sanitation worker sketch, suddenly imbuing its rough lines with warmth. She took a deep breath, gathering her scattered sketches and tucking them into the shirt box. "Tell your dad I'll go for the interview tomorrow." Her voice still trembled, but held unprecedented resolve. After Lise left, Su Yao studied her two-year home for the first time. Magazine clippings of designs covered the walls, some yellowed and curled; bundles of fabric scraps tied with rubber bands hid under the bed; a lamp made from a soda can sat on her desk—her first creation after moving in. Shabby as it was, it held all her dreams. The countdown on the virtual screen had started: 47:59:03. Su Yao opened her phone notes, listing tasks: research L'etoile's design evolution over three years, organize sustainable materials notes, email Marco Botti... Halfway through, she laughed, thinking about the "memory fragmentation" warning. Even if she failed, things couldn't get much worse. She pulled out her only pair of black shoes, polishing them carefully—the scuffs on the toes glinting like tiny lightning bolts in the light. Tomorrow, she'd walk through those seemingly unreachable doors in these shoes that had carried her through countless city streets. The rain stopped completely, moonlight flooding the room to silver the piles of fabric. Su Yao hung Lise's white shirt carefully on a hanger, a dried daisy pinned to its collar—a roadside find from last spring she'd never been able to throw away. She climbed into bed but couldn't sleep, the system's mechanical voice and Lise's "your designs have soul" echoing in her mind. In the darkness, she imagined L'etoile's window display again—this time, the plastic bottle dress bore a small daisy at its neckline, trembling gently beneath the spotlights.