Deep into the night, Changle Tian buzzed with its usual quiet hum.
A young girl bounded into the mahjong parlor, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
Moments later, she shuffled out, utterly defeated, the light in her gaze dimmed to nothing.
She wore a simple blue skirt that swished with every step, her brown hair tied into low twin tails that screamed youthful energy from every angle.
But right now, her face carried a weary, world-tired look that didn't match her age at all.
"Too late again... all my card buddies are gone. It's been almost a month without a single game. At this rate, I'm gonna fall into that Demonic Yin Body for real."
Her murmur cut through the still night air, sharp and clear.
It caught the ear of a nearby Cloud Knight on patrol.
But when they spotted her, they just shrugged and looked away, used to the routine.
Someone who yaps about falling into the Demonic Yin Body every day? Nah, they're probably fine.
That was common sense.
Like in the ER—the patients yelling the loudest usually aren't the worst off.
The quiet ones? They might've slipped away hours ago.
Qingque wandered the streets of Changle Tian, gazing at the twinkling lights of countless homes, a sigh bubbling up inside her.
Her parents had always said landing an iron rice bowl job would mean easy street—who knew it'd turn into a nightmare?
The Taibu Division, handling intel, calculations, and data? It was an endless ocean of drudgery for slackers like her, no shore in sight no matter how hard you strained to see one.
The nonstop high-pressure grind had worn her down to the bone. Sure, years of office politics had turned her into a slick veteran, but even that couldn't save her forever.
A top-tier slacker lived by three golden rules.
Don't initiate—unless the boss specifically calls your name, it's not your problem.
Don't refuse—if it's assigned, do it, but never overdeliver or finish early.
Don't own it—pull in help for projects, shove the credit to colleagues. No solo heroics, no glory-hogging.
For years, Qingque had nailed it. Departments shuffled, bosses came and went, but she stayed glued to her entry-level Diviner spot, unmoved as a mountain.
Then she got transferred under that Master Diviner... and everything flipped.
It wasn't that the workload spiked under them—it was just way harder to slack off without getting caught.
Qingque had figured she'd hone her time-management skills at max difficulty, making future gigs a breeze.
But plans? They never survive reality.
All her little schemes? Right in the crosshairs of those calculating eyes.
Working with the Master Diviner meant getting busted more times than she could count.
Qingque loved slacking, but she wasn't dumb—far from it. She'd poured every brain cell into perfecting her art.
Letting her boss think she was incorrigible? That'd shatter her precious job security. So she bit back the itch and played straight.
After a stretch of good behavior, the restlessness crept back in.
Before she could even try anything, bam—a brutal wave of overtime hit.
A full month of grinding till midnight every night. By the time she clocked out, her mahjong crew had scattered to bed.
It drove her up the wall.
Not the overtime itself—she could handle intensity.
The killer? She blasted through her tasks in no time flat.
But admitting that? Hell no. It'd just pile on more work and lock her in longer.
So Qingque dragged her feet on purpose, matching the team's pace till the wee hours.
"When's this nightmare gonna end...?"
She shook her head in defeat, swaying unsteadily toward home.
Three days without cards, and she'd be climbing the walls.
A whole month? She didn't even want to imagine the chaos she'd unleash.
"Miss, you seem weighed down by heavy thoughts?"
As she passed a shadowy alley, a voice piped up out of nowhere.
Lost in her haze, Qingque hadn't noticed a soul. The sudden sound jolted her like a thunderclap.
"Wahhh—!"
Her tiny frame leaped back a good two meters.
The shrill yelp lit up the dark—well, it flipped on the motion-sensor light overhead.
Spotting a figure at the alley's mouth, Qingque finally exhaled.
"You can't just sit there like a statue and butt in like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Blame them for installing a motion light here in the first place."
Qingque had no comeback. A sensor in a spot like this? Kinda ridiculous.
Under the dim glow, she finally made out the guy.
He looked ridiculously young, draped in a white daoist robe over a sleek black inner shirt.
He sat cross-legged on a stool, an old wooden table in front of him, flanked by a black-and-white banner.
The banner read "Know Heaven's Will" in bold, dragon-snaking strokes that screamed power.
From the getup, he had to be one of those long-lost fortune-tellers.
Back in ancient times on the Xianzhou, they said these guys roamed, divining luck and doom for folks.
Then Jade Omen Technology rolled in—supercomputers crunching data for spot-on predictions.
After that, street mystics? Poof, gone.
I mean, how could human guesswork beat big data?
Science, kid!
Qingque didn't buy it for a second.
The outfit was spot-on, but the flaw? He was too damn young. And way too handsome.
Old-school fortune-tellers were supposed to be grizzled old sages with that ethereal vibe.
Only then did they feel legit.
Like picking a doctor—most folks go for the silver-haired vet.
The ones chasing hot young docs? They're probably not there for the checkup.
"Daoist, you nailed it—I'm a mess!"
Qingque didn't believe the mystic act, but as a battle-hardened office vet, she knew how to play nice.
The guy on the stool gave a soft smile. "Your eyes are dull, dark circles heavy. Your mind's clogged, energy stagnant. You've got troubles weighing you down."
"Keep this up, and it'll build till you can't turn back. Even slipping into the Demonic Yin Body isn't out of the question."
Qingque's eyes lit up at that.
"Daoist, you really see all that?"
"Got any fixes for me?"
One line, and he'd pegged her issue—she was hooked now.
The man bobbed his head sagely, eyes half-lidded as his fingers danced through weird seals Qingque couldn't follow.
"Ah, I see."
"You haven't rested in a month."
"That pent-up stress? No outlet at all."
"Blockages like this are better released than bottled. You're a pressure cooker, miss—one wrong move, and boom."
Qingque's jaw dropped. She hadn't spilled a word, yet he'd nailed it dead-on?
"Daoist, you even calculated *that*?"
He chuckled lightly. "Heaven's secrets can't be spilled so freely."
His precision chipped away at her doubts—she was starting to buy in.
"So, Daoist, what do I do?"
"I don't know the full story, so I can't just hand out answers."
"Huh?" Qingque blinked. "With your skills, can't you just divine it?"
He shook his head. "What I see is surface-level—might not match reality. Real fixes come from the root."
Enlightenment hit her like a brick.
"No wonder you're the pro. My bad for jumping the gun."
She plopped down across from him, spilling the beans.
"Our division's been slammed with overtime. Finish your work? Tough luck, you still can't leave early."
"When stress hits, I unwind with some Emperor's Tiles at the parlor. But by quitting time, everyone's already crashed."
She scratched her head in frustration.
"Oh? Your efficiency must be off the charts."
"Ahaha... it's alright, y'know? High output just means more room to slack when I can."
Genius or not—and Qingque *was* a natural—her speed came from slacking's demands.
To slack properly, you had to crank out work fast. Finish the basics first, *then* coast—that was slacker 101.
If you couldn't even handle your load and still goofed off? That wasn't slacking; that was dead weight.
"Daoist, any tricks up your sleeve to help a girl out?"
Qingque stared at him with puppy-dog eyes, clinging to this lifeline.
He grinned. "Of course. I'll teach you one—master it, and you're free from the grind."
"Hit me with it, Daoist!"
She bowed her head to the table, hands clasped over it like a prayer.
Looked more like begging a monk than seeking wisdom, but hey, most folks couldn't tell the difference.
She waited.
And waited.
Qingque peeked up, confused.
He was still smiling at her, unmoving.
"Daoist?"
She prodded gently.
Nothing.
Impatience won; she stood, circled to his side, waved a hand in front of his face.
Still zilch.
She tapped his shoulder—and her hand passed right through.
"Wahhh—!"
The freakout hit again, worse in the dead of night.
"Easy there, miss. No need to panic."
That voice—Qingque whipped around.
There he was, now in *her* seat, smirking at her.
"Eh?"
"Ehhh?!"
She glanced between him and the empty stool.
"Daoist, what the hell just happened?"
For a second, she'd thought ghost. But no—this was some next-level trick.
"It's called Cicada Sheds Its Shell."
"Leaves a clone behind while you vanish."
First words echoed from right in front of her.
By the second, the voice was *behind* her.
She spun—another identical guy stood there, just like the one at the table.
Qingque gawked left and right, swallowing hard.
"Daoist... that's immortal arts, right?"
When slacking, she'd kill time at street performances.
Those tricks wowed crowds, but breakdowns later stripped the magic.
But this? God-tier stuff she'd never seen, couldn't even wrap her head around.
"Just handing me immortal arts like that? Feels off..."
Office vet instincts screamed: nothing's free.
They'd just met—why gift her something this huge?
"You crossed my path for a reason. Fate."
"It's your immortal opportunity. No need to overthink."
"If you're not keen, that's fine too. Your call."
His tone stayed chill, robe fluttering in the breeze, giving off real sage vibes.
If he were older, she'd swallow it whole. But that youthful, unfairly pretty face? Zero trust factor.
She pondered long and hard.
Finally, Qingque nodded.
The pull of perfect slacking outweighed the spook.
Deep down, her gut said he wasn't out to screw her over.
As a Diviner sensing fortune and fate, her instincts rarely missed.
"Teach me, Daoist!"
She bowed seriously, hands clasped tight.
He didn't mock the pose.
Not like he was a real daoist anyway—and real ones probably wouldn't care.
His fingers wove a complex seal, bursting into glowing light at his fingertip.
He tapped her forehead.
*Cicada Sheds Its Shell* flooded her mind.
A sharp sting hit her skull, then cool relief washed it away.
It felt innate, like she'd always known it. She channeled the technique, body sliding back on instinct.
When awareness snapped back, she was meters away—and a perfect clone sat at the table.
Curious, she approached. Up close, it was flawless.
From afar? No one'd spot the fake. Touch it, though, and the illusion shattered.
Even wilder: the daoist ignored her completely as she danced around him.
"Am I... invisible?"
As the words left her lips, he explained.
"Cicada Sheds Its Shell is built for battlefield escapes."
"Clone holds the front, you go stealth—run, ambush, whatever."
"Most can't pierce the invisibility. But speak or strike? You're exposed."
Qingque nodded, getting it.
"Daoist... you can still see me, huh?"
He just smiled, saying nothing.
She scratched her head, cheeks burning.
*So he caught every dumb move I made.*
*Good thing I didn't do anything weird—or I'd die of embarrassment.*
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Here's a new fanfiction! I hope you all enjoy it :) The story is really good definitely add it to your collection!".