As the guards moved in, the modern office walls seemed to bleed into the shadows of the past. Mo Jue felt the "trash" memories of Li Tian surging forward—a bitter, cinematic reel of a man who had traded his soul for a lie.
He remembered the first time he met Wang Meili. It was a rainy Tuesday, and she had stood in the lobby, looking small and helpless without an umbrella. Li Tian, in his infinite, naive kindness, had given her his. From that day on, she had been his world.
For two years, Li Tian had lived on instant noodles and tap water so he could buy her the designer bags she "needed" to feel equal to her peers. He had taken on three credit cards to fund her "career-building" vacations. He believed her when she whispered that they were building a future together.
Then came the discovery. Li Tian, a meticulous worker, had found a discrepancy in the ledger: Manager Zhang was skimming millions through a shell company.
He hadn't gone to the police. He had gone to Meili.
"Take this, Meili," the memory echoed. "Report it. You'll get the promotion. You'll finally be the Senior Analyst you dreamed of. We can pay off the debts."
He had handed her the flash drive, his eyes full of hope. He didn't see the way her gaze sharpened with greed. Instead of reporting Zhang, she had sold the evidence to him.
They had struck a deal: she got the promotion and a cut of the stolen funds, and Zhang got a scapegoat. By the next morning, Li Tian's computer was wiped, his access revoked, and his name was dragged through the mud as a thief and a harasser.
In the present, the office air was thick with the scent of cheap cologne and malice.
"Check the side pocket of the box," Manager Zhang commanded, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. "I noticed a corporate gold card missing from the safe this morning."
One of the guards reached out. With the speed of a magician, Zhang's hand dipped toward the box, a shimmering gold card hidden between his fingers, ready to be "found." It was a clumsy, arrogant move—the kind of trick used by someone who believes their victim is already dead inside.
But this was not the Li Tian who had stood on the ledge of the Shanhai Building.
Mo Jue watched the movement in slow motion. To his divine senses, Zhang's arm moved with the agonizing slowness of a snail. He saw the sweat on Zhang's brow and the flicker of anticipation in Meili's eyes.
Mo Jue didn't use a spell. He didn't call upon the Nine Hells. He used the raw, kinetic energy of a body fueled by a Demon King's fury.
SMACK.
The sound was not a mere slap; it was an explosive crack that echoed through the entire floor like a gunshot.
Manager Zhang didn't just stumble. The force of the blow sent him spinning like a top. His expensive glasses shattered, shards of frame flying into the air, and he was propelled three meters backward, slamming into a glass conference table that spider-webbed upon impact.
The gold card fluttered to the carpet, forgotten.
The office went deathly silent. Wang Meili's smirk vanished, replaced by a pale, trembling mask of horror. The guards froze, their hands hovering over their batons, paralyzed by the sheer, cold pressure radiating from the man in the center of the room.
Mo Jue lowered his hand, his eyes burning with an ancient, violet light.
"I am finished with the box," he said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Now, I believe we should discuss the interest on your debt."