Chapter 71: Daily Life

Wang Yan slowly opened his eyes, surveying the unfamiliar surroundings, struggling to rise; halfway up, he felt the surging power within his body and shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. He looked down at his tight, smooth skin, at the muscles carved like knife cuts and axe strikes—fluid, natural, and full—then pushed up with his arms, engaged his waist and abdomen, and flipped off the bed in a single somersault.

He grabbed a bottle of water, walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and stared fixedly at the neon outside.

After seventy-three years in *The Grand Master*, he had killed countless Japanese, defeated soldiers, and bandits; he had buried one old comrade after another. He thought he understood life and death. But pain still came when it had to, and his later years were not happy.

And after all these years, many of his memories had grown hazy; now, back in the real world, everything felt alien.

Wang Yan sighed and pulled up his panel.

Wang Yan

Attributes: Strength 25

Agility 25

Constitution 25

Spirit 22

Unallocated points: 5

Storage space: 2m³

Skills: Martial Arts LV5

Calligraphy LV5

Computer LV5

Traditional Chinese Medicine LV3

Sinology LV3

Philosophy LV3

Shooting LV3

Japanese LV3

... dozens of other skills omitted.

This time, the gains were substantial: all physical attributes reached 25. Since no compression was allowed, his height grew to 184 cm, weight around 200 pounds. Reaching Martial Arts LV5 was natural—he had trained, refined, taught, and expanded it his entire life.

He had written characters his whole life, so his Calligraphy skill also reached LV5. His old comrades, his subordinates, even the younger generation in the fortress all knew he loved this art; they’d constantly hunt for writing brushes, ink, paper, inkstones, and authentic calligraphy by famous masters just to please him. With so many authentic copies meticulously traced, plus his own relentless practice and deep contemplation, his strokes became powerful, bold, simple yet encompassing heaven and earth—he had truly entered the realm of mastery.

His main focus wasn’t on Traditional Chinese Medicine, but those studying herbal formulas were all highly skilled. Through frequent consultation and personal practice, he reached LV3—enough to practice medicine competently. Yet he regretted it: he was nearly dead, and the leaders of the herbal research team had already changed three times; despite integrating Western and Chinese medicine and using cutting-edge medical equipment, they still hadn’t improved anything.

His Sinology and Philosophy skills improved thanks to the seventy-three years of life wisdom he’d accumulated, plus the books he read daily. These subjects were too profound, too mysterious; to have gained this much, he was satisfied.

His Japanese improved during his wartime years—he needed to infiltrate enemy ranks and eliminate high-ranking officers, so he deliberately trained it. His accent wasn’t perfect—he couldn’t mimic the Kanto or Kansai dialects—but speaking slowly and sparingly, he could still pass.

Shooting was the same: he was nearly at LV4, all earned through bullets on the battlefield. Of course, he used only WWII-era firearms; if he switched to modern gear, his accuracy would drop significantly.

Notably, he had never practiced computer skills in this life, and his skill was unstable—he felt it might drop a level. Only now did he realize system skills weren’t fixed. Of course—they were learned bit by bit; if you stopped, you grew rusty, and regression was natural.

Besides these, other miscellaneous skills—feng shui, mysticism, management, finance—had all improved somewhat. Overall, it was acceptable.

After reviewing his skills, Wang Yan unhesitatingly allocated all five attribute points to Spirit, raising it from 22 to 27. Immediately, the familiar sensation came—he closed his eyes in delight, feeling his spirit purified. Forgotten, blurred memories gradually sharpened. His roughened heart grew slightly smoother, yet could not hide the deep weariness in his eyes—the quiet resignation of one who had weathered storms and seen through the world.

He sighed, and instinctively turned slowly—halfway, he froze, then slapped himself hard, straightened his back, and strode forward.

The all-day drizzle had stopped; it was nine or ten at night. The air outside was fresh, the occasional breeze crisp and clean. Wang Yan stepped out, hands behind his back, humming a tune often sung by Gong Er, strolling toward West Lake.

Through the crowd, he sat on a bench by the shore, staring blankly at the rippling lake amid the laughter of tourists.

Long moments passed until movement beside him stirred Wang Yan from his daze. He turned to see a woman seated nearby—wearing sportswear, long hair, large eyes, no makeup, average to above-average looks. He remembered her: the woman who had watched him before.

He nodded politely to the woman and resumed his previous posture.

After a while, she said: “What are you looking at?”

“West Lake.”

“You’ve been staring at it all day. Isn’t it enough?”

The family photo in Wang Yan’s mind vanished. He shook his head and sighed: “I could never get enough.”

She understood. After thinking, she said: “Why not look at the mountains behind West Lake?”

He glanced at her and said: “I know what lies beyond those mountains. Still, I turn back to look at West Lake.” He shook his head, abandoning the concept she couldn’t grasp, and changed the subject: “Are you local?”

“Chang’an. You?”

“Liaoning.”

“Liaoning? I’ve been to Dalian and Fengtian. Where are you from?”

“Longcheng?” Seeing her blank expression, clearly unfamiliar, Wang Yan explained: “It’s a small place, but ancient—the birthplace of the first bird, the first flower. If you’re interested, look it up.”

“Mm, I will.” Seeing him rise to leave, she pulled out her phone: “We’ve met twice—that’s fate. Exchange contact info.” Without giving him time to respond, she opened her WeChat QR code and held it out, smiling at him.

He glanced at her, pulled out his phone, scanned it, and added her: “What’s your name?”

“Wei Lan.” She accepted Wang Yan’s friend request, looked up, and said: “I sent you mine.”

Wang Yan nodded, changed her nickname: “I’ll go then. Goodbye.”

“Alright.” Wei Lan watched his back disappear once more.

Only when Wang Yan’s figure vanished did Wei Lan pull out her phone and scroll through his Moments.

The result disappointed her: aside from a few photos of him drinking and arm-in-arm with friends, everything else was real estate—where property values were rising, which floor plans were good, which developments were selling out.

She noted the location tags: mostly Dalian, occasionally Longcheng or Fengtian, then Beijing. She had a rough idea.

Wang Yan rarely posted on Moments—but due to work, he had no choice. He’d been doing it for years, posting dozens of updates daily; he couldn’t even delete them all, so he just let it be.

Except when messaging someone, where he’d glance at their recent activity to find conversation starters, he rarely, if ever, browsed Moments. It was too depressing: his Moments laid out a person’s entire life—from birth to death—with every meal, outfit, home, and journey meticulously arranged, a one-stop service.

On the street, Wang Yan idly scrolled through Wei Lan’s Moments. Hmm—three-day visibility. Good.

He smiled helplessly, hands behind his back, strolled back to his lodging.

Since then, Wei Lan occasionally messaged him, and he replied sporadically—not to string her along, but because after this, his desire to marry had weakened. Unlike before, when he’d occasionally think about it. If he just wanted sex, he didn’t need to bother her—there were far prettier, better-built women.

And Wei Lan—when she first approached him to chat, he assumed she was one of those free-spirited girls. But after two meals together and casual WeChat chats, his impression changed.

Wei Lan was twenty-seven, an only child, a product manager at an internet company. Her income wasn’t stated, but clearly high. She wasn’t promiscuous—she was serious. Wang Yan figured she approached him only because her slightly artistic nature, combined with the moment’s mood, sparked curiosity: she wanted to see if this oddball posing by the lake could fit into the scenery.

Half a month passed. Wang Yan had stayed in Lin’an long enough. He packed up and prepared to leave.

He thought a moment, then told Wei Lan he was leaving. After all, in this vast sea of people, meeting was fate.

Wei Lan, at work, saw the notification icon on her computer blink. She opened it, saw Wang Yan’s message, fell silent, then replied: “Dinner tonight?” Then stared at his reply: the “OK” gesture.

“Wei Lan?” Her colleague tapped her. “What are you daydreaming about? So lost in thought?”

Wei Lan snapped back: “Huh? Nothing, Sister Chen. Just thinking about what to eat—friends invited me for dinner.”

Sister Chen exclaimed: “A month ago you were complaining! So now you’ve got a boyfriend and didn’t tell me?”

“Oh, where do you get that, Sister Chen?” Wei Lan blushed. “He’s just a regular friend.”

“Sure, sure. Why are you blushing then?” Sister Chen teased, then shifted tone: “Alright, I won’t tease you. Look at this…”

Wei Lan sighed deeply and returned to work.

Night. Louwailou by West Lake.

Wei Lan picked up a chopstick and said: “Where are you headed next?”

“Chengdu.”

“That’s nice. I have classmates there. Have you been before? If not, want me to introduce you?”

Wang Yan drank some water: “First time. No need for introductions—it’s a hassle. I can manage on my own.”

She glanced at him, slightly anxious: “Will you come back to Lin’an?”

“Probably not.” Wang Yan said: “There are so many places I haven’t seen yet.”

Wang Yan understood her meaning. But the reality was: would she follow him back to his hometown? Would she wander aimlessly with him, homeless? Would she—and her parents—agree? Both were only children. Had she considered the problems of marrying far away? They were both past the age for wasting time and emotions on something that would only delay both of them.

If he were rich, none of this would matter—it could all be solved. But right now, he was just getting by. He couldn’t even afford a single apartment in Hangzhou.

They finished eating, exchanged farewells, saw off the hesitant Wei Lan into her car, then Wang Yan, hands behind his back, strolled back to his lodging.

The next day, Wang Yan checked out and set off, luggage in hand, heading for the airport.

Five hours later, Chengdu Shuangliu Airport. Wang Yan stepped out. Same routine: took a taxi to the hostel, booked another month, settled in Chengdu.

Outside peak tourist season, crowds were manageable, travel experience good. He briefly toured Chengdu’s main sights.

That morning, Wang Yan saw a group of five cyclists outside a bicycle shop by the roadside. A thought stirred in him.

“Hello?” Wang Yan approached and asked: “Are you all heading to Tibet?”

“Yeah, Tibet,” the leader said, slightly proud. “What’s up, brother?”

“Oh, nothing much. You guys clearly ride often—experienced. I wanted to ask about tips for going to Tibet. I’m thinking of trying it myself.”

The leader glanced at Wang Yan: “You’ve never ridden before, right?”

Seeing Wang Yan nod, he continued: “Then don’t go directly. You might not make it out alive. Start with longer rides first.”

“Thanks for the concern. That’s exactly what I mean. I just happened to meet professionals like you. Online advice sounds impressive, but I don’t fully trust it—I’m unsure. So I’m asking you, to prepare better.”

People love to teach. Wang Yan’s half-knowledge, his respectful curiosity, sparked their enthusiasm. If he’d known nothing, they’d have lost interest.

The five of them spoke up one after another, sharing their own cycling experiences—from gear selection and what to carry, to handling emergencies and all sorts of tips.

After nearly forty minutes, they finally fell silent, out of breath—because the shop owner called them.

“That’s about it,” the leader said. “But please, stay safe.”

Wang Yan shook the leader’s hand gratefully: “Thank you so much.”

“Hey, friends are friends, no matter where they’re from,” the leader patted Wang Yan. “We were the same once. Alright, our bikes are ready. See you again if fate allows.” They walked into the shop.

Wang Yan looked around, bought a case of Red Bull at a nearby supermarket, and a pack of cigarettes for twenty yuan. He returned to the spot just as they were about to depart.

“Friends, wait.” Wang Yan stepped forward and handed them the items: “These are my small tokens of thanks. Please accept them.”

“Hey, what’s this? You’re insulting us?” one said.

“Yeah, do we look like we need your stuff?” others chimed in.

“No, no, you misunderstand. This is my gratitude. You’re about to set off—I’m wishing you safe travels, toasting you, cheering you on. I don’t know when I’ll make it myself. Please take my wishes with you.” He urged them again, and finally they accepted. They waved goodbye to Wang Yan and set off, cheerful and loud.

Watching them walk away, Wang Yan turned and entered the shop, spoke with the owner for a while, compared the two options, then spent some money to buy a full set of equipment. He planned to set out tomorrow and head straight for Riguang City.

Riding his bicycle, he wandered lazily for most of the day, returned to his lodging after dinner, turned off the lights, lay on the bed, and prepared to rest thoroughly through the night, replenishing his energy.

Little did he know, at that moment, the system sent a message.

«Joy» Qiu Yingying: Happy, joyful, small blessings. Guan Juer: Career woman.

(PS: Younger brother hasn’t finished the drama yet—it’s way too long. Just get by with the quest. Big brother, feel free to suggest changes anytime; it won’t matter much, nothing critical.)

With a sigh, Wang Yan got up, turned on his computer, and logged in to search.

«Joy» mainly tells the joys, sorrows, anger, and pleasures of five women…………

There were two seasons, nearly a hundred episodes. Wang Yan slept when he felt overwhelmed, woke up and kept watching, occasionally fast-forwarding; he watched day and night for over three days before finishing.

As usual, he checked domestic and international stock market data, then looked up netizens’ analyses and reviews of «Joy».

This was a good chance to stay for a few years and truly recover—actually, he wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared; he still hadn’t adjusted.

He checked the time—it was past nine at night. Wang Yan drank some water, stood up, drew the curtains, lay on the bed, pulled up the interface, and selected confirm.

A blue light flashed, and Wang Yan on the bed vanished…………