Chapter 16: The Store That Boasts About Itself

“Go search online yourself!”

Yi Zhen naturally wouldn’t let him see it—he had no video, hadn’t faked anything, so why would he believe Zhen Zhen’s lies and hand over his phone? That would be voluntarily exposing his ability. This 8K footage? Impossible to explain.

“Pfft, stingy! Tell me the keywords—I’ll find it on Kuaishou right now.”

Zhen Lin, who’d climbed halfway and spotted the faint glow of Yi Zhen’s screen, never expected him to move so swiftly—he flipped the cover shut in one motion, acting like he was watching a porn clip afraid of being caught. Tsk. Was it really necessary to be this secretive? Who was it just now, sweating and straining to help him find his phone?

Fortunately, he didn’t really care that much—just muttered a complaint, then leapt down from the computer, his impact far exceeding Yi Zhen’s by a wide margin. If anyone downstairs hadn’t gone home and was still living there, within three minutes they’d see a furious figure storming out—unless he offered a proper apology, this wouldn’t end.

Of course, all that was future concern—whether it’d even happen was debatable, and it had little to do with Yi Zhen anyway. How could a sickly weakling resist? Right now, aside from using his phone for treatment, there simply wasn’t any better solution.

After Zhen Lin left, Yi Zhen no longer concealed himself—he returned his gaze to the phone. The interface had already redirected to the pending delivery page, where the two other items he’d claimed were clearly displayed, both estimated to arrive in three days. Everything now felt much calmer. The excitement still lingered, but no longer showed on his face. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion that left Yi Zhen drained—when things became numb, the effect was much the same.

To destroy someone, first drive them mad. If even madness is spared, there can be no talk of destruction.

Thus, this marked another glorious demonstration of his ability. Now, let’s find some medical advertisements that claim to heal through motion or speech.

Oh! There’s one—I remember a particularly boastful one. I wonder if his words might actually work?

Nah, better to search first. If I can’t find anything, I’ll experiment later. If words truly worked, he’d have flown to heaven long ago. So it’s just speculation—no real confidence.

Therefore, if there’s a more precisely targeted ad, it naturally becomes the top choice—not vague verbal boasts with little basis.

He tapped a few Enter keys rapidly, returning to the original ad wall homepage. Holding it up close, he noticed a small detail he’d missed before: a search icon, a different color from the ad wall, quietly resting in the top-right corner. Convenient for targeted ad viewing—whether it worked or not, the coins were already earned.

Yes, exactly. Upon re-entering, he not only spotted the top-right element—a small floating window also appeared in the bottom-left. A “+coins” icon had flashed above it earlier, though how much was added remained unknown. Either way, watching ads earned money. That previous one counted as an ad too—an extra income stream. Who wouldn’t love that?

But now wasn’t the time to check. He tapped the search button. A standard search box popped up, below which the four hottest search topics were displayed: Wealth, Learning, Cultivation, and Role-Playing.

Wealth was easy to understand—a money-making game where you’d earn hundreds of millions of coins, upgrade to hire servants, endlessly hoard wealth, and achieve a virtual rags-to-riches story. It differed wildly from reality and easily misled people.

Learning, meanwhile, was the data-memory technique he’d encountered earlier. If not for that incident,

he wouldn’t now be stuck in bed, silently scrolling his phone. Perhaps heaven favored him—this was misfortune, yet also Wan Xing. At least his mind truly could retain information now.

Cultivation? He didn’t quite understand such games. Maybe they were like the “Gluttonous Canteen” type—just with ads tacked on. The mechanics were probably the same. He didn’t expect much from them.

The last one—Role-Playing—brought back memories of when he first played Pocketmonster…

It was a bright, sunny morning. As Yi Zhen guided his character toward the professor’s house, he passed through the mandatory patch of grass.

A wild Rattata immediately jumped out. And “he” simply tossed out a Poké Ball, shouting, “Go, Charmander—it’s you I choose!”

He still remembered how a single Ember skill instantly felled the wild Pokémon. After gaining a little experience, he returned to the familiar grass. What a youthful time.

That was his first role-playing game. He’d kept chasing them ever since—whether official or pirated. Perhaps, if it truly appeared, Pokémon manifesting in reality wouldn’t be impossible…

Closing his eyes, Yi Zhen’s thoughts grew complex again—but at the final moment, he ruthlessly cut them off. He hadn’t found what he needed yet. No more delays. If he couldn’t leave campus later, that’d be a real problem.

He simply typed “rapid recovery” into the search box. After a brief search, he got the answer he wanted.

Though he didn’t know how many results or entries appeared, he’d found what he needed—perfect.

The top result was an ad pinned at the very top. Its copy was blunt and crude.

“Want rapid recovery? Join the Kangwei Project! Kangwei Project—cures ailments with a single payment. As long as your funds are in place, there’s nothing we can’t heal.”

It looked incredibly “reliable.” Yi Zhen skimmed it briefly, then clicked in. It was an article plus a purchase channel—identical in structure to the data-memory technique’s purchase path. Though text could showcase talent, it was still a step below video. Who’d bother reading long text here? Even those watching ads for coins wouldn’t read carefully—let alone be fooled. Yet this organization still paid for a pinned ad? Clearly spent a lot. How much wool could he shear? He was curious.

With his data-memory technique, Yi Zhen read ten lines at a glance—like an electronic eye snapping photos, recording, storing. In an instant, he processed the entire wall of self-praise, self-deprecation, and comparative advertising.

In short: they claimed absolute medical legitimacy, with 108 generations of ancestral lineage. Thus, as long as funds were secured, even if you were on your last breath, they could heal you from afar. If it didn’t work, sue them—though they were basically underground, so suing was Bai Da. So just skip it.

They then self-deprecated that such a Liangxin product went unnoticed, then listed various anecdotes—like how some Indian had been cured and wept with gratitude. But what they needed wasn’t gratitude—it was devout faith. It was all bizarre. He checked the order list: over seven hundred fools had placed orders. Clearly, there were still too many fools in the world. Didn’t matter if the numbers were faked—at least a third were real customers. The rating hovered at 4.8, a result of fake negative reviews being drowned out by positive ones.

The rest was even clearer: they explained nonexistent divine techniques using gibberish—but Yi Zhen still managed to grasp it. It was all comparative bashing—no matter if they were in the same industry, they just trashed competitors and boosted themselves. Morality? Already gone. What use was this vague thing called morality?

Thus, they crafted this long-winded copy—essentially the classic scammer’s script: “Cabbage and rice pass through your belly, wealth comes from investment. Those unwilling to invest will never make big money. Bring your family and friends along… let’s all get rich together!”

Simple logic: just painting a giant cake you can’t eat, while forcing you to pay for it. So stay cautious. The freest things are always the most dangerous.