Chapter 100: “I Thought You Might Need Me—So Here I Am!”
Old Smokey had lived in this area for many years.
He definitely knew about the strange happenings nearby.
But unless asked, he wouldn’t volunteer the information.
By the rules, Old Smokey was a “good guy”—as long as he wasn’t corrupted, his words could generally be trusted.
Zhang Yangqing wasn’t the only one who noticed the anomalies around the building. Many other chosen ones had also come to Old Smokey for answers.
But there was a key difference:
For everyone except Zhang Yangqing, a second visit meant being put to work.
After last night’s landlord gathering, Old Smokey’s place was left in complete disarray.
He’d been too busy to clean up.
So, these chosen ones had to roll up their sleeves and scrub the entire apartment before Old Smokey would share any intel.
No matter how prestigious their status outside, here, they were reduced to menial labor.
But for the sake of survival—and crucial information—they had no choice.
It took them the entire afternoon just to make the place halfway presentable.
Only then did Old Smokey divulge what they wanted to know.
Zhang Yangqing, meanwhile, had it easy.
Thanks to yesterday’s… incident… his landlords were no longer a concern.
And he’d already cleaned up his own mess.
After lunch today, seeing the table piled with dishes and grill racks, Zhang Yangqing moved to help.
The moment he touched a plate, Old Smokey freaked out.
“Big Bro, you’ve already done enough! Leave the small stuff to me—if you insist on cleaning, you’re insulting me!”
Old Smokey was genuinely upset.
Zhang Yangqing had no choice but to back off.
The lesson for global audiences?
If you’re strong enough, even NPCs will bend over backward to please you.
Watching their own chosen ones struggle for survival while Zhang Yangqing strolled through like a VIP on an inspection tour?
Let’s just say other nations’ viewers were green with envy.
(Except Nordic Snow Country—but more on that later.)
Back in the Strange Trial, Old Smokey pondered Zhang Yangqing’s question before answering:
“That charred building? Now that you mention it… the rain started right after it burned down. No idea why, though.
Oh! And the family of three who lived in your unit? They died visiting that very building.”
That was all Old Smokey knew.
For most chosen ones, this raised more questions than answers.
Was the building connected to the rain?
Or was the intel just useless?
“Clean the entire building to stop the rain?”
Yeah, right. That’d take weeks, not three days.
Jones was completely baffled.
Miller, however, pieced it together—he’d figured out the family’s identity.
From today’s observations:
Most tenants here lived alone.
Those with roommates? They were residents, not landlords.
And resident-tenant relations were frosty.
So a family living here long-term? Definitely landlords.
“If they were my landlords… and now they’re dead… does that mean I have no landlord?”
Miller’s eyes widened.
He knew how to escape.
At that moment, Zhang Yangqing’s expression shifted sharply—startling Old Smokey.
“Big Bro, what’s wrong? Did I say something off?”
Old Smokey sounded nervous. Had he offended his terrifying guest?
“Nothing major. Thanks for lunch.”
“Anytime! You’re welcome here daily!”
Old Smokey exhaled in relief, his smile genuine.
This wasn’t just fear—it was respect.
In any world, strength commanded reverence.
Zhang Yangqing paused, then gave a rare, almost reluctant reply: “Sure.”
Reluctant, because he knew tomorrow might be their last meeting.
Not because Old Smokey would die—but because Zhang Yangqing was leaving.
The puzzle was solved.
To him, Old Smokey was a friendly NPC who’d left a positive impression.
Before leaving, Zhang Yangqing took out a local banknote, infused it with golden light, and scrawled something before handing it over.
“Keep this on you. It’ll save your life when the time comes.”
As a Daoist Grandmaster, this was his way of repaying kindness.
In the Strange Trial, where rules dictated life and death, he didn’t know if this world would persist after his exit.
But Old Smokey had gone above and beyond—not just with intel, but with that feast.
The first real meal Zhang Yangqing had enjoyed in any trial.
(Compared to the usual flavorless steak or sad fruit platters.)
So he gifted a Daoist protective talisman.
As long as Old Smokey didn’t do anything stupid, it would keep him safe.
“Thanks, Big Bro! Come again!”
Old Smokey accepted it eagerly.
This was the man who’d erased a dozen ghosts with a single hand seal.
His gifts were anything but ordinary.
Holding it, Old Smokey felt an immediate, unshakable sense of security—like Zhang Yangqing was right beside him.
But he wasn’t foolish enough to flaunt it.
In this world, attracting envy was a death sentence.
As a tenant, he just wanted to survive.
(The only fearless beings here were the hidden anomalies—and even Zhang Yangqing saw no reason to tangle with those yet.)
Zhang Yangqing left in a hurry because someone was at his door.
Meanwhile, other chosen ones returned to find their apartments breached.
Intruders had fought—and lost—to their black cats.
Now, Rule #6 kicked in:
“Dispose of corpses immediately, or ‘unwanted guests’ will arrive.”
Black-robed “Cleaners”—this trial’s hidden anomalies—were already en route.
Chosen ones who didn’t hurry back faced lethal consequences.
On Zhang Yangqing’s screen, a scrawny, disheveled man was fumbling with his lock.
Greasy hair, bloodshot eyes, clothes in tatters—the epitome of shifty.
A thief, sweating bullets as he tried key after key.
“This has to be the one…”
After five full minutes of failure, he switched to lockpicks.
(Shoutout to Curly Hair’s top-tier locksmithing.)
Just as frustration peaked, a “helpful stranger” tapped his shoulder.
“Try this key—might work.”
The thief took it, inserted it—and click.
The door swung open.
“Holy—thanks, man! Where’d you get this?”
Zhang Yangqing smiled.
“Because I live here.”
Thief: “…”
His grin froze.
Audiences howled.
“This dude really tried robbing Zhang Yangqing? That’s like handing your neck to the executioner!”
“Most audacious thief in history. Even ghosts get one-shot by him!”
“Dying by Zhang’s hand? That’s an honor.”
“Wait—why don’t other streams show thieves?”
“Maybe their chosen ones haven’t noticed yet?”
The thief, true to his profession, was fast.
Dodging Zhang Yangqing’s “grab,” he bolted.
Vaulting railings, scaling walls—his parkour skills put professionals to shame.
Zhang Yangqing’s viewers marveled at his agility.
(Though they only saw it because Zhang Yangqing was casually tailing him.)
That “grab”? Just retrieving his key.
Priorities.
Soon, they reached a dilapidated warehouse.
Despite the thief’s evasive maneuvers, he never noticed his shadow.
Inside, two dozen ragged figures huddled around a fire.
Zhang Yangqing observed from a skylight.
(How’d he get up there? A single leap. No fancy footwork—just raw power.)
The contrast was stark.
His building’s tenants were well-dressed—suits, finery, even Curly Hair’s “luxury” workwear.
These people? Filthy, draped in burlap sacks, sleeping on planks.
Malnourished, desperate—the dregs of society.
Only one stood out: a scar-faced, burly man—the group’s leader.
The thief entered, head hung.
Scarface sighed. “Failed again?”
“Almost had it… then the owner showed up.”
(Total lie.)
Scarface’s jaw clenched at “owner.”
“Not your fault. If those bastards hadn’t stolen our homes…”
The room erupted in angry murmurs.
“We’re starving!”
“Let’s hit the supermarket’s back door!”
“I’m sick of hiding! Let’s fight!”
“With what? They’d slaughter us!”
Hope faded. Even Scarface had no solutions.
Then—a voice, clear as a bell, rang from above:
“I thought you might need me.”
“So here I am.”
