The professional smile on the server's face was barely holding together.
He'd worked at Summit Dining for three years. He'd dealt with difficult guests, seen every flavor of wealthy showoff—but what was unfolding in front of him was something else entirely.
A young man in ordinary clothes was being mocked to his face by some rich kid, and from start to finish, he hadn't so much as furrowed a brow. No pushback, no anger, no visible discomfort. He'd simply told the server, in a calm voice, to go ahead and arrange the meal.
Hoang Vu's jab had landed in empty air. No reaction, no echo, and none of the anger he'd been hoping to see.
Being completely ignored felt worse than getting snapped at.
"You deaf?"
Hoang Vu's face flushed red. His voice climbed.
"I'm talking to you."
Khanh Vy stood beside him, her expression growing complicated.
In her memory, Zhang Jun always showed the pressure—an unconscious furrow of the brow, a tight press of the lips, that telltale look of strain and awkwardness. But the man sitting across from her now was a stranger she didn't recognize.
His silence didn't feel like endurance. It felt like genuine indifference. As if every cutting remark, every stare from the surrounding tables, Hoang Vu and Khanh Vy included—were just background noise not worth registering.
"Sir, I need to ask you to lower your voice. You're disturbing the other guests."
The floor manager had finally gotten word and come over.
He was a man of about fifty, hair neatly combed, suit unwrinkled, wearing a smile calibrated to exactly the right degree of warmth. Manager Duy—the man in charge of Summit Dining's main floor.
The moment he appeared, Hoang Vu turned up the volume.
"Manager Duy, good timing. Tell me—does this place let just anyone walk in now? You've got someone like this sitting here. Aren't you worried about the restaurant's reputation?"
Manager Duy glanced at Zhang Jun, then at the fuming Hoang Vu. His brow tightened for just a fraction of a second.
He knew Hoang Vu, of course. Son of a real estate developer in the city, a regular here. But years in this business had taught him that you couldn't judge a person by their clothes or the car parked out front.
The young man being berated hadn't moved once. His posture hadn't changed.
That level of composure was itself unusual.
"Mr. Hoang," Manager Duy said, his tone measured but not deferential, "we treat every guest the same."
"Oh, the same? Is that right?"
Hoang Vu let out a sharp laugh like he'd just heard the funniest thing all day. He pulled a thick stack of cash from his wallet and slapped it down on the table.
"Fine. I'll cover his bill. Tell him to take the money and go. Is this enough? Because I can add more."
The nearby tables had gone quiet. Curious glances kept drifting over.
Khanh Vy felt the eyes on them. Heat crept into her face. She tugged lightly at Hoang Vu's sleeve and lowered her voice.
"Come on, let's just go. There are people watching. This is embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?"
Hoang Vu shook her off. His voice got uglier.
"Today I'm going to show him that some places you can't just walk into on sheer nerve."
That was when Zhang Jun finally moved.
He didn't look at Hoang Vu. He didn't look at the cash on the table. He just raised his eyes toward Manager Duy.
"Do you have a private room?"
The question was quiet—but it knocked a beat of silence into the noise around them.
Manager Duy blinked, then recovered immediately.
"We do. The Horizon Room is currently available—our finest private dining space. There is a minimum spend, however—"
"A private room? Seriously?"
Hoang Vu cut in with a cold laugh, like this was the punchline of the whole evening.
Zhang Jun didn't acknowledge him.
"Give me the company account number."
Manager Duy blinked again, but professional reflex kicked in and he recited a bank account number.
Zhang Jun took out his phone and tapped through a few screens.
The whole thing took under thirty seconds.
"Deposit's been sent. We'll settle the rest after the meal."
At that moment, Manager Duy's earpiece crackled with the voice of the accounting staff.
"Manager Duy—we just received a transfer of three hundred million. The note says it's a deposit for a private room. Is this one of your guests?"
The professional smile dropped from Manager Duy's face.
Three hundred million.
A deposit.
He stood frozen, something in his head quietly detonating.
Hoang Vu was still smirking.
"Nice performance. Tap your phone a few times and suddenly you're loaded? If you don't have the money, stand up and leave. Stop making a scene."
Manager Duy drew a slow breath and let it out.
He stopped addressing Hoang Vu entirely. He turned to face Zhang Jun and bowed—deeply.
"Mr. Zhang, I sincerely apologize. We failed to receive you properly, and I'm sorry this has affected your dining experience."
The entire section went still.
Hoang Vu's mockery died in his throat.
His expression locked up, like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water straight into his face. Khanh Vy's hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
Every gaze in the area shifted to Manager Duy mid-bow, then swung back to Zhang Jun, still seated, posture unchanged from the moment he'd sat down.
"What… what just happened?"
Hoang Vu couldn't process it fast enough.
Manager Duy straightened. The warmth had left his smile, replaced by something polite and cold.
He turned to Hoang Vu.
"Mr. Hoang, I need you to stop raising your voice in here. If you continue to disturb our other guests, I will have security escort you and your companion out."
Hoang Vu's eyes went wide.
"What did you just say? You're throwing me out? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea how much my family spends here every year?"
"This guest has just placed a three-hundred-million deposit for the Chef's Table package in the Horizon Room."
Manager Duy's voice was perfectly level.
He turned, extended a hand toward Zhang Jun, and gestured toward the interior.
"Mr. Zhang, the Horizon Room is ready. Please, follow me."
Only then did Zhang Jun rise from his seat.
From start to finish, he hadn't looked at Hoang Vu or Khanh Vy once—as if the two of them were just a noise complaint the restaurant had already handled.
He walked, following Manager Duy toward the private dining wing.
"Stop right there!"
Hoang Vu finally snapped out of his shock and shouted, nearly losing control entirely.
"That's impossible! Where would he get three hundred million? That run-down little shop of his isn't worth that much if you sold the whole thing!"
Zhang Jun's step faltered—barely.
He didn't turn around. He just tilted his head slightly, and for the first time since Hoang Vu had walked over, he glanced back at him.
No anger in that look. No contempt. No challenge.
Just absolute, bottomless indifference.
A chill ran down Hoang Vu's spine. The rest of his words jammed in his throat and wouldn't come out.
In that moment, he had the sudden, horrible feeling that he was a clown screaming on a stage—and the only audience member had already gotten bored and walked out.
A humiliation unlike anything he'd felt before tore through what little composure he had left.
Khanh Vy stumbled half a step, barely keeping her footing.
She watched Zhang Jun's back—a back she'd once known so well, now frighteningly unfamiliar—and felt something invisible close around her heart.
Three hundred million. A deposit.
The words kept cycling through her mind, shattering piece by piece the sense of superiority she'd been holding onto since the day she left him.
She'd ended things with Zhang Jun because he was broke, hadn't she? Because all he had was an old convenience store, and he couldn't give her the life she wanted?
But now, the man she'd written off as someone who'd spend his whole life behind the counter of the Dai Jun General Store had just tossed out three hundred million without blinking.
And Hoang Vu—the man she'd thought could take her somewhere better—was standing there red-faced and sputtering, capable of nothing but helpless shouting.
The irony was almost funny.
The Horizon Room occupied the top floor of Summit Dining.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the city's blazing nightscape. The lights of towers, streets, and neighborhoods wove together into a river of color flowing far below.
The carpet underfoot was so thick it swallowed footsteps entirely. The air carried a faint trace of florals and wood—just enough to signal expense without becoming oppressive.
"Mr. Zhang, our head chef will personally design tonight's full menu for you. All ingredients are the freshest available, and every dish will be prepared to our highest standard."
Manager Duy pulled out Zhang Jun's chair himself, his manner noticeably more deferential than it had been on the main floor.
"What about wine?" Zhang Jun asked.
"We have a Château Valombre 1988, and beyond that—"
"Don't bother with the rundown." Zhang Jun cut him off. "Just pair whatever works with the food."
"Of course. Understood."
Manager Duy gave a quick nod.
"Then I'll leave you to your meal. Ring the bell if you need anything."
He bowed once more and withdrew, easing the door shut behind him with care.
The room settled into silence.
Zhang Jun leaned back in his chair and looked out at the city lights through the glass. The commotion downstairs hadn't left a ripple in him. Saying goodbye to the version of himself who'd endured and bent under pressure—that didn't require proving anything to anyone.
It was enough that he knew he'd changed.
The courses arrived one by one.
Seared foie gras, rich and yielding, with a faint char that perfumed the air. Blue lobster cooked to the exact moment of perfection—firm, sweet flesh paired with a bright, lightly acidic sauce that made the natural flavor sing. Each dish was plated like a small work of art, so precise it barely resembled ordinary food.
A few days ago, Zhang Jun wouldn't have had any business sitting here at all.
Now, he simply thought: not bad.
The meal stretched close to an hour.
Zhang Jun set down his fork and knife, dabbed his mouth with the linen napkin, and pressed the call button.
Manager Duy pushed through the door almost immediately, his attentive smile still in place.
"Mr. Zhang, I hope everything was to your liking this evening."
"It was fine. Let's settle up."
"Of course. Tonight's total comes to seventy-eight million. As for the remaining balance from your deposit—how would you like to handle that?"
"Leave it. I'll use it next time."
Zhang Jun said it like it was nothing.
"Understood. We'll set up a membership account for you. One moment, please."
Manager Duy stepped out and returned shortly after, presenting a matte black card with both hands. The material had a distinct weight to it—gold trim along the edges, heavier than it looked.
"This is Summit Dining's VIP card. We look forward to welcoming you back."
Zhang Jun took the card and slipped it into his pocket. He gave a brief nod by way of farewell and walked out.
Outside the restaurant entrance, his old silver-gray Wuling sat exactly where he'd left it—parked in the most visible spot, surrounded by luxury vehicles, which only made it stand out more. The doorman who'd stopped him on the way in was standing straight beside the car. The moment he saw Zhang Jun come through the doors, the man hurried over and opened the door for him.
Zhang Jun got into the driver's seat and started the van.
The engine turned over with its plain, unimpressive rumble—nothing elegant about it—and merged into the flow of traffic.
He didn't look back.
The van moved through lit streets and eventually turned toward the familiar block of the Dai Jun General Store.
Zhang Jun pulled up and looked at the display.
[Spatial Transfer: Cooldown Active] [Time Remaining: 00:03:14]
Almost time.
He went inside, rolled the shutter down, and settled behind the counter with his eyes closed.
The moment the three-minute countdown hit zero, Zhang Jun gave the mental command.
*Transfer.*
The scene in front of him began to warp and layer over itself. The city's brilliant lights were pulled away, replaced by the familiar yellow-gray sky and the quiet silhouette of crumbling buildings.
[Spatial Transfer: Complete] [Cooldown: 10:59:45]
Zhang Jun paused.
The cooldown had dropped from twelve hours to eleven.
That sparked a bold hypothesis. Maybe with each use, Spatial Transfer's cooldown would keep shrinking—until one day he could move between worlds almost without restriction.
If that was right, things were going to get a lot more convenient.
He set the thought aside, walked to the window, and looked out through the slats of the shutter.
The street was empty.
But in the abandoned building across the way, behind a collapsed billboard in the distance, in the shadows of several narrow alleys—he could feel eyes watching the store.
More than one pair.
Word had spread.
The scattered survivors from before had clearly carried the story back through the ruins: somewhere out there was a store where you could trade gold and Deadwalker Cores for food.
The people watching now weren't starving stragglers gambling their lives for a bowl of noodles.
These were scouts sent by organized factions.
Zhang Jun didn't dwell on the watching eyes. He walked straight to the shutter and pulled it up.
Open for business.
About ten minutes later, something moved outside.
A figure appeared at the corner of the street and walked toward the Dai Jun General Store at an unhurried, deliberate pace.
This one was nothing like the ragged, hollow-eyed survivors from before. He wore a set of tactical gear that was relatively clean—worn in places, but with protective plating intact at every critical point. A rifle across his back, a sidearm and machete at his hip. Each step landed with purpose, always positioned to retreat or dodge, eyes continuously sweeping the environment.
A seasoned operator.
The man stopped in front of the store.
"Shopkeeper."
His voice was rough but steady.
"Name's Iron Grip. I'm here representing North Bridge Stronghold. We need to talk."
North Bridge Stronghold.
Zhang Jun had never heard the name. Didn't particularly matter.
"Talk about what?" he asked.
"North Bridge Stronghold needs supplies. A lot of them."
Iron Grip's voice carried clearly across the empty street. He hadn't stepped up to the invisible boundary—he'd kept himself at a distance that allowed for options.
"Food, clean water, medicine, weapons, ammunition. We need all of it."
Zhang Jun leaned against the counter and picked up a ceramic bowl, wiping it down with a cloth.
"I don't sell weapons."
Flat and direct. It cut off that part of the conversation before it could go anywhere.
Iron Grip's expression didn't shift. He'd probably anticipated the answer.
"Food and clean water, then. Whatever you have, we'll take it."
He reached into a small pouch on his tactical vest and produced a small gold bar, setting it on the ground in front of him.
"Consider that a deposit. North Bridge Stronghold wants to establish a long-term supply relationship with you. On pricing—we're hoping you can work with us on that."
Zhang Jun looked at him.
"My prices are the same for everyone."
The air on the street seemed to freeze.
In the shadows behind Iron Grip, several concealed presences shifted—small, barely perceptible fluctuations. He hadn't come alone.
Iron Grip raised one hand, signaling the others to hold.
"We're coming to you in good faith."
Zhang Jun didn't respond.
Instead, he raised his hand toward a heavy case of canned meat sitting on the top shelf—and slowly closed his fingers.
The case lifted off the shelf on its own. It drifted through the air, crossed several meters of open space, and settled silently onto the counter in front of him.
Iron Grip's pupils contracted sharply.
*Gravity Pull.*