Ten thousand I am across the heavens

He scrolled through the posts, one after another. Mughal watched with heartache as his daughter's situation worsened, becoming increasingly unbearable for the burdens of life. Finally, two years ago, he posted his last message and disappeared from the internet forever.

The black mask concealed his distorted expression, allowing him to appear, at least on the surface, to still be that cold, indifferent, and ruthless boss.

He took a deep breath and put down the data panel in front of him. He said to the timid girl in front of him, "I have already learned about your life. Unfortunately, you don't have any special skills. So in order to catch up with others, in addition to your work, you must undergo extra training. In addition to your 8-hour workday, you must also study for an extra 4 hours until you master a skill."

The Mughal deeply regretted not educating his children properly; if they had acquired a skill, their situation after his death might have been much better. And it's not too late to make amends.

Mona timidly obeyed her boss's orders, daring not to resist in the slightest. It wasn't just the initial show of force that intimidated her, but also the experiences she had endured over the past few days that had made this young woman aware of the dark side of the world. She realized how utterly powerless she was when her fate was in the hands of others.

The more timid she appeared, the more suffocated Mughal felt. He remembered how lively and cheerful his daughter used to be; he couldn't imagine what she had gone through to become the way she was now.

"I have to find a way to earn enough money and gain a stable position before I'm qualified to protect her."

Mughal told himself this in secret, and then he began looking for work in the real world. What advantages did he have over others? There weren't many things he could do in the real world, and large companies wouldn't hire someone like him without status. There were tons of people unable to find work in the lower city, and even fewer job openings.

After a long day of running around, he finally found a job that was barely suitable for him.

"From now on, you'll work for me. Your physique is perfect for recycling. Look at you guys, and look at him. To be immune to the poison gas, he's modified himself to be electrically powered. He doesn't even need to breathe. Do you think you can compete with him? I recommended a prosthetic lung to you guys, and you all kept making excuses. I'll fire you all one day."

The speaker was the man responsible for collecting garbage next to the landfill. Mughal had found a job collecting garbage here. Unlike ordinary people, his entire body was mechanical, so he didn't need to breathe and therefore didn't need to worry about the harmful gases and smoke produced when the garbage was burned. As long as his dust covers were tightly closed, he would basically be unharmed. At most, dust would get into the cooling fan. But these were minor issues; replacing the fan wouldn't cost much. Much cheaper than treating lung disease.

The only problem is that the work is extremely arduous. Even though the mechanical body doesn't feel tired, the long hours of repetitive labor can severely damage one's mental health.

But there's nothing he can do about it. The personalities he bought are unlikely to generate income in the short term. In fact, he'll have to support them. This body is his most valuable asset now, and he can only slowly earn money through the wear and tear of his mechanical form.

Within the server connected to his consciousness, Mona nervously familiarized herself with her account—the social media account she had just registered. Their current task was to manage these accounts and build a following. How far they could go depended on a combination of their abilities and their luck.

The Mughals don't expect them to monetize their live streams, but they at least have to make their accounts look like they're being used by real people.

With a certain number of followers and relatively sufficient interaction, an account inherently possesses value. When necessary, it can become a relatively sophisticated form of online manipulation. Accounts controlled by real people can manipulate public opinion through sophisticated replies, and in key public opinion battles, the effect is naturally better than ordinary, bot-generated online manipulation.

After registering her account, Mona carefully filled in the information. For the nickname, she entered her real name, the name she used when she was still alive. It was as if she was still alive as long as the account continued to operate. She had no special talents, so she could only follow the account creation guides online, randomly forwarding videos, editing some, or generating short videos using her virtual avatar. After a whole day of work, her mental state was on the verge of collapse, and she had barely managed to reach her target number of followers.

With his break time almost over, the image of his boss wearing a black mask appeared before his eyes. Startled, he quickly resumed editing the video, preparing to post it on his account.

“Take a break. It’s time to get off work now, no need to be so tense.” Mughal saw your shocked and bewildered expression. He then realized that his tone had been too soft and had to readjust it to a serious one: “Each of you is my precious asset. I will not allow you to suffer permanent mental damage from working at high intensity for a short period of time. So stop and rest now. I’ve had the server generate food and rest rooms, all based on your memories.”

Meanwhile, in the real world, Mughal sighed helplessly as he looked at the server's payment interface. He transferred 120 of the two hundred rubles he had painstakingly earned from a whole day of recycling to the server to renew its service. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to maintain so many personalities operating on his own computing power.

In the virtual world, Mona pushed open the door with curiosity and trepidation. The door had only been generated after she got off work, and she arrived at a lounge that surprised her.

This lounge isn't a luxurious place. It occupies only a few square meters at most, and doesn't look luxurious at all. But it's filled with a warm and cozy atmosphere. Various everyday items made from recycled materials are arranged in a messy yet orderly fashion in the room. Soft yellow light illuminates the small bed and desk that take up most of the small room.

Everything was so familiar to her. The layout of the room was exactly the same as the small house he lived in when he was alive. More accurately, it was the house when his family was still intact. This seemed like a very distant memory to her. So much so that it took her a moment to remember where she was. After all, it had been a long time since she had been here. Shortly after her father died, the family couldn't afford the rent and was evicted by the landlord. Those household items made from recycled materials, those things that embodied the family's hard work, were ruthlessly thrown out of the room as garbage. Washed away by the torrential rain, they reverted to their original form, back to pieces of trash.

He had never seen that room again since then. He never expected to have the chance to see it again today.

Just as her nose started to sting, plates of beautifully arranged natural food appeared out of thin air on her desk. The familiar plates and the unfamiliar food inside made the girl feel even more confused.

In the information world, the Mughals silently observed this scene. In the real world, they plugged their power outlets into charging stations.

“Your father wasn’t capable. He couldn’t afford these things when you were alive. But now that we’re both dead, we can at least let you taste what the legendary naturally grown food tastes like…”

The Mughal didn't know what real natural food tasted like, but at least today, the electric current he tasted didn't seem as sour as before.

[To be continued]

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