The whole nation: You're put to survive on a desolate planet, you'll be running an alien b

The weathered shared bicycle groaned under its own weight, the chain creaking and squeaking as if in protest. Li Haotian held the handlebars with one hand, while the other hand had to protect the dozen or so shopping bags hanging from the front of the bike, almost dragging on the ground.

Lin Mo sat in the back seat, put down her tablet, and gripped Li Haotian's clothes tightly with both hands. She didn't look at the road, but turned her head, her gaze fixed on the direction of the unfinished buildings in the distance.

"What are you looking at? There's no spicy snack for sale over there." Li Haotian was struggling a bit, and a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"Haotian," Lin Mo's voice was very soft, close to his ear, "there seems to be something crying in that place."

Li Haotian paused in his pedaling motion, causing the bike to wobble. He didn't turn around, but simply hummed in response.

"Crying sounds unpleasant, I don't like it," Lin Mo added.

"Okay, I'll go gag it later."

Back at Villa No. 1 in Jinghaiting, Li Haotian carried the mountain of snacks and drinks—enough to open a small shop—into the living room. Lin Mo, barefoot, pulled a bag of potato chips from the mountain of snacks, tore it open, sat cross-legged on the carpet, and picked up her tablet to continue watching her melodramatic drama.

"What are we having for dinner? Braised pork ribs with potatoes?" Li Haotian asked as he put the milk into the refrigerator.

Lin Mo didn't even look up, making a "crunching" sound with his mouth. "I don't want meat, it smells disgusting."

"Alright, my ancestor." Li Haotian sighed, rummaged through the shopping bag and pulled out a few potatoes and a bag of green peppers. "Then let's have something vegetarian, stir-fried shredded potatoes with vinegar."

The open kitchen, large enough to host a party, was equipped with brand-new German cookware, gleaming coldly under the lights. Li Haotian searched for a while, finally pulling out a very ordinary Chinese iron wok from the bottom of the cabinet. He weighed it in his hand and thought it was just right.

He tied on a pink cartoon apron, which came with the villa and looked both comical and awkward. He picked up a gleaming kitchen knife and began to chop potatoes.

"Bang, bang, bang..."

The crisp sound of chopping vegetables echoed in the empty villa, carrying a peculiar, homely atmosphere. Under his hands, the shredded potatoes became distinct and fine enough to be threaded through a needle.

Lin Mo had somehow gotten close, leaning against the smooth bar counter, her chin resting on the back of her hand, watching him curiously. The male and female protagonists on the screen were crying their hearts out, but she was watching with great interest, her potato chips never stopping.

"boom--"

With a loud bang, the villa's supposedly bulletproof mahogany door was kicked open from the outside. The heavy door slammed against the wall, causing several pieces of plaster to fall off.

Yesterday, that arrogant young master Wang, who was so domineering in the supermarket, stormed in with seven or eight burly men covered in dragon and tiger tattoos. The leader, nearly two meters tall, had a gold chain around his neck that could be used to leash a dog, and his muscles stretched his tight vest so much it looked like it was about to burst. He was bald, and there was a hideous scar on his scalp.

"Kid, you didn't expect this, did you? Your Grandpa Wang is back again!" Young Master Wang pointed at Li Haotian's back in the kitchen, his face full of vengeful pleasure.

The bald, burly man, supposedly a retired underground boxing champion nicknamed "Iron Fist," grinned maliciously and cracked his knuckles, making a series of "crackling" sounds.

"Is this the kid who made you lose face in the parking lot?" Iron Fist's voice was rough, like sandpaper rubbing.

"Brother Biao, that's him! Beat him to death, break both his legs, I'll pay for his medical bills!" Young Master Wang shouted even louder from behind.

Li Haotian didn't even turn his head. He soaked the shredded potatoes in water, then picked up a green pepper and began slicing it at a leisurely pace. His relaxed demeanor made it seem as if the people who had barged in behind him weren't a group of thugs, but a team of food delivery workers.

Iron Fist felt his dignity had been insulted. He roared, and his fist, as big as a casserole dish, slammed straight at the back of Li Haotian's head with a gust of wind.

"Kid, today I'll teach you what death really means!"

The force of the punch had already ruffled Li Haotian's hair.

Lin Mo, sitting at the bar, didn't even lift his eyelids; he simply turned up the volume on his tablet.

Just as the fist was about to strike, Li Haotian moved. He didn't even turn around; he simply flicked his right wrist, which was holding the cleaver, backward at an extremely casual angle.

The back of the cleaver, not the sharp edge, lightly brushed against the wrist as the iron fist struck.

"Smack."

The sound was faint, like a dry twig being broken.

Immediately following was a scream loud enough to pierce eardrums.

"ah--!"

Iron Fist's fist, as big as a clay pot, along with his wrist, was bent backward at a bizarre angle that no ordinary person could possibly do. The stark white bone shards pierced his skin, and blood gushed out instantly.

He clutched his mangled hand, knelt stiffly on the ground, writhing in pain and uttering inhuman howls.

The entire living room fell silent instantly.

The sneers on the faces of the remaining burly men froze, as if someone had pressed the pause button. Young Master Wang's mouth was wide open, and his eyes almost popped out.

Li Haotian sheathed the cleaver as if shooing away a fly. He put the sliced ​​green peppers and potato strips together, then turned on the stove, poured in the oil, and his movements were fluid and efficient.

"Sizzle—"

He sautéed scallions, ginger, and garlic in the pan until fragrant, filling the living room with a rich aroma. He poured the shredded potatoes into the pan and began to toss and stir-fry them. The wok flew up and down in his hands, making the shredded potatoes seem to come alive.

While cooking, he said to the group of terrified people at the door without turning his head:

"The kitchen is very smoky, so please close the door when you leave."

He paused for a moment, then added a spoonful of vinegar to the pot.

"Also, remember to take your trash with you."

Wang Shao snapped out of his daze, his face turning deathly pale, his whole body trembling like a leaf. He looked at the still groaning Iron Fist on the ground, then at the figure in the kitchen wearing a pink apron, intently cooking, and a chill ran from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

"Go! Go quickly!"

He scrambled out, and the remaining burly men, as if they had seen a ghost, frantically braced themselves against the iron fists that were still rolling on the ground, and fled the villa in a panic.

Li Haotian put the stir-fried potato strips into a plate and cooked two bowls of rice.

"Dinner's ready." He brought the food to the bar.

Lin Mo put down the tablet, jumped off the bar stool, picked up his chopsticks, took a bite of shredded potato, and chewed it with his cheeks bulging.

"Sour," she commented.

"It's vinegary, how can it not be sour?" Li Haotian took a bite himself, and the taste was alright.

The two of them finished their dinner in the kitchen, filled with the aroma of stir-fried scallions and melodramatic lines from a soap opera. The kicked-down front door remained wide open, letting in a cool evening breeze.

On the rooftop of a high-rise building, one kilometer away from the villa.

A young team member in a Dragon Shield uniform lowered his high-powered binoculars, a fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead. He cleared his throat and, speaking uncertainly into the communicator on his collar, reported:

"Headquarters, this is 'Hawk Eye' Observation Post No. 3."

"The target...the target has just finished cooking."

After a few seconds of silence on the other end of the communicator, a stern voice came through: "Cooking? Are you sure your report is about this?"

"Yes, sir." Hawkeye No. 3 swallowed hard. "The target cooked a dish of stir-fried shredded potatoes with vinegar in three minutes and twenty seconds. During that time, he repelled nine unidentified attackers, one of whom was suspected to be 'Iron Fist,' a retired underground boxing champion from Donghai City. The target did not use any supernatural power throughout the entire process, but only... only the back of a kitchen knife, to cripple the opponent."

There was another long silence on the other end of the communicator.

Hawkeye 3 stared at the information that had just popped up on the screen. The image of the man named "Li Dazhu" wearing a pink apron and flipping a wok was still lingering in his mind.

"Sir, given the target's performance, I recommend... that the target's threat assessment level be upgraded from 'extremely dangerous' to the highest level."

"Serial number?"

Hawkeye III took a deep breath and uttered the word that represented taboo and legend within the Dragon Shield.

"Divine Dragon".