Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

The kraft paper was rough and hard, almost impossible to swallow. She could only try to soften it with her saliva, tearing and biting it little by little before swallowing.

Each bite felt like swallowing sand; it's no wonder that with such a texture, the woman couldn't possibly eat quickly.

Zhang Qiliang didn't mind the speed, but whenever the woman hesitated slightly due to difficulty or nausea and slowed down her movements, Zhang Qiliang's eyebrows would furrow slightly.

A subtle change in expression sent a shock through the woman, causing her to swallow even faster. Even as she choked and her eyes rolled back, she dared not stop.

Time ticked by in the deathly silence, broken only by the woman's labored swallowing and the occasional suppressed retching.

An absurd and terrifying atmosphere permeated the living room.

The sunlight was still bright, shining on the broken door, the messy floor, and the elegant woman who was being forced to "dine".

After a long while, she finally swallowed the rather large piece of parchment bit by bit.

My stomach felt heavy, filled with a foreign, indigestible feeling, and my throat burned.

She looked at Zhang Qiliang again, her eyes now somewhat unfocused, filled only with numb fear.

Zhang Qiliang's gaze slowly shifted to the piece of transparent plastic bag in the trash can.

The woman's last line of defense finally crumbled.

"Big brother...!" she cried, her voice hoarse, "Eating plastic bags... eating plastic bags will kill you! Really! Please, I'll do anything, just don't make me eat this..."

"No." Zhang Qiliang shook his head.

"Can...can I check?" The woman pointed tremblingly to her phone lying on the sofa. "Just checking...in case, in case it's really dangerous..."

“Okay.” Zhang Qiliang nodded, even stepping aside to make room for her to reach for her phone.

Who is Zhang Qiliang? He can even suggest to the victim that they report the matter to the authorities in front of the victim. Is he afraid of your little tricks?

The woman crawled over, grabbed the phone, and her fingers trembled so much that she could barely unlock the screen.

She didn't dare to play any tricks; under Zhang Qiliang's watchful gaze, she didn't dare to have even the slightest extra thought.

She obediently opened her browser and entered the keyword "consequences of accidentally ingesting plastic bags".

The search results came up quickly.

Most sources say that for large herbivorous animals like cattle and sheep, accidentally ingesting plastic bags can block their digestive tract, which is extremely dangerous.

However, for humans... the general advice from doctors is that if a small amount is accidentally ingested, it can usually be excreted on its own, but close observation is recommended, and medical attention should be sought promptly if any discomfort occurs.

Of course, almost all the entries subtly add: if someone actively swallows plastic bags, it is recommended to consult a psychiatrist.

Looking at the words on the screen, the woman didn't know whether to feel relieved or to feel even deeper despair.

With tears in her eyes, under Zhang Qiliang's gaze, she slowly walked to the trash can and picked up the transparent plastic bag that had contained the scallion pancake.

The bag was very thin, and there were a few specks of oil on it.

She started tearing.

Tear the plastic bag into small strips and pieces.

The movements were slow, each tear as if ripping away the last vestiges of one's dignity and self-respect.

After tearing it apart, she paused for a few seconds looking at the pile of plastic fragments in her palm, then closed her eyes and slowly began to put the plastic fragments into her mouth one by one.

Chewing is impossible; one can only try to swallow.

The rough plastic edges scraped against my esophagus, causing intense discomfort and a feeling of nausea.

She tried desperately to hold back her tears, which flowed silently, mingling with the swelling and blood on her face, making her look utterly disheveled.

Standing to the side, quietly watching the woman finish the last piece of plastic bag, Zhang Qiliang smiled and said, "Next time you want to save money, you can come to me, and I'll treat you."

The woman trembled violently, not daring to utter a single word, but simply lowering her head and staring intently at the ground.

Zhang Qiliang turned around and walked out of room 1203.

When he left, Zhang Qiliang didn't say anything, nor did he deliberately look around the living room or check the house number.

Getting beaten up for free and then eating all the free stuff is enough. As parents, we won't add any extra psychological burden to our children.

As for whether I'll lose this delivery job... when bad luck strikes, even drinking cold water can cause problems. If all else fails, I'll just find another job.

Anyway, I can borrow my ID card anytime.

Perhaps her bad luck had finally run its course, or perhaps the woman was unusually rational—she understood what she would face if she offended such a ruthless person who could kick down a security door and force someone to eat their packaging, and if she reported the person to the authorities and had them detained for a few days.

In short, for the rest of the afternoon, Zhang Qiliang continued delivering food without any problems.

No express delivery service called, and no complaints were received from the platform.

Even as evening approached, Zhang Qiliang discovered that the status of the "lost meal" order had been updated, and the 48 yuan meal fee had been refunded by the platform and included in his income for the day.

Around 4 p.m., Zhang Qiliang rode his bicycle back to the station.

The station was a bit busier than at noon. Several riders who had finished their afternoon tea runs were chatting or scrolling through their phones in the rest area, and the air was filled with the smell of instant noodles and cigarettes.

Zhang Qiliang parked his car, took off his helmet, walked over, and found an empty chair to sit down.

He didn't talk much, but if someone offered him a cigarette, he would wave it off and say thank you, occasionally adding a few complaints about "a sudden decrease in orders in a certain business district" or "a restaurant serving food at an insanely slow pace."

At this moment, Station Chief Li peeked out from the small office inside, glanced around the rest area, and his gaze landed on Zhang Qiliang: "Xiao Ming!"

Zhang Qiliang stood up and walked over.

“That kid Xiao Mao,” Station Master Li pointed to the electric scooter that Zhang Qiliang had borrowed for a day, parked in the corner, “his friends invited him for drinks tonight, so he’s not running today. He said if you want to run, you can still use the scooter, but the battery probably won’t last long, so you’ll have to change it yourself.”

"Okay! Thank you, stationmaster!" Zhang Qiliang thanked him.

He scanned the code, quickly replaced the fully charged spare battery on his electric scooter, then hopped on and waved to his coworkers in the rest area.

"Guys, it's almost rush hour! I'm off to battle! Let's go, everyone!"

Amidst a few scattered responses of "Keep going!" and "Be careful!", Zhang Qiliang turned the ignition and the electric scooter glided swiftly out of the station.

The next four hours were a fierce battle during the evening rush hour.

As office workers gradually leave work, the demand for family dinners surges, and orders become frequent again.

Zhang Qiliang walks through the gradually brightening city lights, picking up and delivering meals, dealing with all sorts of customers and situations.

Around 8 p.m., after delivering a meal to an office building, he rode his bike through the area he had been traversing almost ten times that day—a square surrounding the long-distance bus station.

The area is a mixed crowd, with relatively dim lighting. Motorcycle taxis waiting for passengers, food carts, and some tired-looking travelers dragging their luggage are scattered along the roadside.

As Zhang Qiliang drove past the steps at the edge of the square, he slowed down.

His gaze stopped.

A young man—no, more accurately, a teenager—sat alone on the cold steps.

He looked no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, thin, and wearing jeans and an ill-fitting old jacket.

Several crushed cigarette butts lay at his feet, next to him was a bulging old backpack and a red plastic bucket haphazardly stuffed with a few clothes hangers and some other odds and ends.

The boy had his head down, his hands in his jacket pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, and he was shrouded in a heavy sense of confusion and bewilderment that was beyond his years.

The evening breeze blew by, ruffling his somewhat greasy hair, adding to his desolate appearance.

Zhang Qiliang pulled his electric scooter over to the side of the road, turned off the engine, and walked over.

He stopped in front of the boy, blocking some of the streetlight's light.

"Young man," Zhang Qiliang asked, "what's wrong with you?"

The boy seemed startled and abruptly raised his head.

Under the streetlights, his face still looked very young, but his eyes held a weariness beyond his years and a hint of wariness.

He looked at Zhang Qiliang, his gaze sweeping over his delivery uniform before settling on his scholarly face, which now held a gentle, inquiring expression.

Perhaps it was the simplicity of the work clothes themselves that gave off a "laborer" vibe, or perhaps it was the sincerity in Zhang Qiliang's smile that made the boy's guard relax slightly, and he forced a smile: "Hello, brother, I... I'm waiting for the bus."

"Waiting for a bus?" Zhang Qiliang frowned, glancing at the closed station entrance not far away. "What bus are we waiting for at this hour? The shuttle bus won't start until tomorrow morning."

“I know,” the boy lowered his head, his voice lowered, “I arrived late and missed the last bus… so I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Just then, "Gurgle—"

A clear rumbling sound came from the boy's abdomen, sounding particularly abrupt in the quiet night.

The boy blushed and instinctively covered his stomach.

“You haven’t even eaten, and you…” Zhang Qiliang’s gaze swept over his meager belongings—a backpack, a plastic bucket, and nothing else.

There's no need to ask pointless questions like "Why didn't you ask relatives or friends for help?" or "Why didn't you go to a hotel?" At this age, in this state, and stranded here, the answer is practically written on their faces.

Zhang Qiliang shook his head: "No money left?"

The boy was silent for a few seconds, his voice almost inaudible: "Um... I only have a little over a hundred yuan left. I bought a ticket tomorrow, but I still have to transfer again to get there..."

With just over a hundred yuan, you could buy two long-distance bus tickets. Even on the cheapest bus, you'd probably only have twenty or thirty yuan left.

With this amount of money, one could easily make do with a few bites of steamed buns or spend the night in a bathhouse or internet cafe. For someone with more life experience, this is all too easy.

However, the person on the other side was, after all, just a teenager.

Zhang Qiliang shook his head again. "What's the point of just waiting here? It's not safe at night. Come with me."

He turned and walked towards his electric scooter.

The boy sat on the steps, looking blankly at his back and then at his own meager belongings.

"Hurry up, are you still sitting?" Zhang Qiliang had already gotten on his bike, put one foot on the ground, and glanced back at him.

Perhaps it was the "proper job" identity represented by his work clothes that took effect again, or perhaps it was the natural concern in Zhang Qiliang's words and expression that touched him, or perhaps he was just too hungry and needed a temporary place to stay. The boy finally got up, picked up the heavy backpack and plastic bucket, and awkwardly walked towards the electric scooter.

Zhang Qiliang helped him secure the plastic bucket to the footrest, and the boy, holding his backpack, sat sideways on the back seat.

Considering that the boy had to catch an early bus the next day, Zhang Qiliang did not take him too far. They walked around the station area and found a small hotel that looked relatively clean.

Room fee: 40; deposit: 50.

Zhang Qiliang took out his money to pay and also ordered a cup of instant noodles.

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman, yawned and handed over the registration book.

The boy stood awkwardly to the side, fumbling in his pockets, his face flushed red, but he couldn't pull anything out for a long time.

"Where's your ID card?" the receptionist asked impatiently.

"I...I..." The boy became even more flustered.

Zhang Qiliang glanced at the boy, said nothing, took out "Ma Xiaoming's" ID card from his pocket, and handed it over: "My cousin, he came here to look for work. He accidentally lost his ID card on the way and hasn't had time to replace it yet. He'll settle in temporarily today and get a temporary certificate tomorrow."

The receptionist glanced at the ID card, then at the honest-looking young man despite his shabby clothes, and then at Zhang Qiliang, who paid promptly. Without asking any further questions, she completed the registration and handed over a key with a plastic tag attached.

The room was on the second floor. It wasn't big, but it was clean enough. It had a bed, a table and chairs, an old TV, and a private bathroom.

Zhang Qiliang tested the fan switch on the wall, and the blades creaked and started spinning; then he went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, and after a while, hot water came out.

"They all work." Zhang Qiliang walked back to his room.

The boy stood awkwardly by the chair next to the TV cabinet, his hands gripping the backpack straps tightly. He seemed at a loss, unsure of what to do or what to say to this stranger who had helped him so much.

Zhang Qiliang walked over, put down the instant noodles, helped him take the heavy backpack off his shoulder and put it in the corner, and then moved the plastic bucket to a place where it wouldn't get in the way.

“You can lose your ID card when you’re out and about… I can only imagine how worried your parents must be,” Zhang Qiliang sighed.

Upon hearing the words "ID card," the boy, who had been keeping his head down, finally raised it slightly, his voice barely audible, like a mosquito's hum:

"I...I brought it, but the boss won't give it to me..."

"Hmm?" Zhang Qiliang, who had already turned around, turned back.

As if he had finally found an outlet to confide in, or perhaps he was influenced by Zhang Qiliang's calm demeanor, the boy sniffed and began to speak intermittently.

The story is so ordinary, so common that it happens every day on this land.

The boy's name was Wang Hai, and his home was in a more remote county town.

After graduating from junior high school, he did not continue his studies and followed his fellow villagers to make a living. He eventually settled in Ya City in a certain province and got a job in a small processing factory, where he did manual soldering and assembly of electronic components.

The factory has a rustic name, "Yongfa Precision Parts Factory," and the owner's surname is Gao, and his name is Gao Dachang.

The work is tiring and the pay is low. The agreed-upon amount is 3,500 yuan a month, but after various deductions, I often end up with less than 3,000 yuan.

That's not all; the boss also frequently requires overtime, claiming it's to meet orders, but the overtime pay is meager, sometimes even just a "late-night snack" as payment.

Wang Hai was young and a novice, so he didn't dare to say much and could only bury himself in his work.

“Just a few nights ago,” Wang Hai’s voice lowered, filled with deep grievance, “I was working overtime until almost midnight, and I was so tired… I was holding a soldering iron, and without noticing, my hand trembled, and I burned a whole row of… about a dozen small circuit boards that had already been soldered…”