"A dowry of 300,000 yuan—not a penny less!"
"It's not about the money; I just want to know how much I mean to you."
"Oh, and that apartment of yours can't be under your mom's name—it needs to be transferred to mine."
Shenzhen, at a window seat in the Gray Whale Cafe.
Thirty-eight-year-old Jiang Qin stared at the woman he was supposed to marry, suddenly feeling her face seemed unfamiliar.
They'd met through a blind date and had been together for over six months. Neither of them was young anymore, so there was no time to waste—they'd recently been discussing marriage.
To be honest, Jiang Qin didn't have deep feelings for her, and he suspected she felt similarly.
At nearly 40, was marrying and having kids really about love anymore?
It was probably just about not wanting to grow old alone…
But he didn't say anything. Instead, he silently sipped his water, gazing out the glass window, tuning out her voice entirely.
He felt life was a pretty rotten deal.
His parents had told him that knowledge changes fate, so he'd studied hard from a young age, convinced he'd end up rich or distinguished—someone extraordinary.
But after entering the workforce, he realized he didn't even qualify as an ordinary schmuck.
In 2016, fresh out of school, he was forced to drink with clients until he landed in the hospital, missing his chance to say goodbye to the grandmother who'd raised him.
In 2019, a project imploded, and he took the fall, holed up in a rental eating instant noodles for five months, unable to tell dreams from reality.
His next job was stable enough, but it was far from where he lived. He worked himself to death—literally felt his liver cracking—holding his pee to save time, all just to afford a car.
By 2022, he'd bought the car, only to find he couldn't afford gas and started having prostate issues.
After 30, he noticed rent was rising faster than his salary. He scrimped again, told his parents he wanted to buy a place in Shenzhen.
From that day on, meat vanished from his parents' table.
But the down payment still wasn't enough. His dad, without telling him, worked days at his job and nights driving for Didi, nearly giving himself a brain hemorrhage.
Does poverty really come from laziness?
Jiang Qin had been wrestling with that question for years.
He felt he'd been diligent enough—his name, "Qin" (meaning diligence), wasn't just for show.
But the money?
Who the hell had taken his money?
As a kid, his parents had earnestly told him that as long as he was willing to endure hardship, he'd rise above the rest.
But growing up, he realized the truth: if you're willing to endure hardship, there's an endless supply of it waiting for you.
Now, his blind-date fiancée was demanding a 300,000-yuan dowry.
"Jiang Qin, are you even listening to me?"
"Yeah, I've been listening."
"Then why aren't you saying anything? I've been talking forever—my throat's dry, and you don't even care!"
Jiang Qin set down his glass, silent for a long moment before speaking: "How about we just call off the wedding?"
The woman froze, then exploded: "What the hell do you mean by that?"
"Nothing much. I'm just tired and want to go home and sleep."
"Jiang Qin, you coward! No wonder no woman wanted you at 38!"
Ignoring her outburst, Jiang Qin stepped out of the restaurant and wandered aimlessly down the street.
Passing a construction site, he saw a banner on the wall: "Workers are the elite!"
He lit a cigarette, took two drags, and burned a hole through it.
He didn't really resent the woman. Her demands even seemed reasonable to him.
She was 35—being practical wasn't a flaw, right?
He was just pondering one question:
When would days like this ever end?
People who'd never worked a day in their lives hyped up workers as the elite, while those who'd slaved away didn't dare say a word, just nodding along—"Oh, yeah, sure, sure."
But where exactly did he look like an elite?
In this lifetime, he'd only managed to snag two pairs of Air Jordans—and they were knockoffs from Putian. You call that elite?
As for love?
Jiang Qin wasn't even sure if it existed.
He'd been on a few blind dates, met some girls through friends. Any of them could've been "good enough" to settle with, but the saddest part was that "good enough" was all they were.
Looking back, this life had been full of regrets…
Jiang Qin sighed, fishing his phone from his pocket, wanting to find a friend to drink with. But when he unlocked it, he saw four texts:
One was a credit card repayment reminder, another a phone bill overdue warning, a third from his brother saying, "I'm nearby, no one's home today."
The last was from his boss, written in an earnest tone: "The company's been struggling lately. I hope employees will voluntarily take a pay cut to help us get through this together."
His urge to drink vanished instantly. He stood under the construction site, smoking.
In this era, if you wanted money, you absolutely couldn't work a job. The way society distributed resources was inherently unfair.
But thinking of his age, Jiang Qin couldn't help but laugh.
Starting a business at 38? A bit unrealistic, no?
The past couple of years had wrecked his back, his neck was shot, and nerve pain hit more often than his frequent trips to the bathroom.
Dragging this broken body into entrepreneurship—even if he succeeded, he'd be 50. What was left to enjoy?
If only he could start over. He'd never work a job—maybe latch onto a rich sugar mama instead.
If that didn't pan out, he'd start a business, firm in the belief that money can be made again, but a conscience? Lose that, and you'll rake in even more.
Jiang Qin took a deep breath, rubbed his aching neck, and glanced upward.
Huh?
What's that black blob coming straight at him?
"…"
"Give him an adrenaline shot, quick!"
"…"
"Welcome the Olympics, be civilized, set a new standard!"
"…"
"Where's Director Liu? Check if the operating room's free—hurry!"
"…"
"My home's door is always open, waiting with open arms for you."
Suddenly, Jiang Qin's eyes stung, his ears buzzed, his skin burned, and his head spun.
In a hazy blur, he saw a stunning girl, maybe 17 or 18.
She wore a fluffy floral dress, revealing a glimpse of smooth, fair calves. Her nose was pert, her lips rosy, her lashes long and curled, her eyes bright and lively.
Jiang Qin smiled.
All those years slaving away, helping some big boss upgrade his car and villa, he'd never even dreamed of a girl this beautiful.
A girl this pretty—bet she'd cry for ages if you slapped her.
"Jiang Qin, I really don't want a boyfriend. Sorry."
His smile faded. The girl before him was growing vivid, real.
Her floral dress was patterned with chrysanthemums, and she stood gracefully on a red rubber track, shielding her eyes from the sun with a delicate, snow-white arm to keep them from squinting.
Even so, the scorching heat left this youthful beauty visibly irritated.
"If you don't say anything, I'll take it as a yes. We're still friends, right?"
Jiang Qin's brow furrowed, a flicker of gravity in his eyes.
He knew this girl—Chu Siqi, the class beauty from high school. She should be married by now.
He'd chased her for seven years through high school and college, nearly driven to self-doubt by her rejections.
He wasn't some obsessive simp, nor did he stalk her relentlessly.
But Chu Siqi kept inserting herself into his life as a "friend"—ordering him around, forbidding him from dating others, tossing him crumbs of hope now and then. It tortured teenage Jiang Qin to no end.
"After freshman year, I'll consider being your girlfriend!"
"Sophomore year's coursework is so heavy—let's talk junior year."
"Junior year's full of competitions; I don't have time for love."
Then, in the second semester of junior year, she showed up hand-in-hand with a tall, lanky guy in matching couple outfits.
That day, her face glowed with tenderness, her eyes sparkled like stars, and she smiled, asking if her boyfriend was handsome.
After that, he sealed his heart shut and never thought about love again—leading to his 38-year-old self reluctantly settling for someone to marry.
The term "backup" didn't exist in 2008. It wasn't until the internet boomed that Jiang Qin realized: Oh, I was just a spare tire.
She'd kept him dangling because she hadn't found anyone better—teasing him when she was bored, ignoring him when she wasn't.
To her, he was just a tool to kill time.
Memories flooded back, but Jiang Qin felt dizzy, his ears ringing.
Chengnan High School from his memories, the teenage class beauty.
Was this… rebirth?
Or a dream?
If it was rebirth, where was the ding? Why no system chime?
He shakily reached out, grasping at the air. No virtual screen popped up.
Was he some fake reborn protagonist, not even equipped with the basics?
"Jiang Qin, did you hear me? I don't want to date right now."
"Fine, whatever you say."
He replied offhandedly, closing his eyes to see if he could summon a golden finger with his mind. No luck—no system appeared.
Chu Siqi, caught off guard by his casual tone, stared in disbelief. His indifference felt like a punch landing on cotton—frustratingly powerless.
"Didn't you hear me clearly? I just rejected you!"
"I heard. I'm not deaf."
"Then… don't you have anything to say?"
Accepting the no-system reality, Jiang Qin's gaze fell on her hand. "What's that you're holding?"
Chu Siqi raised the envelope with a smug air. "It's the love letter you just gave me! I said I didn't want it, but you insisted. Don't write me another one."
"Can you give it back? I need it."
Without waiting for her consent, Jiang Qin snatched it back, pulled out the letter, crumpled it into his pocket, then flattened the envelope on his knee and scribbled two lines:
"I'll never work a job—maybe find a rich sugar mama instead."
"Money can be earned again, but lose your conscience, and you'll make even more."