A knock came from the corridor. Lee Wonho stuck his head in, carrying his tablet and three unread messages.

"All the new machines are in, Mr. Kim," he reported. "Workshop's buzzing. But two quick things to note."

Suho steepled his fingers. "Give it to me."

"First," Lee Wonho said, "we need to clear the old machines. I contacted a recycler—they'll do an assessment any time. My estimate: about $100,000 for the lot."

Suho tapped his fingers, forcing his expression into "mildly pleased." $100,000 back into system funds was a win. He let the smile be small on purpose. "Okay. Do it. Sell the dinosaurs."

Lee Wonho nodded, relieved. "Second thing—the new machines are fully automatic. The manufacturer offers free training, but it's on-site. They can teach 8–10 people per session, and the course runs 20 days. Room and board are included. We need to send people."

Suho's eyes lit up. This was unexpectedly strategic. He'd been wrestling with a different problem: the business team. They'd been bringing in orders at such a clip that his system funds were getting chewed up faster than he could invent reasons to spend them. If he could get two of the salesmen off the floor for twenty days… that might dampen new orders long enough to breathe.

He probed his mental roster. Who had been grabbing most orders? Wu Yu and Cai Jing. Send them both; leave one salesperson to handle emergencies. The system, however, would force him to keep at least one person selling—that was a rule he couldn't overrule. Two was doable.

"Put Wu Yu and Cai Jing on that training list," Suho said. "Have the workshop pick eight more for the course. That should be ten people total."

Lee Wonho blinked, then typed notes. "Understood. I'll arrange it."

One operational detail nagged Suho—the course covered food and lodging, but people always found ways to spend. He did a quick mental estimate: if he adds a small per diem to keep morale up, the math might line up nicely with the recycler payout.

He ran the numbers carefully: 10 people × 20 days = 200 person-days. At $500 per person per day (meals, light travel allowance, incidentals):

10 × 20 = 200

200 × $500 = $100,000

Perfect. The training subsidy outweighs nothing—it matches the recycler's cash in his head: $100,000 out for subsidy, $100,000 in from scrapping the old machines. A wash—and strategically, two salesmen off the floor. Suho allowed himself the tiniest grin. It was elegant in a spreadsheet sort of way.

"Okay," he told Lee Wonho. "Arrange the training and process the recycler's assessment. Make sure everyone signs the travel form. And… keep the people cheerful. Maybe add a small snack stipend so they don't sulk."

Lee Wonho saluted in the gentlest way possible. "Will do."

That evening, the factory emptied at quitting time like a theater after the last scene. Groups of people trailed to the canteen, folding into conversations about home, kids, or the one coworker who microwaved fish and didn't understand social consequences.

"Brother Jiang," someone called as they walked, "the dorms are ready, right?" Conversations spiked—everyone had been waiting to see whether the dorm upgrades were actually real or just hopeful PowerPoint slides.

Jiang Cheng, who managed the workshop like a man conducting a complicated orchestra of hydraulics and human patience, nodded. "Yep. After dinner, go over and check them out."

After the shift and a quick, noisy dinner, a stream of employees marched toward the staff dormitory like a caravan heading for the promised land.

They crowded the hallway and pushed open doors. "Wow. These lights are bright," someone said. "What is this, a hotel?"

Laughter burst out as small exclamations fluttered from room to room. The rooms dazzled: air conditioners humming quietly, flat-screen TVs mounted like small altars, water heaters and decent showers, and even a compact but real washing machine tucked into a corner. Each unit had a decent double bed with a thick mattress that felt—dare they think it—almost luxurious.

Jiang Cheng stepped into a room and paused. He'd expected decent housing, but not this. The finishes were tidy, the brands respectable, and the bathrooms practical. He felt a swell of pride he hadn't budgeted for.

He turned to his wife, who stood in the doorway blinking as if worried she'd been pranked by the interior designer. "See? Couple's room. We'll live here," he said, half-joking and half-humbled.

She still looked stunned. "This is for us? Mr. Kim… did he actually—"

Jiang Cheng grinned. "He did. Don't ask me how. Just thank the man, and please—keep the cafeteria spotless. I'm watching you."

She smacked his arm, smiling despite herself. "I'll work twice as hard now."

Around them, people wandered in, poked drawers, sat on the beds to test durability, and laughed about how their entire childhood dream of a private wardrobe had arrived. For once the factory felt less like a workplace and more like a small, messy family with brand-new sheets.

That night, Suho sat in his office with the window cracked. The trainyard sounds were distant; the machines that had already been installed hummed like distant whales. Cho Rin left him a checklist and an optimistic sticky note. Lee Wonho had already started the recycler ping. Jiang Cheng had sent photos of the dorms.

Suho stared at the photos and allowed himself a rare, quiet satisfaction. The plan to recycle, train, and temporarily shrink the sales impulse had worked on paper. The factory would breathe. The finances would settle without his having to throw another drone or brass band into the ring.

He set the kettle across his desk, considered his next bad idea, and promised himself: tomorrow he'd let the system do the heavy lifting. Today, he would allow himself a small victory.

Jiang Cheng's wife, Wang Juan, had rolled her eyes so hard they almost rattled. He stood there, stiff as a mannequin, muttering,

"I'm being serious here… I mean, the company treats us so well; obviously I'll cherish it."

She didn't even dignify him with a reply—just marched deeper into the shiny new dorm like she was touring a model home.

Inside Horny Princess Interactive, the office buzzed with rare morning energy. Fen Su had dragged the key team into the conference room like it was judgment day.

"Is the announcement ready?" he asked Zhao Wenbo.

Zhao, eyes bloodshot, stifled a yawn. "Done. Every tweak, every shiny freebie, all written down. I basically spent the night speedrunning a Word doc."

Fen Su clapped him on the shoulder like a proud dad. "Good man. Mr. Kim doesn't allow overtime here, so technically, you just committed a crime of passion. I respect it."

Zhao squinted. "That's… not comforting."

"Anyway," Fen Su pressed on, "get the update package out ASAP. The sooner players see changes, the sooner they stop screaming at us on forums."

He turned to Group One. "Status on the 'replacement gear' for whales? Half done yet?"

The team lead sat up straighter. "Actually… finished."

Fen Su blinked. "Finished? I assigned that yesterday afternoon."

The lead scratched his head. "Yeah, uh, Zhao said it was urgent, so we—uh—pulled a sneaky and worked from home last night. You know, secret overtime. Felt rebellious. Sexy, even."

Fen Su's jaw dropped. These were the same people who once clocked out mid-task without blinking. Now they were sneaking around doing overtime like teenagers trying cigarettes behind the school.

Group Two's lead chimed in, almost smug. "We heard Group One was doing it, so… we also worked a 'small shift.' Balance changes? Already live."

Then Group Three's lead grinned like he'd won a raffle. "Honestly? Overtime feels kind of good when it's forbidden. We finished our whole assignment too."

Fen Su dragged a hand down his face. "Guys. You realize if Mr. Kim thinks I ordered you to do this, I'll be vaporized, right?"

All three teams answered in perfect, cheerful unison: "Don't worry, Director Fang, we understand overtime!"

They didn't explain what that meant. Fen Su decided not to ask.

Still, tasks were done ahead of schedule. If they pushed hard, in three days Horny Princess Online could roll out a whole new update.

Jiang Jiu stared at his screen like he'd just seen the face of God.

"Finally," he whispered, clutching the digital loot. Dragon-Slaying Ring. His second rare drop in months.

He jumped up in triumph—and promptly crunched a pile of empty Red Bull cans under his feet. They scattered like applause.

Shrugging, he kicked them aside and immediately called Brother Hao. No time to waste—rare gear had to be flipped fast.

Within the hour, he was grinning at a fat wad of cash. "Fifty thousand dollars, baby!" he cackled, kissing the bills like they were his firstborn. All those sleepless nights had finally paid off. Time for a nap, then right back to the grind.

Chen Cong slumped in his gamer chair, staring at his cursed inventory. Six out of eight pieces of the Dragon-Slaying set… two of them duplicates. His digital mannequin looked like it had dressed in the dark.

He clenched his jaw. "So long. So much grinding. And still incomplete. Even when I want to throw money at this game, it won't let me."

If not for some guy named Mei Youqian posting "We'll buy your loot!" ads in every forum on the planet, Chen Cong might've given up weeks ago.

He sighed dramatically. "When will I finish this set? When can I finally hunt down that bastard and get my revenge?"

Then—ding. A new in-game announcement popped up.

Chen Cong froze. This game hadn't updated in forever. Curiosity prickled his spine. He clicked.

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