Chapter Forty-Five: The Lid of the Demon Box

Although the younger brothers were deeply shocked by Zheng Fan’s actions, seeing the situation as irreversible, they couldn’t help but immerse themselves in a joyful anticipation of setting sail.

Once mere small fry, they had now truly become members of their own independent studio!

It was unimaginable that just a short while ago, they were being scolded like children by Su Hongyuan.

As they proudly awaited Zheng Fan’s next instructions, he casually assigned them some tasks to prepare the studio’s decoration before hurriedly leaving, not even planning to join them for a celebratory feast.

How could he not be anxious? The deadline was fast approaching.

Although the outcome wasn’t beyond expectations, Zheng Fan’s main approach was to save wherever possible—after all, singularities don’t just appear out of nowhere.

On his way out, Zheng Fan encountered Kiyono Goshi, the aloof and handsome Japanese man.

Compared to Zheng Fan’s earlier comical display of putting on a coat, Kiyono, surrounded by his subordinates, walked by like an important supporting character straight out of a Japanese drama.

What? Why just a supporting role?

Nothing, he just looked like a loser, and perhaps, in reality, he was.

When Kiyono saw Zheng Fan, his expression didn’t change, but he stopped and said, “I heard about your recent encounter. I hope you take care of yourself. Some things are never as good as they seem on the surface, especially…”

Zheng Fan glanced at him and hurriedly passed by.

Kiyono was left speechless, awkward as he swallowed his unfinished words.

One of his subordinates quickly asked, “Should we bring him back?”

Kiyono shook his head helplessly, “No need.”

“There’s no feeling from him…” a faint voice whispered in his ear.

“That might be a strong illusion, or maybe he truly saw through life under a huge shock… Anyway, if he has some ambition, let him be,” Kiyono replied thoughtfully.

Zheng Fan walked briskly, wondering if the handsome man was actually concerned about him.

Kiyono’s faction and his studio were a significant force within the Banmu Agency, with remarkable cohesion; naturally, he was no ordinary figure.

Judging people, he wasn’t far off.

He showed concern for his troublesome childhood friend, who always gave him attitude, and even for small fry like Cheng Fei. Whether his words were sincere or just goodwill, they were acceptable.

It was just a pity he wasn’t good with words—his aura as a domineering gangster boss was overwhelming; every word dripped with authority.

…

Zheng Fan avoided all possible watchers and quietly returned to the Zero-One Agency.

The moment he came back, his body collapsed weakly onto the floor.

“Welcome back. You worked hard today,” Lin Yilin said, stepping out carrying coffee.

Though she harbored some bias against the seventy-thousand-yuan Imperial coffee machine, since the money was spent, she used it generously, even more frequently than Zheng Fan, determined not to lose out.

Zheng Fan stood on Cheng Fei’s body, steadying himself on his knees, catching his breath. Though the exhaustion faded once he left the body, the lingering sensation was still unpleasant.

“Even if I can extend the usage time through the singularity, I still have to control it. It’s too painful,” Zheng Fan said, looking up.

“The efficiency of ‘Mr. Illusion’ is already very high,” Lin Yilin comforted him.

Standing upright, Zheng Fan wiped off the nonexistent sweat. “It was easier than I thought; Banmu is surprisingly accommodating.”

“That’s only because you’re Mr. Illusion. Normally, it’s not that simple,” Lin Yilin replied.

“I wouldn’t have managed so easily without your help. Here, memorize this number. I’m counting on you to handle the studio’s operations. I’ll just go make myself known and show up when necessary,” Zheng Fan said, giving her a string of numbers.

Lin Yilin noted it down on her phone: “Looks like I’ll have to work two jobs during office hours.”

“After all, I can’t really spend time managing that studio. Just doing a little tires me out. I’ll stick to being the mascot, and the rest depends on you, Miss Binary.”

“But with this, the new studio’s involvement might stir things up inside Banmu a bit. Su Hongyuan’s attention might shift away from me for a while. If we cause a little more trouble, Banmu won’t keep a tight watch on our small agency.”

Lin Yilin was already planning strategically.

After repeatedly failing to cause trouble for Lin Yilin, Banmu would likely ease off for a while.

The Banmu family was powerful and wealthy, but they bore no deep hatred toward the Zero-One Agency. It was only some personal grudges and Banmu’s own expansion squeezing smaller agencies out.

“We haven’t even expanded our own agency, but we’re already meddling in others’ affairs,” Zheng Fan joked as he brewed himself a cup of coffee.

“It’s not really about managing agencies. In Banmu’s environment, competition among studios is fierce. It’s quite difficult to earn achievements and reputation by simply taking on commissions legitimately. Among Banmu’s ten—or now eleven—studios, few honestly accept commissions.”

Though called agencies, they were more like gangs; for Banmu, agency work was just a side business.

When it came to funding studio setups, Banmu had plenty of resources, but ongoing operations were the biggest challenge.

You’re not running a studio—you’re managing a gang.

This also provided funding for Zheng Fan’s use of his assets and abilities.

Though Lin Yilin had money, it was nowhere near enough to match Zheng Fan’s creations.

Zheng Fan approached Lin Yilin, who was already planning on her computer while communicating with Banmu’s subordinates under Cheng Fei’s name.

The younger brothers showed initiative; after Lin Yilin outlined their needs, they quickly proposed several potential operational routes:

Drug trafficking, illegal smuggling, casinos, the sex industry…

Lin Yilin skimmed through silently but finally typed, “We’ll take the route of turning black into white—operating mostly legitimate industries officially recognized.”

“Is that necessary? That sounds complicated. Larger scale, more demanding networks and contacts. The grey market is chaotic but easier—you just seize territory to earn start-up funds. Going straight from black to white seems too soon,” Zheng Fan said, puzzled.

Lin Yilin’s fingers slowed on the keyboard until they stopped. She turned to look Zheng Fan in the eye.

“Mr. Illusion, I acknowledge the world’s black and grey areas and know they’re indispensable. I have neither the will nor the strength to change that. I often walk the edge myself…”

Her gaze returned to the screen.

“But a bottom line is necessary—it marks one’s humanity.”

“Ten years ago until now, I’ve been testing my own limits. My adoptive father kept pulling me back. After he left, I recently tested again—for you, for power. I can deceive myself with ‘confidence’ that I will succeed, but these underground trades are beyond that scope. Even my confidence can’t change that.”

Lin Yilin’s eyes were murky yet clear, filled with hypocrisy and contradiction.

She relentlessly probed and pushed herself for certain goals, executing with pride hidden beneath her thin exterior, believing she could succeed without causing disaster.

But if she were to truly handle these black-market trades, her actions would inevitably bring chaos to countless lives.

The terrifying intelligence network running in Xixi Keke Street, if fully unleashed and combined with current opportunities, could open a Pandora’s box at any time.

This was also Lin Yilin—her “confidence” in her own abilities.

After a moment, Zheng Fan shrugged, “I still don’t see this as a problem. Thanks to my terrible parents, I’ve had weaker empathy since childhood. Gradually, I only care about my own sensory stimulation, regardless of other lives.”

Lin Yilin looked at Zheng Fan again.

“But you’re the first person I’ve met in this world and the first partner. So I will consider your opinions. Let’s watch each other in the days ahead.”

He didn’t think Lin Yilin’s fragile bottom line was irrelevant to himself, nor did he believe it was okay to recklessly trample on things he normally didn’t care about.

He had a certain understanding of their relationship.

Even a shallow one—the saying about proximity to darkness was easy to grasp.

If Lin Yilin insisted, Zheng Fan couldn’t indulge himself in ways that would violate her boundaries.

It was respect and consideration for his partner.

Even if he did give in, Lin Yilin would likely silently allow it, because Zheng Fan was the “big boss,” the super illusion. Even if he had another personality and memories from another world, he was still not human in the metropolis—there was no reason to obey all those messy rules.

But since he still had some personality, maintaining thought without total decay might be meaningful.

It could uphold Lin Yilin’s bottom line—both their boundaries.

Surprisingly, this outsider illusion subtly became the “I'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.