[The 13th Street, The Room of Requirement · Renovation Site]

  Three days were enough for a ruin to undergo a rebirth that was both utterly absurd and filled with a cyberpunk aesthetic.

  The makeshift clinic, once reeking of disinfectant and blood, had now been completely transformed into a "Comprehensive Faith Center" combining religion, healthcare, and intermediary services.

  The signboard, half blown away by the explosion, was rehung. Grace used holographic projection technology to add neon effects to it. The massive Chinese characters "Room of Requirement" flashed gold amidst the purple smog, with a scrolling marquee below: [Professional Exorcism, Wishing, Item Finding, Psychological Counseling. 2% Off for Members].

  The interior was even more drastically changed. The steel beams reinforced by Lu Ban were painted vermilion, resembling temple pillars. The central shrine was expanded three times over, housing a clay statue of Daoist Singularity holding an iPad and wearing sunglasses (although Singularity himself vehemently opposed this look, John insisted it had high brand recognition).

  "Do we really have to do this?" Bone was sticking a skeletal arm into the automatic sensor electronic incense burner to calibrate it. "This is too... you know? If the pious believers from the old days saw this, they'd roll in their graves."

  "It's called keeping up with the times." John stood on a ladder, hanging electronic talismans (LED screen versions) he scavenged from the black market on the wall. "Who carries incense sticks these days? Scanning to burn incense is the mainstream. Plus, Grace set it up so scanning once not only plays the Cleansing Heart Mantra but also automatically follows our public account."

  "This is called 'Private Domain Traffic'." Grace's projection sat on the statue's shoulder, swinging her legs triumphantly. "Boss, the backend database is set up. For every person who makes a wish, I'll create a 'Desire File' for them. We can push targeted services based on big data later."

  John jumped down from the ladder and dusted off his hands. Looking at this nondescript "Daoist Dojo," he felt no disrespect, only a pragmatic calmness.

  To pay off the two million debt, to keep everyone from starving, he'd admit to being a shaman if he had to, let alone opening an electronic temple.

  "Open the doors." John straightened his collar. "Whether they want wealth or life, as long as they pay, we take the job."

  [New Babylon Upper Sector, Eternal Tower · Top Floor]

  In stark contrast, a suffocating silence filled the core area of the Necromancy Guild.

  It had been three days.

  Since the Scavenger troops returned in defeat, High Priest Mordred had locked himself in that windowless meditation chamber. He didn't rage, didn't execute anyone. This abnormal silence was more terrifying to his subordinates than any roar.

  He was reviewing the battle.

  He looked at the astronomical battle damage report, looked at the wildly growing reputation of the 13th Street, and finally had to admit a fact that disgusted him but was unavoidable:

  In this world solidified for a century, violence was no longer the only solution.

  "The harder it is, the more brittle it becomes."

  Mordred opened his eyes. In that instant, the eyes behind the platinum mask seemed to age ten years, but also became more unfathomable.

  "Moriarty was right."

  He pressed the intercom on his desk.

  "Let him in."

  A moment later, the heavy obsidian door slid open silently. Moriarty, still in his impeccable dark suit and holding his pocket watch, walked in with elegant strides.

  He didn't bow, just smiled at Mordred, like a doctor looking at a stubborn patient who finally agreed to take medicine.

  "It seems you've finally figured it out, High Priest."

  "Cut the crap." Mordred said coldly. "I approved your 'Killing with Praise' plan. But that doesn't mean I agree with your weakness. I am simply... changing the blade."

  "A wise choice." Moriarty walked to the holographic sand table and tapped it lightly, turning the red warning marker on the 13th Street into a stranger golden color, representing "Key Focus."

  "In this era of information explosion, the best way to destroy a person is not to make him disappear, but to make him... omnipresent."

  "What do you plan to do?" Mordred asked.

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  Moriarty snapped his fingers.

  The surrounding walls instantly became transparent, revealing the massive and busy room next door—[Guild Public Opinion Control Center].

  Hundreds of top media editors, psychologists, and data analysts sat there. Countless screens scrolled with the same face: John Doe.

  "Simple." Moriarty pointed at the screens. "We are going to mold him into a God."

  "Starting today, all city media must stop smearing him. We will praise him, eulogize him, lift him to the heavens."

  "We will call him the 'Messiah of the Lower Sector,' the 'Saint of the Slums,' the 'Only Savior'."

  Mordred frowned. "Isn't that helping him?"

  "No, it's putting him in a straitjacket." Moriarty's eyes flashed with a chilling light.

  "When he was a 'fugitive,' he could use unscrupulous means to survive, use the traitor Old Wang, use dirty tricks. Because no one expects morality from a criminal."

  "But when he becomes a 'Saint'..."

  Moriarty smiled, a smile like a viper.

  "He cannot have flaws. He must be perfect. He must be selfless. He must respond to everyone's expectations."

  "If two people fall into the water at the same time and he can only save one, the other person and their family will hate him to death. Because he is 'God,' and how can God fail to save someone?"

  "We will hoist him onto that high altar, and then... kick away the ladder."

  Moriarty turned and issued orders to the control center.

  "Operation Codename: [God Creation]."

  "Activate all Tier-1 media resources. Push videos of John Doe saving people (edited and beautified) across the entire network. We want everyone in the city to know there is a responsive deity in the 13th Street."

  "Remember, not a single bad word. I want this praise to be loud enough to drown out his reason, loud enough... that he can't hear the footsteps behind him."

  [One Hour Later, New Babylon Major Media]

  News pages previously filled with words like "Terrorist" and "Thug" underwent an earth-shattering change in an instant.

  On holographic billboards, the image of John holding Bone's skull in the ruins was accompanied by tragic BGM and the headline: 《Friendship Beyond Race: He Taught Us What Love Is》.

  On news channels, the interrupted livestream footage was reinterpreted. Experts analyzed with tears in their eyes: "To prevent children from becoming test-taking machines, he sacrificed his own interests. What a great spirit of an educator!"

  Even the Guild's official spokesperson made a statement: "Although Mr. John had misunderstandings with us, we must admit he made outstanding contributions to maintaining community stability. We are considering awarding him the title of 'Honorary Citizen'."

  This sudden "Storm of Praise" swept through the city like a tsunami.

  Countless citizens who originally shunned the 13th Street began to look in that direction with pilgrim-like gazes.

  "I heard that John can cure all diseases?"

  "I heard he can talk to the dead and help fulfill last wishes?"

  "He is a saint! Only he can save us!"

  A massive influx of believers, opportunists, and the truly desperate began to surge toward the 13th Street.

  In the eye of the storm, John Doe sat behind the counter of the "Room of Requirement," watching the follower count and likes on his iPad skyrocket like crazy.

  "Is... is this what being famous feels like?"

  John touched his face, which felt hot. He was floating a bit.

  "Grace, look at this comment. It says I'm 'the most handsome man in New Babylon.' This aesthetic... is quite discerning."

  "And this one, says I'm 'the only conscience.' Hehe, a bit exaggerated, but not exactly wrong, right?"

  Although John kept telling himself to stay calm, he was a young man in his early twenties. Being praised by so many people, the vanity in his heart grew like weeds.

  "Maybe... the Guild is scared? Wants to recruit me?" John began to have some unrealistic fantasies. "If I can use this chance to clear my name and pay off the debt, that doesn't sound too bad?"

  Just as he was losing his bearings, a familiar black silhouette pop-up appeared again.

  Sherlock Holmes.

  "Floating already? If you look in the mirror now, you'll find your expression looks exactly like a mouse that just fell into a rice jar and didn't notice the lid closing."

  The smile on John's face froze. "Great Detective, what do you mean? Is it wrong for them to praise me?"

  "Praise you? That is an offering. And offerings are usually prepared for the dead or sacrifices about to be slaughtered."

  "Use your brain. Why did the Guild suddenly change its tune? Would someone like Moriarty admit defeat because he's afraid of you?"

  "He is reshaping you with the logic of a 'Perfect Victim'. He is turning you into a wishing machine that must satisfy everyone's desires. Once you disappoint someone even once—even if you just fail to find a cat—those who are lifting you to the sky now will stomp you into the mud immediately."

  "Because for believers, 'God' is not allowed to fail."

  John looked at these words, cold sweat finally breaking out on his back.

  The suffocating feeling wrapped in sugar-coated shells instantly sobered him up.

  "Then what should I do?" John replied urgently. "Reject them? Drive them away?"

  "That would only confirm the charges of 'arrogance' and 'hypocrisy.' They will say: 'Look, he got famous and turned his back on people.'"

  "There is only one correct move: Disappear."

  "Maintain mystery. Do not respond easily, do not show your face easily. Let them guess, let them beg, let them treat you as a legend, not a customer service rep on call."

  "Only when you are untouchable is your divinity safe."

  John put down the iPad and looked at the growing crowd with fanatical eyes outside the window.

  He took a deep breath, stood up, and drew the curtains.

  The trio looked at each other.

  "Disappear..." John muttered. "Easier said than done. Our home is here; I can't turn invisible."

  "Boss, disappearing doesn't necessarily mean physically." Grace's eyes rolled. "In the internet world, as long as you don't post updates, don't reply to DMs, and maybe even leak some fake news like 'closed for cultivation' or 'business trip to the Underworld'... in the public eye, you've disappeared."

  "Makes sense." Bone stroked his chin. "What about me? Do I have to hide too? Or... can I pretend to be an ordinary skeleton specimen?"

  John looked at these two treasures and suddenly had an idea.

  "No, no need to hide."

  John's eyes turned sly.

  "Since they want to see a god, we'll give them something else to look at."

  "Grace, you post an announcement online saying I've been muted for 'leaking heavenly secrets' and need to go into seclusion for forty-nine days. During this time, my... 'Spokesperson' will handle reception."

  "Spokesperson?" Bone pointed at himself. "Me?"

  "Yes. You." John patted Bone's shoulder. "From today on, you are the 'Grand Necromancy Guardian'. And Xuanwu, it's the 'Beast of the House'. You two act as door gods at the entrance. Don't let anyone in."

  "What about me?" John pointed at himself.

  "I'll go... be a janitor."

  John dug out a dirty set of work clothes from the corner, put on a mask and a hat.

  "A true god never sits on the altar. He's always sweeping the floor."

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