The Aventador sat in its delivery bay like a predator asleep. Matte black, bronze interior, the scissor doors closed over an engine that could outrun most things on four wheels. Lin Fan had walked past it twice during his visit to the dealership, each time slowing without stopping, the way a man might circle a horse he wasn't sure he could ride.
On Saturday morning, he decided to stop circling.
Liang Qin had called the day before, her voice as professional as ever but with a faint undercurrent of curiosity. "The Aventador has been prepped, Mr. Lin. The tank is full. The tyre pressure is checked. Your staff would very much like to see you drive it."
"Why?"
"Because it's yours. And because seeing the owner drive the flagship car is good for morale. The sales team wants to believe that the person they work for understands what they're selling."
He couldn't argue with that. He'd spent the past week learning to drive a rented Honda well—smoothly, safely, with the kind of invisible competence the Advanced skill allowed. But the Aventador was not a Honda. It wasn't even a car, in the way he'd always understood cars. It was seven hundred and forty horsepower wrapped in carbon fibre and Italian fury. The Driving skill in his body hummed at the thought of it, like a musician sensing an unfamiliar instrument.
He drove the Honda to the dealership. That felt important—arriving in the ordinary, departing in the extraordinary. The staff had gathered in the showroom, not by instruction but by the organic gravity of curiosity. Liang Qin stood at the front, a single key fob in her hand. It was matte black, like the car, with the raging-bull logo etched in bronze.
"The delivery bay door is open," she said. "The road is clear. No special conditions, Mr. Lin. It's just a car."
The oldest mechanic, the one with grease in his hands, snorted quietly. "It's not just a car."
"I stand corrected." Liang Qin handed over the key fob. "It's not just a car. But you'll drive it like one anyway."
Lin Fan took the key. It was lighter than he expected. The leather seat welcomed him with the smell of new stitching and something faintly metallic, like ozone. The engine started not with a roar but a sharp, percussive bark that settled into a low, thrumming idle. The steering wheel was perfectly round, wrapped in Alcantara, and his hands found their position on it as if the car had been built around his grip.
He pulled out of the bay at a crawl. The staff watched from the showroom windows. He didn't accelerate until he was on the main road, and when he did, it was gradual—a gentle press of the accelerator that nevertheless pushed him back into the seat with a force that felt like the hand of physics itself.
The Driving skill woke up fully then. Not the quiet, background hum he'd grown used to in the Honda—this was a full, vivid awareness of every mechanical system in the car, every shift of weight, every microsecond of traction between the tyres and the road. He understood the Aventador the way a conductor understood an orchestra. Not because the System had told him—the skill had been earned for driving ordinary cars, not hypercars—but because the skill had taught him to pay attention, and the Aventador rewarded attention.
He drove out of Pudong and onto the ring road, then beyond it, into the green hills west of the city. The roads were winding, lightly trafficked, the kind of pavement that test drivers dreamed about. He didn't speed. Not really. He let the car breathe, let the engine find its rhythm, let his hands learn the precise weight of the steering. The bronze interior glowed in the morning sun. The engine note rose and fell like a conversation.
By the time he pulled the car to a stop at a lookout point overlooking a reservoir, his hands were steady. His pulse was slightly elevated—not from fear, but from the peculiar exhilaration of having controlled something that could have killed him and having done it smoothly, competently, without drama.
The golden phone chimed.
*Ding!*
`[First Red Packet — Asset Integration Complete.]`
`[Lamborghini Shanghai Dealership: Operational. Staff: 23. Annual revenue: projected 240 million RMB.]`
`[Primary Vehicle: Aventador SVJ Roadster, registered. Active.]`
`[Note: This asset was awarded under the Beta Protocol — Crimson Dividend. It represents the System's first significant material distribution. Subsequent Red Packets will be awarded for continued moral conduct.]`
`[Additional Note: The System does not require you to keep any asset. Use them as you see fit.]`
He read the note twice. *Use them as you see fit.* That was the System's constant refrain, delivered quietly beneath the chimes and the cards. Not commands. Not obligations. Just tools. What he did with them was his own responsibility.
He looked out at the reservoir. The water was still, the hills green, the sky a pale winter blue. Somewhere below the surface, fish were swimming. Somewhere in the city behind him, twenty-three people were coming to the end of their workday at a dealership that belonged to a man who, two weeks ago, had been selling industrial lubricants.
He got back into the Aventador and drove home at a more relaxed pace, the engine a companionable presence rather than a challenge. At the villa compound, he parked the car in the empty garage space beside the Honda. The heron, as always, stood at the lake's edge. Xu Yang's car was gone—out rehearsing, probably.
Inside, the golden phone showed five stars earned on his morning Didi trip—an elderly man going to a temple, who'd talked about his grandchildren and given Lin Fan a piece of hard candy. The rating was 4.87 now. Two trips left. One more day of ordinary driving, and the Pagani would be his.
He made lunch—noodles, because he was getting better at them and because the rhythm of kneading dough had become a kind of meditation. While the broth simmered, he checked the briefcase icon. Skills: Driving (Advanced), Culinary Arts (Beginner, 8%). Assets: a number that kept growing. The note from the safe was still in his pocket, soft now from being handled. *Use it well.*
He was trying. The Lamborghini dealership, the seal from Lu Shifu, the scroll that was going to a museum, the old pawnbroker who was two million yuan richer—all of it felt like pieces of the same thing. Not a fortune to be hoarded. A set of tools to be used.
The afternoon passed in quiet domestic work. He cleaned the kitchen. He read another chapter of the jade-carving book. He called his mother, who was now talking about taking a trip to visit her sister in Hangzhou, something she'd never been able to afford before. Her voice was lighter than he'd ever heard it.
At dusk, he walked to the lake. The heron was still there, motionless in the fading light. The koi were dark shapes beneath the surface. The compound was silent, and the golden phone in his pocket ticked steadily toward Monday.
Tomorrow, the last two Didi trips. Tomorrow, the Pagani. And then, at midnight, a new card. A new week. A new occupation.
He stood at the water's edge and thought about the man who'd written the note. *I could not.* He wished, suddenly and fiercely, that he could tell that man: *I can. I am. It's not too heavy. Not anymore.*