Du Ziteng didn't stop at one recharge. He went in hard. Half a million dollars. Just like that, his guild was instantly rolling in shiny new sets of noble gear.

Lingyan Pavilion's guild chat went feral:

"Bro, did you just… spend half a mil?"

"Half a mil? I don't even HAVE half a mil. I don't even have half a thousand."

"Prince Teng is back and broke my self-esteem in one click."

Du Ziteng typed calmly: "Five sets. Only the beginning. Dragon-slaying is the goal."

And with that, Lingyan Pavilion's return was stamped in neon across the server.

Wu Yu sat in the cafeteria, staring down at what the sign optimistically called a "two-dollar set meal." Porridge, two sad pickles, and a steamed bun that squeaked when he tore it.

Technically it was free. Emotionally, it was a crime.

Across the table, his coworkers from Steel Cup looked like prisoners who'd just seen daylight.

One whispered, "I swear I lost ten pounds this week. Not because of training. Because of… this." He poked the pickles like they were suspects in a police lineup.

Wu Yu forced a heroic bite of the bun. It stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Hold on, brothers. Seventeenth day. Just three more, and we go home. Real dorms, real food. Air conditioning that doesn't double as a humidifier."

For a moment, everyone looked almost hopeful. The porridge even tasted slightly less like sadness.

Then Zhao Yang showed up. Smiling. Holding his own plate like he was auditioning for Corporate Canteen Idol.

"Hey, good news!" He beamed.

Wu Yu squinted. "Brother Zhao… Your face says promotion, but your eyes say… trap."

Zhao Yang ignored that. "Your factory extended training another ten days. Congratulations!"

The Steel Cup crew froze mid-bite. One guy dropped his pickle.

Wu Yu's jaw moved like an old hinge. "Wait. Extended? As in… longer? Like prison sentence longer?"

"Not prison, training!" Zhao Yang said brightly. "Your boss even paid extra. A hundred dollars a day each. Ten thousand total. Very generous. If I were you, I'd be thrilled!"

The table was silent. Then Wu Yu muttered, "Brother Yang, I think you and I have very different definitions of 'thrilled.'"

Zhao Yang shrugged, oblivious. He saw the commission check in his head already.

When he left, the cafeteria went into mutiny mode.

"Wu Yu, call Mr. Kim!" One begged.

"Tell him we've learned everything. More training is… psychological warfare."

"Please, you're his golden salesman. He'll listen to you."

Wu Yu sighed. "Alright, I'll try."

He stepped into the hall, dialed, and waited.

"Xiao Wu," came Kim Suho's flat voice, "what is it?"

"Mr. Kim… We've basically finished the training content here. Extending it really isn't necessary—"

"'Basically finished?'" Suho cut in. "That's your mistake. Learning never ends. Attitude, Xiao Wu. Attitude. Ten more days. The company even gives you a travel allowance. Consider it… character development."

And just like that, Suho hung up.

Wu Yu walked back into the cafeteria, face blank. His coworkers swarmed him, waiting for salvation.

He shook his head slowly. "Yeah. No. He said… character development."

The whole table groaned like a Greek chorus of despair.

Meanwhile, Kim Suho put his phone down and grinned. Perfect.

No way was he letting Wu Yu or Cai Jing ruin his settlement period with their sales heroics.

"If the system didn't limit me," he muttered, "I'd pay 200,000 dollars to keep them locked in training for half a year."

He spun in his chair, daydreaming. "Business department without orders? That's paradise."

There was just one snag: two hundred thousand still sitting unspent. But inspiration struck.

A celebration. Not a cheap one like last time. Something massive. Both companies—Horny Princess Interactive and Steel Cup—together. At least eighty mouths to feed.

Two hundred grand in one night. Easy.

He smirked. "Nothing unites employees like free steak and lobster. And nothing burns money faster than feeding them in bulk."

Knock, knock, knock.

The door opened, and in walked Choi Yeji.

Suho blinked. "Lawyer Tang? You… still work here?"

Choi Yeji stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Suho chuckled nervously. "I mean, great to see you! Thought maybe you'd… retired early?"

Choi Yeji's mouth twitched. She'd been home for two weeks, assuming she was fired. A million-dollar salary, contract signed, and no assignments since orientation.

She nearly didn't come back—until curiosity dragged her in.

Now, walking through the factory, she realized she barely recognized the place. The dorms, the cafeteria, and even the workers' mood had shifted.

She folded her arms. "Mr. Kim. I think we need to talk."

Suho winced. "Ah… good. Talking. My favorite."

The new Steel Cup staff dormitories were finally finished, and most of the employees had already moved in.

When Choi Yeji toured the remaining unoccupied units, she froze in place.

Each room looked less like a dorm and more like the set of a home makeover show.

Air conditioning.

Flat-screen TV.

Washing machine.

Water heater.

Private bathroom.

There was even a floor-cleaning robot sitting proudly in the corner, blinking like R2-D2 on a coffee break. Yeji leaned down to check the model and nearly choked.

"Six thousand dollars?!" she muttered. "I wouldn't even splurge three thousand on myself."

She shook her head in disbelief and kept walking. Entering the workshop, her surprise only deepened. All the clunky old machines were gone—replaced by gleaming new automated tools that looked like they belonged in a sci-fi movie.

For the first time, Yeji realized just how reckless and extravagant Kim Suho could be with money. The man wasn't just spending; he was hemorrhaging with style.

Then she remembered why she'd come today.

"Mr. Kim," she said after stepping into his office, "half a month has passed. Is there nothing else you need me to do?"

Suho looked up from his chair, expression calm, almost bored. "Didn't I already assign you the legal seminars?"

"The publicity?" she said, exasperated. "That's been done."

"Oh." He scratched his cheek, pretending to think. "Then… do it again? New slogans, maybe. People love when the law feels fresh."

Yeji's jaw dropped. "Fresh? You want me to reheat last week's leftovers and call it gourmet?"

Suho nodded solemnly. "Exactly."

Yeji pinched the bridge of her nose. The man was impossible. But she had walked all the way here, and technically his request wasn't illegal or immoral. Just… pointless.

"Fine," she sighed. "But after I do it again, what's next?"

Suho leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling tiles like they held the meaning of life. "After that… prepare the next one."

Yeji actually laughed. It was either that or scream.

Before she could protest further, her eyes caught on the shiny new machines in the workshop visible through the glass wall. A thought clicked.

"Wait. Mr. Kim, are you planning to start a clothing brand?"

Suho blinked. "A what now?"

"A brand," she pressed. "With equipment like that, you're not just filling bulk orders. You're gearing up for self-production and self-marketing. If you want to grow, you can't rely on other people's orders forever. You need your own label."

Suho froze. Then slowly, like a lightbulb flickering on, a grin spread across his face.

A brand. Of course. Not because he wanted to succeed—but because it was the perfect way to fail.

"Brilliant," he said. "Absolutely brilliant. We'll launch our own clothing line."

Yeji straightened proudly. She thought he was serious.

But in Suho's head, the scheme unraveled beautifully. Build a brand. Price the clothes higher than the big names. Nobody buys them. Warehouses overflow. Wages bleed money. The system balance tanks. Perfect.

He nodded decisively. "The current workshop is too small. We'll expand, hire hundreds more, and push our own brand."

Yeji's heart leapt. She thought she'd just stumbled into her real role. Brand protection meant patents, copyright filings, anti-counterfeiting lawsuits—the full legal arsenal. Finally, she wasn't just an ornament.

She left the office practically glowing.

Suho watched her go, chuckling to himself. "She thinks she's building an empire. She's building my money pit."

Moments later, Cho Rin walked in carrying a folder. She set it neatly on his desk.

"Mr. Kim, this is the latest report from Horny Princess Interactive."

Suho sighed. "Please tell me it says 'losing money fast.'"

Cho Rin tilted her head. "Do you want me to peek before you read it so I can fake bad news?"

He waved her off. "No need. I'm already depressed enough."

Horny Princess Interactive had been thoughtful enough to send over their morning report.

Kim Suho sipped his coffee, flipped the folder open, and froze.

The smug grin he'd been nursing—fueled by dreams of building a glorious, money-losing clothing brand—vanished instantly.

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