Nine o'clock in the morning. Sharp.It was just another Tuesday—or whatever day it was. After his usual morning ritual—the intense martial arts session in the park—Caleb Davis headed home, did the quick brush-and-wash, and grabbed his street-vendor breakfast. Today, it was an egg pancake wrap, still warm. He practically flew toward the set.The crew was already rolling.I mean, total chaos. People were sprinting everywhere, dragging cables and yelling at each other, all under the Director’s frantic guidance. The whole place was buzzing, seriously loud.Caleb Davis snagged a decent spot, settled down, and started eating his wrap, watching the spectacle unfold. He looked perfectly relaxed, like he was just at the movies.But, you know how it is. Peace never lasts. Someone immediately decided to bother him.“Why didn’t you show up last night?”The voice, coming from his left, was sharp and had this completely overbearing tone—like she owned the air he was breathing.Caleb Davis stopped mi

Maverick Wyatt? Yeah, his arrogance just evaporated. Poof. All those tough words and grand plans he had about ambushing Caleb Davis? Gone. He was shaking, absolutely terrified, his whole being screaming at him to bolt, to just vanish into thin air.But his feet—those dead things—were like anchors of sheer, cold terror, frozen solid to the dirt.“Move! You absolute wastes of space! Just run!” He was screaming this internally at his own useless legs.Then he watched Caleb Davis start walking toward him, just casually strolling, and panic took over. Maverick Wyatt’s heart started hammering a desperate, frantic rhythm against his ribs. Since the kid was already eaten up by guilt and knew he was outmatched, he immediately assumed Caleb Davis was coming over to settle the score right now. To teach him a painful, unforgettable lesson for daring to stick his nose in.That psychological pressure finally did the trick. Maverick Wyatt’s feet came back to life.He didn’t hesitate. He just bolted,

Maverick Wyatt was honest with himself—at least internally. As an actor, he was completely useless.His skills? Non-existent. His work ethic? Lazy, bordering on hostile. He’d spent the entire first day of shooting, relying on his deep-pocketed sponsors, throwing his weight around, and basically treating the Director like a waiter.Honestly, the only thing he was focused on was figuring out the best way to get some private time with the female lead.But even a useless actor like him knew one thing: today’s catastrophe was not his fault!Caleb Davis was the one who went off-script and improvised a line, right? So why in the world was he the one getting the verbal beatdown?A storm of sheer outrage built up in his chest. He felt totally, unshakably justified. He figured that if the actual, in-the-flesh Emperor showed up to arbitrate, he’d still win the argument.The Director just stared at Maverick Wyatt’s stubborn, righteous pout, then let out a short, harsh laugh. “Are you a grade-A idi

Caleb Davis was hitting a wall of sheer boredom. He was getting seriously lazy.It’s just deeply, frustratingly human, isn't it? If you have to do the same thing over and over, day in and day out, you’re eventually going to tune out. That’s universal.And it was especially true for him. Caleb Davis had spent his entire adult life bouncing between the best high-society bars and exclusive clubs. Routine cultivation? That was never his jam.His mind was currently a messy boxing ring where two figures were just duking it out.The voice of Impulse was all silk and temptation: "Come on, live a little! The distance to 'true transcendence' is basically the size of a galaxy. What difference can one night off make? The System will still be there tomorrow, promise."The voice of Discipline was sharp, like a physical stab: "Don't you dare yield! Time is gold—no, it's more valuable than gold. You were given the System; this is your chance to break past the mundane. If you stop now, you'll be left

That whole elaborate show Brandon Smith set up—the 'public reconciliation,' the tearful apology, the noble forgiveness from Helena Madison—it hadn't just failed. It had completely collapsed. It was a televised spectacle of pure, distilled public humiliation, and he'd paid for the cameras himself. Oof.The reporters he’d hired, the ones meant to record his triumphant return to grace, were instead dutifully capturing his absolute disgrace.Brandon Smith, the guy who considered himself minor royalty, simply couldn't process this level of crushing defeat. How do you endure that?He locked eyes with Caleb Davis, his own pupils bloodshot, twitching, frankly looking psychotic. That promise of retaliation wasn't just some angry celebrity tantrum; it was a deep, silent oath. He was going to make Caleb Davis pay, and it would cost more than just money or apologies.Caleb Davis just sneered back, his face a cold, dark stone."You're actually going to kill me? Still trying to play the tough guy,