Chapter Two: Origin

A watch that was clearly problematic—how could Lin Lei dare to keep wearing it?

Yet, when he tried to take it off, he discovered that the thing seemed fused to his wrist. No matter how he struggled, he couldn’t remove it.

“This system has already bound itself to the host. Your fortune is my fortune; your death, my demise.” After completing the binding, the system’s intelligence apparently upgraded. Though its voice was still mechanical, Lin Lei could now distinctly sense emotions within its words.

“What do you mean? What exactly are you?” Lin Lei realized he had encountered something supernatural. Fortunately, the other party could communicate through speech. He decided to ask questions, get to the bottom of things, and then plan his next move.

After a lengthy explanation from the system, Lin Lei finally gathered a rough understanding.

First, this thing was now completely bound to him. If he died, it would enter a dormant state, unable to reactivate for at least a hundred years.

Second, this device was not of Earthly origin. As for its exact provenance, even it didn’t know. Before arriving on Earth, it had suffered severe damage—either from enemy attacks or spatial turbulence—and had lost most of its stored data. To repair itself, it required a massive amount of primal energy.

“What is primal energy?” Lin Lei asked curiously.

“Though damaged, the core functions of this system remain intact: resource recycling and space-time traversal...” the system explained.

All things in existence possess intrinsic value. Through an intricate calculation program, the system could appraise anything, then extract a special kind of primal energy equivalent to that value through recycling.

This primal energy could be used to reconstruct the original resource or to synthesize any known thing. In other words, with enough primal energy, one could even shape the universe and the stars, or fully repair the system—an easy task.

Of course, to avoid brute-force seizure and the intervention of certain cosmic laws, the system could only recycle resources that had an owner, and only with that owner’s consent.

Moreover, recycling large quantities of primal energy could disturb the space-time balance. Therefore, the ability to traverse space-time was essential. Just like harvesting crops, you couldn’t strip everything bare—take only a little from each world, and soon enough, it would recover.

Thus, the system needed to bind an agent, someone to travel across different worlds and gather unclaimed resources.

If, during resource acquisition, the agent fought or even killed for treasures, that was their own business; the system bore no responsibility, and the cosmic rules could not intervene.

“So, in that sense, does that make me a cheat code?” Lin Lei suddenly understood.

The host was the system’s cheat code, a tool to obtain primal energy by bypassing the rules. If the cosmic laws noticed, the cheat code would be banned, but the system could just find another one and keep stealing resources. Of course, once the cheat code was banned, the system would also receive a temporary penalty, so when cheating, you still had to keep up appearances.

In novels, the system was always the protagonist’s cheat code. But here, Lin Lei had become the system’s cheat code.

“More or less, that’s correct. So, for every successful recycling, this system will compensate the host with a certain number of contribution points. Contribution points are equal in value to primal energy and can be exchanged for anything known to have ever existed in the universe,” the system added.

After all, if you want someone to work, you must pay them. In this respect, the system was quite principled.

“Anything known to have ever existed? Including people?” A sudden thought struck Lin Lei.

“Including people. But there are many restrictions. First, living beings—humans or animals—cannot be forcibly exchanged, as that violates the principle of fair trade, unless the person willingly signs a servitude contract. Second, the dead—human or animal—cannot be exchanged either, for the same reason, and because the deceased cannot sign such a contract,” the system replied.

“Pfft! So, you can’t resurrect the dead, and for the living, I’d need their consent. If they agreed, why would I need to spend contribution points to get them from you?” Lin Lei scoffed.

He’d asked about exchanging resources for people in hopes of resurrecting his parents. Now it seemed that was nothing but an unattainable fantasy.

“The dead, as long as the body is intact, can be revived through advanced medical resources. As for the living, if they willingly sign a servitude contract, they will never betray you in this lifetime. Even if they die and not a speck of dust remains, they can be resurrected at any time.” Perhaps finding Lin Lei too dense, the system pointed out the loophole.

But these loopholes were useless to Lin Lei. His parents had passed three years ago and had been cremated. There were no remains to preserve.

“Forget it. Go do whatever you want. I’m not going to be your cheat code, hopping through different worlds,” Lin Lei declared at last.

Wasn’t it wonderful to live comfortably at home with good food and drink? Why become a cheat code for some system?

“From the day this system binds to the host, a performance evaluation program is automatically activated. According to the rules, the host must go on at least one mission every month. Failure to do so will be treated as absenteeism, resulting in a deduction of fifty contribution points. Based on this system’s preliminary assessment, the host’s current assets are worth thirty contribution points. The remaining twenty points will be supplemented by recycling the host’s organs until the deficit is made up, or the host dies,” the system had already anticipated Lin Lei might try to slack off.

“What the hell! There’s a rule like that? Didn’t you say recycling had to be voluntary and fair?” Lin Lei was dumbfounded.

“You have voluntarily bound yourself to the system. An agreement has been reached. Neither party can violate it,” the system replied.

In other words, the moment Lin Lei put on the watch and agreed to the binding, the contract was sealed. By helping the system run errands and traverse worlds, he would receive corresponding benefits. If he shirked his duties, the system would rather perish with him, then wait a hundred years to find a new host.

Lin Lei’s entire net worth was around six million, worth only thirty contribution points. The organs in his body couldn’t be worth more than that. If he didn’t go on missions, he would be dead within a month—unless he could double his net worth in that time.

Of course, the system’s valuation was somewhat tricky. Money itself was only worth as much as the paper it was printed on.

But with money, one could purchase a variety of goods, each with its own recyclable contribution value—the key was whether the buyer could acquire valuable resources.

However, Lin Lei never considered this and wouldn’t think to ask, and the system certainly wouldn’t volunteer the information.

“So as long as I do one mission a month, I won’t lose fifty contribution points? What other conditions are there? Tell me all at once,” Lin Lei, having been burned once, was finally growing cautious.

“Activating space-time traversal requires a great deal of primal energy to break through the barriers between worlds. Each activation deducts a certain amount of contribution points. Of course, this fee is charged at cost, and will be split evenly between the system and the host,” the system explained.

In other words, traversing worlds required a fee, and the cost was fifty percent of the standard rate.

“Just tell me—how many contribution points does one traversal cost?” Lin Lei asked helplessly.

“To break through a primary world barrier, one traversal costs the host one hundred contribution points. Intermediate barriers cost one thousand, advanced ten thousand, and special regions are priced individually,” the system reported.

“Just kill me now. Right now. Make it quick!” Lin Lei gave up completely.