Three years ago, an unknown master cast a hex for me, his voice deep and low: "In three years, Heaven will grant you a lifetime of glory and wealth."

I sneered softly, thinking to myself: If it’s truly predestined by heaven, then I will deliberately go against it. Every evening I get drunk at sunset, then start gaming, staying up all night; I don’t work, don’t socialize, don’t buy lottery tickets, and avoid any opportunity. I live my days as if I’m deliberately piling up trash in front of my destiny, just to test—will it ignore my self-destruction and still force wealth and glory upon me?

On the last morning of the three-year deadline, I wake up hungover, my head pounding like it’s about to split, staggering to push the door open.

The cold wind like a blade, directly pouring in.

I squint and look—at the entrance of each building in the neighborhood, there’s a bright red, glaring character: Demolition.

In that moment, I understood.