The Sovereign of the Nine Hells, a being who could navigate the chaotic star-fields of the Void without a compass, was currently defeated by a concrete intersection.
Mo Jue stood at the corner of 4th and Main, holding his "talisman" with a grip that threatened to crack the casing. He had the address burned into his mind—Horizon Tech, 888 Prosperity Way—but in this world of towering glass monoliths and winding overpasses, the stars were hidden by smog and the "feng shui" was nonsensical.
"Preposterous," he hissed, his violet eyes scanning the street signs. "In my realm, I could move ten thousand miles with a single thought. Here, I am a prisoner of asphalt."
He felt a pang of profound shame. If his old rivals, the Seven Venerables, could see him now—stranded in a "suit" made of dead plants, unable to find a building—they would laugh until their cultivation bases shattered.
Leaning against a soot-stained brick wall nearby was a man wearing layers of rags that had seen better decades. He sat on a cardboard throne, a plastic cup before him.
Mo Jue approached with the regal bearing of an emperor. "You. Mortal," he intoned, his voice deep and commanding. "Point me toward the 'Prosperity Way.' My patience is thin, and the sun is high."
The beggar paused his task—which Mo Jue realized with a start was scrolling through a vibrant, high-definition screen. He looked up, squinting at Mo Jue's expensive Song-family suit and then at his bewildered expression.
"Prosperity Way?" the beggar rasped, then chuckled, revealing a missing tooth. "Kid, you're dressed like a CEO but you've got the brain of a goldfish. Just use your map."
"Map?" Mo Jue frowned, looking at his silent phone. "I have the talisman, but it does not speak. It only screams when the Song woman calls."
The beggar sighed, a sound of weary pity. "Move over, rookie. You're blocking my 5G signal."
With a flourish, the beggar pulled out a sleek, white Xiaomi 14 Ultra, its Leica camera lenses gleaming like the eyes of a high-grade spirit beast. It was significantly thinner, faster, and more expensive than Mo Jue's budget model.
Mo Jue's eyes widened. "Your... your talisman. It is of a higher grade than mine. Are you a hidden master? An elder of the 'Street-Vagabond Sect'?"
The beggar stared at him, genuinely wondering if this was a prank for a short-video app. "Hidden master? I'm a professional, kid. This Xiaomi cost me three weeks of 'donations.' Now look here, you absolute melon."
The beggar's dirty thumb danced across the screen with a speed Mo Jue could only describe as a "Hand-Sign Technique." He opened an app with a green icon.
"This is called 'Navigation,'" the beggar explained as if talking to a toddler. "You type the name here. See the blue dot? That's you. The red pin? That's where you're going. Follow the arrow. If the lady in the phone tells you to turn left, you turn left. Don't think. Thinking clearly isn't your strength."
Mo Jue watched as the "map" unfolded—a bird's-eye view of the city that moved in real-time. He felt a surge of genuine awe. In his world, such a view required a Cloud-Stepping Formation or a pact with a high-altitude spirit hawk. Here, a man who smelled of sour beer and lived on a sidewalk possessed the power of omniscience.
I have spent ten thousand years studying the Dao of Space, Mo Jue thought, a cold sweat forming on his brow. And yet, I am being tutored in the secrets of the universe by a man who is currently picking his nose.
"There," the beggar said, shoving the phone back into his rags. "It's three blocks that way. Now beat it. You're scaring away my 'generous' customers with that scary face of yours. I've got a quota to hit before the lunch rush."
Mo Jue stood frozen for a second. "Perhaps... I chose the wrong path. Should I have become a beggar? The rewards seem... substantial."
"Just keep your day job, kid. You don't have the charisma for the streets," the beggar muttered, closing his eyes to resume his "job."
One hour later, Mo Jue walked into the lobby of Horizon Tech. He was an hour and fifteen minutes late. His tie was slightly crooked, and his ego was in tatters, but his resolve was iron.
The receptionist looked at him, then at her clock. "Mr. Li Tian? Ms. Song is in the boardroom. She said that if you arrived, I should tell you to go straight to the top floor... and to prepare your funeral."
Mo Jue straightened his jacket. "The 'Xiaomi Sage' has shown me the way," he murmured. "A funeral? We shall see whose name is on the headstone."