My name is Su Jiu, the “mad courier” in Room 204 of Anning Psychiatric Hospital. Three years ago, my parents were chosen by the “Judgment Shackles” and torn apart right in front of me, becoming part of the audience in a divine game. I watched the livestream while gnawing on a cold steamed bun. Ever since, I’ve learned to carry divine blood in a Meituan insulated delivery box and threaten the God of War Ares with bad reviews for being “way too tough.”
Then today, a line of bloody writing appeared in the order notes: “Late delivery compensation: offer a divine soul as bait.”
I climbed onto my battered electric scooter, its rear box stuffed with half a Yachi Orochi pickled in sour bamboo shoots. The global livestream chat exploded in my earbuds:
“Did that mad courier steal Hera’s afternoon tea again?”
“I heard he knocked out the Yachi Orochi with luosifen!”
“Watch out! Zeus’s lightning is about to roast his helmet, ”
They say I’m crazy. Dr. Lin wrote in my medical records: “Dimensional erosion syndrome. Claims he wants to eat gods and deliver them as takeout.” Xiao Jiu hugged his game controller and sneered: “He’s the reincarnation of the old god Taotie. The hunger seal is his cutlery.” Even Xiao, who keeps stealing my orders, shouted during the livestream: “Su Jiu! Let’s bet our lives on a delivery to Tokyo Tower!”
But they don’t know that I’m not gnawing on divine flesh. I’m chewing through the “Judgment Shackles” that imprison humanity. And I’m not delivering takeout. I’m delivering a blade to tear up the gods’ script.
As the chat flooded with “Su Jiu is going to kill the gods,” I touched the crumpled diagnosis in my pocket and smiled. “Mom, Dad, look. I can finally order you a serving of divine sashimi.”
This isn’t a power fantasy. It’s a madman’s survival diary. No System, no invincibility, just an electric scooter, an insulated delivery box, and a hunger that can bite through a divine soul.
