I got laid off, got dumped, and had only 128.5 yuan left in my bank account.
Drunk in my rented room, I grumbled, “This rotten life must have bad feng shui!”
Then Grandpa's old phone came to life, and a chilly female voice spoke:
“Binding successful. Your complaints are the most powerful evil-dispelling force in the world.”
From then on, my life took a sharp turn.
I helped a neighbor deal with a night-crying ghost, digging a cursed wooden doll out from under the bed. I helped an influencer clean up a haunted house, exposing a feng shui scam on livestream.
Wherever I went, evil spirits scattered, but trouble followed close behind.
It wasn't until the “Mystic Arts Association” put me on its kill list that I realized Grandpa's disappearance and the city's predicament were both tied to me.
They thought that controlling feng shui meant they could control everything.
But they didn't know that my grumbling, born from the bottom rung of society, was the sharpest blade of all, one that could overturn the rules.
