Transmigrate to Mars, Where All My Believers Are Contrarians

I used the same methods my boss used to manipulate me on the primitive humans of Mars. As a result, they worked themselves into an interstellar civilization. My name is Tang Boping, a chemical engineer who got killed because of an idiot coworker. He poured water into concentrated sulfuric acid and blasted me all the way to Mars. Now I'm the only god these primitives have, the ones who dance around chunks of scrap metal. I've also been bound to a ghost System: the more they advance, the longer I live. Looking at these Martian natives, who can't even count but grin foolishly every day, I get it: this is the ultimate place to lie flat, just like I've always dreamed of! I decide to use my chemical engineering degree from a top university to slam the brakes on their technology tree. But they treat every complaint I make like a divine decree and work themselves to the bone. When people from Earth arrive in their spaceships, this is what they see: Martians who cook hot pot over volcanoes and can build a time machine by hand, and me, suspended on the edge of a black hole for five hundred years, unable to die because of a “Civilization Protection Agreement.” The captain of the Earth fleet asks, trembling, “What exactly did you teach them?” I look at those Martian workaholics, who generate electricity with a black hole to roast sweet potatoes and use quantum entanglement to gossip, yet insist on taking three-hour lunch breaks, and cry like a three-million-ton child. “All I fucking taught them was how to slack off!”