I'm a food delivery guy. Others give braised chicken, but what I give may be the reincarnation slip from the Lord of Hell, the devil's talisman, or the fairy's divorce letter. It rained heavily that day, and an order popped up on the phone - address: Crematorium. Overtime penalty: death. I cursed my mother, got on the electric bike and rushed away. From then on, I was bound to the Wanjie Express system: receiving an order = a contract of life and death, and a negative review = a life-and-death contract. The ancestor of Lingshan laughed at me as an ant, so I froze his flying sword to pieces with liquid nitrogen; the Overlord of the Demonic Abyss yelled at me to get out, so I stuffed ten tons of frozen liquid nitrogen into the take-out box and asked him to "sign or not"; the Goddess of the Nine Heavens wanted to kill me, so I brought the already cold bowl of Yangchun noodles she ordered three hundred years ago in front of her. She cried. From that day on, there was an iron law in the world - you can mess with anyone, but don't mess with the rider carrying the incubator. Because what he delivers is not takeout, but life. And his sister is still in the rental house, waiting for him to bring food home.
