Zhang Feng kept the accounts at the South City freight yard for six years. He believed one thing: if the numbers didn’t add up, someone had tampered with them.
On the nineteenth day after he was dragged into an underground laboratory, he found a discrepancy in his own books. A minute should have brought thirty drops of water, but he counted only twenty-seven.
That was when he learned he could see time.
He could see other people’s movements stretch out. He could see the path a blade would take, and where a punch came from and where it was headed.
But his own body hadn’t gotten any faster.
To other people, he seemed as fast as a ghost. In truth, he just knew what was coming.
In this world, talent determines how high a person can rise and how long they can live. Zhang Feng’s affinity for anomalous energy was zero. His physical enhancement was zero.
All he had was a few seconds more than everyone else could see.
The laboratory put him on its disposal list. A red slash was drawn through his name.
The slash meant this person no longer existed.
If you don’t exist, escaping doesn’t count as running away.
Then he would settle this account, one entry at a time.
