Old Wang, the Stove God, has been very bothered lately. The Jade Emperor approved his descent to investigate public sentiment, euphemistically calling it "experiencing the human touch." He was overjoyed, thinking he'd see wisps of smoke rising from chimneys and hear cheerful laughter. But what did he find? On his first day, he was almost run over by a food delivery guy.

He transformed into a middle-aged programmer named Wang Ming, who was woken up by his alarm clock at 7:30 AM every morning. He'd hastily shove a few bites of bread into his mouth, then squeeze onto the subway to begin his daily "cultivation." Wang Ming’s "workstation" was in a transparent glass cubicle. He could see everyone in the cubicles across from him buried in their work, with only the clatter of keyboards rising and falling.

Old Wang shivered in the cold wind, carrying his ancestral small bench. Today was the first day of the Lunar New Year, and he had managed to get away from the mahjong table to watch a movie at the newly opened "Bench Cinema" in the county town. He had heard that this cinema was unique in that it did not have seats, and audiences had to bring their own benches. When the idea first came out, Old Wang had scoffed at it, thinking it was nonsense. However, he couldn't resist the cinema's "New Year Special Offers," the tickets were surprisingly cheap, and curiosity eventually overcame his principles.

When he arrived at the cinema entrance, Old Wang realized he was not an oddity. Men and women, old and young, each carried a bench, of different colors and materials, like a bench exposition. There were plastic ones, wooden ones, and elegant folding stools. Someone even carried a small grand master chair. People sized up each other's "vehicles," with a hint of novelty and a hint of helplessness on their faces.

The advertising screen in the elevator was once again replaying the promotional video for the "Worry-Free Office" app. Zhang Qiang stared at the stiffly smiling office elite on the screen, feeling a wave of nausea. He had to use this app every day to clock in, submit expenses, apply for leave, and even book a toilet stall.

Zhang Qiang was an ordinary technician, functioning like a cog set in a fixed orbit within the vast corporate machine. He disliked the "continuous monthly subscription" services on various apps on his phone the most, always feeling it was a disguised form of exploitation. A few days ago, he had seen news that a celebrity had also immediately canceled a continuous monthly subscription on an app, and he had felt quite relieved about it.

Old Wu, a young man drifting in the city, has recently become obsessed with "Spring Festival Gala-themed tourism." It's not because he particularly loves watching the Spring Festival Gala, but because of a "year-end check-in" task assigned by his company—he must visit four cities "brought to fame" by the Gala, take photos in front of designated landmarks, and post them on WeChat Moments, collecting four "likes" to receive his full year-end bonus.

There's no way to argue with these rules. Old Wu shouldered his bag, like a clockwork puppet wound tight, and began his "performance."

Old Chen is the captain of the drone maintenance team, a middle-aged man whose hairline is receding year by year. His daily job is to inspect, repair, and record those things that fall from the sky. This time is a bit special, it’s not just one or two that fell, but a whole batch, and all of them are high-tech gadgets imported from South Korea.

"This thing is like a rock with wings," Old Chen muttered, kicking a piece of debris. He hasn't been home for three consecutive days, and his eye bags are as dark as two lumps of coal. The maintenance shed was filled with shattered fuselage, like the aftermath of a fierce air battle.

Lao Wang pushed open the office door, and a wave of heat hit him. It wasn't that the air conditioner was broken, but that everyone was red-faced, as if they had just come out of a steamer. Today was the first day of the company's "absolute fairness" system.

The cause was a while ago, when actor Yu Shi's statement "We just want fairness" caused a huge response on the Internet. The boss was deeply inspired and decided to implement an "absolute fairness" system in the company.

"Gold, it's gone up again today!"

Old Wang muttered to himself, holding his thermos mug, staring at the glaring numbers on the computer screen. He worked at "Gleaming Gold" company, whose main business was gold jewelry. But Old Wang wasn't a designer, nor a salesperson; he was just an ordinary clerk in charge of data entry. His daily task was to input the real-time gold prices and inventory data of various jewelry items into the company's internal network system.

Old Liu has been working at his company for almost ten years. He hasn't been promoted, nor has he gotten a raise, but he has developed a "highway" on his hairline. He feels like a screw, fastened in some corner of a huge machine, humming monotonously day after day. Recently, the company launched a "skills certification," ostensibly to "improve the comprehensive quality of employees," but in reality, it was preparing for "downsizing and elimination."

Old Liu isn't worried. He's a Tsinghua master's graduate, a top scorer in the college entrance exam back in the day. He's confident that this certification will impress the leaders. However, the subjects of the certification are baffling: excavator operation, car repair, and cooking skills. Old Liu is dumbfounded. He majored in computer science, so he's good at coding, but wielding a wrench is beyond him.

Nezha has been feeling troubled lately. Not because he's been bullied again, nor because the Dragon King is causing trouble again. But because he, the once-young hero who rode on wind and fire wheels, brandishing a fire-tipped spear, and quelled demons in the sea, is now suffocated by a "Quarterly Performance Assessment Form."

"Comrade Nezha, your popularity growth this quarter is below average, peripheral product sales have declined, and online discussion is showing a sluggish trend. According to the 'Immortal Civil Servant Performance Management Measures,' your salary will be reduced by one grade." Master Taiyi, stroking his beard, read the document in his hand with a grave tone, his voice filled with helplessness, as if he were the one being tormented by the performance assessment.

　 The alarm went off.