Becoming an Emperor Starting from the World of The Wandering Earth

Just as Murphy was lost in thought, there was a rapid knock on the office door.

"Come in." Murphy gathered his thoughts.

The door was pushed open, and Garcia walked in hurriedly.

"Sir, excuse me. Someone came downstairs, saying they're here for a job interview, but the situation... is a bit unusual."

Murphy's heart skipped a beat.

So fast?

"Special? How so?" Murphy stood up, trying to keep his tone calm.

"It was a man, he looked to be in his thirties or forties, and he looked... very down on his luck, like he hadn't had a proper meal in a long time, and his clothes were tattered. But he insisted on seeing the person in charge of hiring, and his tone was very firm, unlike a typical homeless person."

Garcia described, "I asked him what position he was applying for, and he said security or training-related was fine. I originally wanted Mullen to handle it, but there was something about him... well, I can't quite put my finger on it. So I had someone take him to the cafeteria, get him something to eat, and then quickly came up to inform you."

Murphy's eyes lit up slightly.

Down on his luck, but with an air of no ordinary person, being called upon for security or training... that sounds perfect.

"He's in the cafeteria? Take me there." Murphy didn't hesitate and immediately walked around the desk.

"Sir, are you going in person? Should I have someone sound him out first?" Garcia asked hesitantly.

"No need, just go straight there." Murphy waved his hand and had already walked to the door.

He had a strong premonition that this was very likely the talent he had acquired by exchanging 1000 faith points.

As the factory's main canteen, it occupies a considerable area. However, this is not mealtime, and there is only one figure in the large canteen with his back to the door, head down, battling with the rice in front of him.

As you get closer, you can see that the person is wearing a faded old jacket, his hair is a little messy, but his neck is straight and his shoulders are broad.

The plate in front of me was piled with mashed potatoes, stewed beans, and a few slices of reconstituted meat, with two empty plates next to it.

He ate with great focus and speed, but his movements were unusually hurried, as if he were fighting an enemy.

Garcia coughed softly, and the man stopped moving instantly.

Immediately afterwards, he put down the spoon in his hand, quickly wiped his mouth with the rough tissue next to him, and almost reflexively turned around and stood up.

In the instant she turned around, Murphy saw his face clearly.

He was thin, with a dark brown complexion from long-term sun exposure, prominent cheekbones, and deep-set eyes, but his gray eyes were exceptionally sharp and clear.

Even in tattered clothes, he stood ramrod straight, giving off a sense of tension and readiness to unleash his power.

His gaze first swept over Garcia, then landed on Murphy.

He paused for less than half a second before he figured out who was in charge.

He lightly touched his left heel with his right, straightened his body slightly, raised his right hand, paused beside the rough seam of his old jacket as if he wanted to give a military salute, but considering his own situation, he changed it to a standard nod.

"Sir."

Garcia stepped forward and introduced him to Murphy: "Sir, this is him. He said his name is Wilson."

Then Garcia turned to the man: "Mr. Wilson, this is Mr. Murphy, our company's boss."

Murphy immediately smiled, took a few steps forward, and, without caring at the other person's disheveled appearance and grease stains, extended his hand.

"Mr. Wilson? Hello, I'm Murphy. I heard you're here for a job interview? You haven't eaten yet, have you? Sit down, let's eat and talk."

He pointed to the chairs next to the dining table, then pulled one over and sat down opposite Wilson.

Wilson was clearly not expected the factory owner to react this way when he saw him, and a look of surprise flashed in his eyes.

He looked at Murphy's outstretched hand, hesitated for a moment, and then extended his own rough hand to shake hands with Murphy.

"Thank you, Mr. Murphy." Wilson sat down as instructed, but did not touch his plate.

"Don't be shy, keep eating, it won't be good if it gets cold."

Murphy gestured for Wilson to continue, and said casually, "Garcia said you're here to apply for a security or vocational training position. Could you tell me more specifically what you did before?"

Wilson glanced at Murphy, then at Garcia, who was standing a little further back.

A few seconds later, he slowly spoke.

"Yes, sir... Mr. Murphy."

As Wilson recounted his story, Murphy gradually came to understand his condition.

Wilson's full name is Wilson Bryan. He is a native of Texas and was born in a small town called Carissa Springs, eighty miles south of San Antonio.

I signed an enlistment contract when I was eighteen, simply because my family was poor.

He was the eldest of five siblings. Joining the army meant he could have enough to eat and earn credits, which he could send back to his younger siblings to pay for their tuition.

After completing basic training, due to his outstanding performance, he was selected for the Green Berets the following year and became a squad leader in the 2th Special Forces Brigade, with the rank of captain.

He then participated in numerous battles.

Suppress the rebels and eliminate the terrorists.

According to Wilson, he had lost count of how many battles he had participated in.

Because it's meaningless.

Some battles don't exist in official records, and there are places he doesn't even know he's been.

Wilson said his specialty was training local militias, teaching those locals who didn't speak the language, had ragtag equipment, and didn't even have decent military boots how to fire a gun without it jamming, how to plant mines without blowing themselves up, and how to drag the wounded back during lulls in the fighting.

During this period, some of the people he led survived, while others died, and their bodies were never found.

But Wilson never thought there was anything wrong with it.

The turning point happened three years ago.

It was a covert operation; their team of twelve was ambushing a high-value target.

The target died, and seven of them died on the spot.

Of the remaining five, two died of serious injuries on the way, and he was the only one who could still walk on his own.

On the way back to the base, Wilson was no longer as calm as usual; his mind went blank for no apparent reason.

After that, he began to suffer from insomnia. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see those faces, some of whom he had killed, and some of his soldiers.

From then on, Wilson began to experience heart palpitations without warning and had to curl up in a corner to breathe.

His temper gradually became irritable, and he would want to grab a weapon at the slightest noise.

The officer said it was post-traumatic stress disorder and required treatment.

He underwent treatment for two years, including medication, therapy, and electrotherapy, with varying degrees of success.

Last autumn, his term of service expired, and the military did not renew his contract.

It's not because he's not good enough.

Wilson's shooting and combat skills remain excellent, but his illness is incurable, and continuing to serve would be a hidden danger.

When he retired, the military gave him a one-time resettlement allowance, which was not small, but not much either.

He took the money and went back to Texas, back to Carissa Springs.

But the town has changed.