Becoming an Emperor Starting from the World of The Wandering Earth

Due to the enormous changes in society, all the young people have left.

Some went to Houston or Dallas to try their luck, while others joined the army like him and never came back.

The rest are all elderly people who live off ration coupons from the coalition government.

Even his parents died of old age one after another during those 20 years, leaving only his siblings who had become complete strangers.

He left most of the resettlement money to his siblings, and then left the town with the remaining three thousand credits.

Wilson tried to find a job.

Security guard, warehouse manager, truck driver.

When he handed in each resume, the recipient's eyes would light up at first when they saw his military service experience and special forces background.

But when they saw his medical records showing he had post-traumatic stress disorder, their eyes changed.

Not hired.

The reason is simple: we are worried that if he has an attack one day, he may pose a threat to other employees in the company.

One HR manager put it more bluntly: "Mr. Brian, we respect your service, but this is wartime, and the company cannot afford any risks. In your situation, if one day you react impulsively and treat a customer as an enemy, we cannot bear that responsibility."

Wilson did not resent the supervisor.

Because what the other person said was right, he himself didn't know when he would go crazy and kill everyone in the factory.

Last month, he lost his last part-time job.

That was the best job he could find, working the night shift at a logistics warehouse in the suburbs. But the boss thought he was slow to react after taking the medication, so he fired him without even paying his wages.

Then he discovered that he had nowhere to stay.

The landlord told him to get out of the hotel room he had rented before because he was three days behind on rent and they wouldn't even let him take his belongings.

So Wilson began his life of wandering.

I've slept in abandoned underground parking lots, on the steps behind churches, and under highway bridges.

I went to the relief station at dawn to queue up and get a box of bean paste and half a compressed biscuit.

If you're lucky, you might run into volunteers distributing used clothes.

However, Wilson never felt sorry for himself.

There are many people in worse shape than him under the bridge.

There were veterans who had retired earlier than him and had lost a leg, and widows who had raised two children and whose husbands had died in gang fights.

He is just one of them.

The only difference is that he still has that last breath and doesn't want to just rot on the street.

Just now, he happened to pass by the relief window outside the factory, intending to collect some relief supplies, but somehow he ended up running in to apply for a job.

By this point in the story, the plate of mashed potatoes in front of Wilson had gone completely cold.

Wilson didn't say anything more, nor did he touch the cold food; he just sat quietly in his chair.

The cafeteria was quiet for a few seconds.

Murphy didn't speak immediately, but looked into Wilson's eyes. After a long while, Murphy softly asked, "What do you need?"

"A job, boss, I'll do any kind of work. I'm not afraid of being tired or dirty, and I don't need any special treatment. Just give me a salary and a place where I can lie down and sleep without the roof leaking."

Murphy did not answer immediately, but looked at Wilson quietly.

There was no pleading, no pity, not even much expectation in those eyes; they were as calm as a dead person's.

Suddenly, Murphy stood up, walked to Wilson's side, and placed his right hand heavily on Wilson's shoulder.

"Wilson, you just said you've been undergoing treatment for two years. Did those doctors ever tell you that you'll need those pills to get a full night's sleep for the rest of your life?"

"Didn't I tell you that you might lose control at any moment, so you'd better stay away from everyone, not expect any work, and not fantasize about a normal life?"

Wilson didn't speak, but the slight fluctuation in his eyes betrayed him.

"But I don't believe in that."

Murphy withdrew his hand, leaned down slightly, and aligned his gaze with Wilson's.

"I don't believe you can only be kept alive by those damn drugs, and I don't believe you're a threat. What I believe in is that someone who can walk back to base on his own when only five people are left in the squad, someone who leaves all the resettlement money to his younger siblings and sleeps under a bridge himself, is more reliable than a hundred guys with impressive resumes."

Murphy swiftly and decisively swung his right hand through the air.

"So I'm not going to give you a job, I want to give you dignity, a position where you can stand up and speak with your head held high again."

"From today onwards, you no longer need to take those drugs that make you sluggish. To me, you are Wilson Bryan, the former squad leader of the 7th Special Forces Group, not a patient on any medical record."

Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed, and the edges of his eyes reddened slightly.

At that moment, Murphy was light, was God, in his eyes.

This is not an exaggeration. When he was in the army, his superiors always treated him as a expendable resource, to be sent wherever he was needed.

After retiring, he suffered from discrimination due to his illness.

Now, Murphy is saying he wants to give him dignity and help him stand up again.

How can I ever repay such a great kindness?

"As for your concerns..."

Murphy took a light breath, a teasing look on his face. "If you ever get overreacted and treat a client like an enemy, I'll cover for you. Just remember, don't hit me, don't hit Garcia, and don't blow up the company. Everything else is fine."

Upon hearing this, Garcia, who was standing to the side, moved his lips as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just shook his head and gave a helpless, bitter smile.

Wilson remained silent, but his hands, hidden under the table, slowly clenched into fists.

"Sir... thank you."

"You're welcome, but I heard you're here to apply for a security training position. Would it be convenient for you to demonstrate later?"

Wilson was stunned.

He looked down at the food in front of him, then looked up at Murphy, a faint embarrassment appearing on his face for the first time.

"Sir, I... could I finish this meal first? It's cold, but I can still eat it, it won't delay things."

Wilson pointed to the plate and added, "I haven't had a proper meal in two days, and I'm afraid my hands and feet will feel weak and I won't be able to give a good presentation later."

Murphy stared at him, paused for a second, and then burst into laughter.

"Ha ha ha ha……"

After laughing for a while, Murphy wiped away non-existent tears from the corners of her eyes and turned to look at the old butler.

"Garcia, did you hear me? Tell the kitchen to bring out one serving of every hot dish they can make today. Get fresh mashed potatoes, drizzle extra gravy over the beans, and make a thick soup."

"Oh, right, I got a few more tons of pork today, remember to fry a couple more chops."

After a pause, Murphy looked at Wilson: "Do you have a sweet tooth? The cafeteria has canned apple pie; although it has artificial filling, it's packed with sugar."

Wilson clearly hadn't expected this development.

He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say something like "Don't spend too much," but faced with Murphy's "Just eat and stop talking nonsense" expression, he finally only uttered one word.

"it is good."

As Murphy spoke, Garcia strode quickly toward the kitchen.