Becoming an Emperor Starting from the World of The Wandering Earth

In less than five minutes, the steaming hot plates were back on the table.

The freshly cooked mashed potatoes were steaming, topped with a thick layer of black pepper meat sauce, and two juicy pork chops were placed on the side.

A large pot of stewed beans, about the size of a washbasin, is soaking in a thick tomato and meat broth.

There was also a steaming bowl of creamy mushroom soup made with soy protein on the side.

"Thank you, sir!"

As soon as he finished speaking, Wilson picked up the spoon without any hesitation and quickly put the food in front of him into his mouth.

Murphy didn't leave; he just quietly watched Wilson eat.

Twenty minutes later, Wilson put down his spoon.

The plate and soup bowl in front of me were empty.

He straightened up, carefully wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, then took a step back and straightened his back again.

"Sir, I've finished eating. What are your instructions?"

"Come with me."

Murphy nodded and turned to walk towards the back door of the cafeteria.

The three of them walked through the food preparation area in the canteen kitchen and arrived at the back of the factory.

Pushing open the iron gate, a smell mixed with engine oil and damp air hit me.

This is a factory specifically used to dismantle decommissioned civilian energy storage units recycled from various communities.

The rusty old machine casings were piled up like a small mountain, next to which were disassembly tables and tool racks whose original colors were no longer discernible.

Murphy stopped at a relatively empty dismantling table, then pulled a matte P226 from his suit pocket and handed it to Wilson.

"SIGP226, it's a bit old, but I think it should be fine for you."

Wilson reached out and took it, and the next second, his entire demeanor changed drastically.

He placed his fingers on the slide, pulled gently to check the chamber, pressed his thumb on the magazine catch, and the magazine slid into his palm. He glanced at it, then flicked his wrist, and the magazine locked back into the grip.

The entire process takes no more than four seconds.

Seeing this, Murphy nodded and gestured towards the northwest.

"See that sign over there that says CTH? Now I need you to hit the C..."

Wilson followed his gaze and saw an old, abandoned sign standing about eighty meters away in the northwest corner of the factory area.

"Bang."

Gunshots rang out instantly, and before Murphy could finish speaking, Wilson raised his gun and fired.

The first shot hit the center of the "C" sign precisely.

"Bang."

The second bullet hole is right next to the first, almost overlapping.

"Bang! Bang! Bang..."

The ninth shot rang out.

Wilson stopped firing, then sheathed the rifle, ejected the magazine, checked the ejection port, set the bolt back, and then held the empty magazine in his palm before handing it back to Murphy.

"Sir, firing complete."

Murphy didn't take the gun; instead, he stared blankly at the sign eighty meters away.

Nine bullets, nine bullet holes.

Not a single shot missed the target, and not a single shot deviated from its aim.

Moreover, all the impact points are densely packed into a palm-sized area.

"You said you haven't touched a gun in two years."

"Yes, sir."

Wilson remained motionless, still in the position of handing over the gun. "The last live-fire exercise was my last assessment before retirement."

Murphy paused for a few seconds, reached out and took the gun, then turned to Garcia.

"Garcia".

The old butler immediately stepped forward and bowed slightly: "Sir."

"Go and call Maren over, and then pick four people from the security team, the ones who just finished their training two months ago, and have them wear the equipment they were issued."

Garcia's gaze swept quickly between Murphy and Wilson, as if he understood something.

"Yes, sir."

A moment later, the iron gate to the back of the factory was pushed open again.

Garcia walked in front, followed by five people.

The man in the lead, a man in his early forties with a buzz cut and a brisk walk, is Ma Lun, the head of the security inspection department.

There were four young men behind him.

Murphy turned around, his gaze sweeping over the four faces one by one, before his charisma subtly activated.

"Cheng Hongtu, Nancy, Kirk, Peter."

Murphy accurately called out the four people's names, and then patted each of them on the shoulder.

"Do you know why I called you here?"

"Sir, I don't know."

"I don't know."

Murphy nodded. "I have a question for you: Is the factory treating you well? Am I treating you well?"

"How well does the factory treat you? How well do I treat you?"

"Yes, sir, that couldn't be better."

Cheng Hongtu reacted the fastest and spoke instantly.

This isn't flattery; it's the honest truth from the bottom of my heart.

He is 27 years old this year. He was born and raised in Houston. His parents are from Dongguang, who came during the wave of immigration in the 1990s.

He didn't steal or rob, he's run a Chinese restaurant for half his life, working from dawn till dusk, just wanting a peaceful life. He sent him to community college, hoping he would learn accounting or computer science and become an office worker so he could make a name for himself.

But man proposes, God disposes. When the news of the sun's impending helium flash came out, the whole society was like a cake thrown into a mixer, shattering into pieces.

The first to collapse were non-essential industries such as catering and tourism.

In less than a year, his restaurant went bankrupt.

What followed were notices for property tax and special period business maintenance contributions, which quickly drained his parents' savings of several decades.

The restaurant was gone, the house was taken away, and the parents couldn't bear the blow. One suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and collapsed in the kitchen and couldn't be saved, while the other became depressed and didn't make it through that winter.

Cheng Hongtu has a community college diploma, but how could he possibly find a job in an increasingly depressed market?

Companies are laying off employees, and even jobs like cleaning toilets are in high demand.

He tried carrying heavy bags in logistics warehouses, doing odd jobs at construction sites, and even considered joining a gang like in the movies, just to at least make a living.

But he was too well protected by his parents since childhood, so he couldn't make it in those places at all.

Being bullied and having wages withheld is a common occurrence.

The worst time was when he finished working for half a month, the contractor ran off with the money, and he didn't get a penny. He was also arrested by the police for illegally staying at the construction site and detained for three days.

No one had the spare capacity to help him; everyone was struggling to survive.

During that time, Cheng Hongtu slept on park benches, huddled in ATM cubicles, and fought with stray dogs for moldy bread from trash cans.

Just when he was about to give up, he heard news about a relief window for the Moss Energy plant.

At first, he didn't believe it; could there really be such a fool in this world?

But hunger and cold forced him to give it a try.

Cheng Hongtu waited in line for a full six hours before he could finally get to the window.

He had expected to receive some bean paste mixed with sand, or compressed biscuits so hard they could kill someone, like at other relief stations.

But the old worker in the company uniform behind the window handed him a steaming bowl of stewed beans, with a few bits of minced meat in it.

That one bowl of hot beans made Cheng Hongtu cry like a child.