Time passed quickly, and before they knew it, it was around ten o'clock the next morning.
Here on Earth in this Parallel Plane, most of the wage slaves who needed to work had already begun toiling away in their respective offices or factory floors.
Although the morning rush hour had long passed, crowds still surged through the subway. In the office buildings by the streets and throughout the industrial parks, keyboards clattered nonstop, while coffee machines in the corners bubbled away, nearly unable to keep up with the wage slaves' consumption.
Everything in this world was as it had always been. Most people had to struggle desperately just to live.
Only by struggling desperately could they live well.
Perhaps that was the true nature of the world. It was just that some people liked to dress it up with lofty excuses and colorful embellishments?
Of course, none of that mattered.
What mattered was this: at that very moment, almost simultaneously, all one hundred and seven phones began to ring.
This time, it was not a pop-up, not a notification, and not spam text messages.
They were actual calls.
Moreover, nearly every caller ID was labeled "Courier Delivery," making it clear that they were neither harassing nor scam calls, so they would not be rejected.
Beijing. It was still that programmer.
"..."
He had been frantically fixing bugs at his workstation when his phone vibrated. Reflexively, he picked it up and glanced at it.
Seeing "Courier Delivery," he hesitated for a moment before ultimately answering it.
"Hello?"
"Who is this?"
"Hello, am I speaking with Mr. Zhang, whose number ends in 7718?"
The voice on the other end belonged to a young man, carrying the polite yet slightly weary tone unique to couriers. His Mandarin was also very standard.
"Yes!"
"What