Chapter 1

“A copy of the latest *Headhunter Circle* magazine, please.”

At the bustling heart of the city’s crossroads stood a small newsstand, crammed with newspapers and magazines of all kinds. The vendor, who had been hunched inside reading the news, looked up to see a face mostly obscured by sunglasses—sharp chin, delicate pale skin. Even behind the thin amber lenses, one could glimpse a pair of exquisitely clear eyes.

Lin Koukou had just gotten off the plane an hour ago and hadn’t had time to change. She wore only a loose white tracksuit, her naturally wavy long hair cascading over her shoulders. Standing amid Shanghai’s stylish crowds, her relaxed demeanor made her seem almost out of place.  

She wore no jewelry—except for a string of twelve Kynam Incense Beads hanging loosely around her slender right wrist.  

Unlike the celebrity-fronted magazines displayed prominently at the front, *Headhunter Circle*, a niche industry publication, was tucked away in the neglected right corner of the stand. The vendor had to stand up and search for a moment before handing it to her.  

Priced at 22 yuan, Lin Koukou scanned the code to pay.  

Nearby, two men in suits approached the stand, asked for a copy of *Finance Weekly*, and immediately launched into a heated rant.  

“That bastard talked us into buying stocks like it was a sure thing, and now, barely six months in, they’ve tanked so hard even my mom wouldn’t recognize them. Hengyu is such a dumpster fire—they should just dig a hole and bury themselves already!”  

“Tell me about it. I’m stuck in it too.”  

“They’ve got another press conference at ten, saying they’ll announce some major decision!”  

“You’re kidding, right? Their management’s already a complete mess. They’ve held two press conferences, and each time, the stock hit the limit down. Now they’re doing it again? Do they *want* the price to bottom out? Screw it, I’m dumping all my Hengyu shares before ten. Who knows how much they’ll be worth after that disaster!”  

…  

Hengyu was a tech company specializing in smart home appliances. At its IPO, it had been a rising star in Beijing’s Zhongguancun district. But two years later, plagued by chaotic management and lackluster product reception, its stock had plummeted repeatedly, leaving investors furious.  

And now they were holding *another* press conference?  

Anyone could guess it wouldn’t bring good news. Past experience suggested they’d likely announce some new blunder, sending the stock into another freefall.  

Even the most clueless retail investor knew: sell before ten, before the press conference, or brace for even heavier losses.  

Yet Lin Koukou, after overhearing the conversation, suddenly lifted her gaze and studied the two men through her amber lenses. “Don’t rush to sell,” she said.  

They blinked. “Huh?”  

Lin Koukou replied coolly, “You’ll regret it.”  

“Regret?” One of them nearly laughed, convinced she was delusional. “At this rate, *not* selling is what I’ll regret. Do you even know anything about stocks?”  

Lin Koukou mused that she didn’t know much about trading.  

But there was no point arguing with strangers.  

She didn’t engage, just smiled faintly, finished paying, then tucked the *Headhunter Circle* under her arm and hailed a cab.  

Six minutes later, Hengyu Tech’s press conference began.

The first announcement made by CEO Wu Min stunned everyone present and soon spread across the internet via breaking news alerts—  

Hengyu Technology was replacing its CEO!  

Zhou Xinrong, the long-retired tycoon once famous on the wealth rankings, had announced his return to the business world by joining Hengyu!  

“Holy shit, is this for real?”  

Seeing the news alert on his phone, the two men by the newsstand widened their eyes in unison, letting out a stream of expletives.  

“Didn’t Zhou Xinrong become a monk years ago?!”  

“Hengyu actually managed to convince Zhou Xinrong to leave the monastery? They must be clutching at straws. Damn it, I shouldn’t have sold my stocks yesterday!”  

At the same time, in a spacious office on the upper floors of a high-rise, Sun Kecheng, a partner at Crossroads Headhunting, stared at the press conference footage on the TV screen, filled with regret. But as he watched, he suddenly asked, “Wait, Pei Shu—which monastery was Zhou Xinrong at before?”  

Pei Shu sat on the sofa opposite, playing with a deck of cards.  

As the other partner of the headhunting firm, he appeared much younger than Sun Kecheng, his features sharp and cold. His deep gray eyes, naturally serene, took on a blade-like sharpness due to his striking browline. His fingers, elegant and slender, moved effortlessly through the cards without pausing at Sun Kecheng’s question.  

He didn’t even look up. “Qingquan Temple.”  

Sun Kecheng frowned immediately. “Hasn’t this temple been popping up way too often in our circles lately?”  

How many times was this now?  

Located in the northern province and close to several prestigious universities, Qingquan Temple had become a haven over the years for disillusioned top graduates, failed entrepreneurs, and retired executives seeking refuge in monastic life.  

But—  

Eight months ago, an internet tech guru who had abandoned his career to study Buddhism at Qingquan Temple suddenly announced his return to secular life, launching a startup in the sharing economy and effortlessly securing hundreds of millions in Angel Round funding.  

Six months ago, several top graduates from Tsinghua and Peking University who had been practicing at Qingquan Temple left monastic life to become senior engineers at the Aerospace Research Institute, contributing to national aerospace projects.  

Three months ago, news broke that the number of monks at Qingquan Temple had sharply declined, with many meditation class students withdrawing—reportedly due to internal disputes after some monks expressed interest in converting to Taoism at a neighboring temple.  

…  

And now, Zhou Xinrong?  

Sun Kecheng’s throat tightened as if he’d swallowed blood. “The occasional return to secular life is one thing, but this is happening way too often. It’s practically a high-end talent pipeline. What, are monasteries competing with us for business now?”  

Pei Shu didn’t even bother lifting his eyelids. “Maybe the temple’s struggling too, given the economic downturn.”  

Sun Kecheng was speechless. “Could you be any more dismissive?”  

Pei Shu raised a brow. “How else would you like me to respond?”  

Sun Kecheng walked over and sat beside him, hesitantly probing, “Doesn’t this pattern feel… familiar to you?”  

Pei Shu’s finger, resting on the deck of cards, suddenly stilled.

Sun Kecheng observed his expression, his heartbeat inevitably quickening. Summoning his courage, he continued, “Hengyu is looking to replace its helmsman. Several months ago, they approached major headhunting firms to scout candidates for them. But this Zhou Xinrong wasn’t the work of any of us. Taking paths others wouldn’t, poaching people others wouldn’t think of, turning the tide in a crisis, and keeping everything so tightly under wraps that no one caught wind of it beforehand…”

Pei Shu cut him off, “What are you trying to say?”

Sun Kecheng’s gaze burned, “You know what I’m trying to say.”

“…”

Pei Shu’s deep gray pupils resembled stormy seas under the night sky. The corner of his eye twitched slightly before he finally set down his cards completely, lifting his gaze to stare at Sun Kecheng. He remained silent for a long time.

Sun Kecheng said, “I can’t think of anyone else but her.”

Clearly, Pei Shu knew exactly who he was referring to.

But this person filled him with distaste—just thinking about her made him frown involuntarily. A mocking sneer curled at the corner of his lips.

He coldly reminded Sun Kecheng, “You forget, after Compass fired her, she signed a one-year non-compete agreement.”

—That’s right. The former Director of Compass Headhunting, Lin Koukou.

The headhunting industry was often jokingly referred to as “human trafficking.”

Except while traffickers dealt in people, they dealt in talent.

When client companies needed specific talent, headhunters would seek it out, earning hefty fees in the process. Put elegantly, they were called “headhunting consultants”; put plainly, they were “talent brokers.”

Yet the Pareto principle prevailed.

The higher the caliber of talent, the rarer it was—and the harder to find and persuade. A truly exceptional headhunter had to be both a skilled sniper, capable of pinpointing the perfect candidate, and a professional negotiator, able to convince that person to join the client company.

Lin Koukou was a standout among them.

With six years in the industry, she had handled countless positions, most with annual salaries exceeding 3 million. Starting as an independent headhunter, she worked solo before joining Compass Headhunting, transforming the company from an obscure small shop into a major player rivaling the “Big Four” headhunting firms.

For three consecutive years, she topped the rankings in *Headhunter Circle* magazine;

For two consecutive years, she won the RECC Headhunting Conference’s “Golden Snitch” award;

Countless candidates she placed at client companies hailed her as a visionary talent-spotter; numerous industry giants and multinational corporations retained her as their exclusive headhunter;

…

To put it simply, she was a woman who dominated the entire industry. Anyone in the field who hadn’t heard of her back then might as well have visited Shanghai without seeing the Bund or climbed Mount Tai without reaching the Jade Emperor Peak.

Yet no one could have predicted that Compass would kick Lin Koukou to the curb last year. Firing her was one thing, but they also made her sign a one-year non-compete agreement.

The news sent shockwaves through the industry.

People couldn’t decide whether Compass had lost its mind—or if Lin Koukou had.

A full year of non-compete.

During that period, she couldn’t poach from her former company, take any subordinates or client resources with her, join another headhunting firm, or even start her own. She was barred from working in the headhunting profession altogether!

So for the past year, Lin Koukou had vanished.

Not a whisper in the headhunting world—not even a rumor in other industries.

It was as if she had evaporated from the face of the earth.

Sun Kecheng still found it unbelievable: “After all, Xianghang was practically built by her own hands. Yet they turned ungrateful, showing no mercy at all—even pulling out that despicable non-compete agreement. And Lin Koukou, with all her pride, actually signed it. How on earth did things escalate to this point?”

Pei Shu and Lin Koukou were like “two kings that never meet.”

Though both were renowned in the industry, they had never actually crossed paths. But the circle was small, and they had indirectly clashed several times—competing for the same position, fighting over the same candidate, each with their own wins and losses. The grudge ran deep; calling them sworn enemies wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

So when Lin Koukou was mentioned, Pei Shu’s expression darkened.

Pei Shu said coldly, “Alliances formed for profit will inevitably break over profit. Besides, with Lin Koukou’s arrogant attitude, her notorious nickname ‘HR Enemy’ has been infamous for ages. Isn’t it just natural that she couldn’t last and got kicked out by Xianghang?”

Sun Kecheng was puzzled. “You’ve never even met Lin Koukou. Why do you hate her so much?”

Pei Shu shot him a sidelong glance. “Do I need a reason to hate someone?”

Sun Kecheng: “…”

He was momentarily speechless, glancing at Pei Shu, hesitating to speak.

Noticing this, Pei Shu snapped impatiently, “Spit it out if you have something to say.”

Sun Kecheng picked up his phone, flipped to the calendar, and cautiously said, “Lin Koukou was fired on April 28th last year. Today marks exactly one year—the end of her non-compete period…”

Pei Shu suddenly laughed. “You want to poach her to our side?”

Sun Kecheng tried to negotiate. “Our company has been fighting Xianghang for years. Now that Lin Koukou was fired by them, she must hold a grudge. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, so I was thinking—”

“You weren’t.” Pei Shu cut him off bluntly. “Sun Kecheng, let me make this clear: in this company, it’s either me or her. We can’t coexist!”

Sun Kecheng: “…”

What on earth is your grudge with Lin Koukou?!

He suddenly felt the urge to cry. “For heaven’s sake, is there really no room for discussion?”

“…”

Pei Shu studied his expression and suddenly realized something was off.

“You already sent her an offer?”

But the situation was even more absurd than he’d guessed—

Sun Kecheng’s throat went dry as he weakly raised his phone. “Worse… She just arrived downstairs…”

Pei Shu: “…”

Sun Kecheng, I’ll bury your ancestors.