Chapter Two: The Golden Finger is Called GDP

Qin Jing harbored a secret: ever since childhood, he’d been peculiarly sensitive around mirrors, always terrified that some demon or monster might leap out at him from the glass. Because of this, he’d earned himself the nickname “coward” from a very young age. Then, about a year ago, something seemed to shift in the world, and Qin Jing discovered, to his astonishment, that he could communicate with mirrors.

Through trial and error, he realized that the magic mirror could provide detailed information about any secondhand item. Quick-witted as he was, Qin Jing soon began to use this to his advantage, diving into the world of secondhand luxury goods—buying, selling, and profiting from the price gaps by leveraging the information gleaned from the mirror.

He called these functions “Recycle” and “Sell”—the mirror’s basic abilities, which could clearly state both the recycling and sales values of an item. Beyond that, the mirror could hold simple conversations with him, much like an encyclopedia. For example, as the mirror answered him now, he noticed the number in the corner subtly decrease from 118 to 117.

Qin Jing called this number GDP, or G-point for short, because it accrued as he engaged in money-related activities. If he spent 10,000 and earned 10,000 in a day, the total G-point would increase by 2, much like calculating GDP. Using the “Recycle” and “Sell” skills, or even just asking valuable questions, would consume G-points. Over time, he also discovered certain restrictions, such as “no self-selling or self-buying.”

Over the past year, Qin Jing worked hard at business, earning and spending money, only barely managing to increase his G-point to 118. It wasn’t simply that he’d earned only 118 G-points in a year—rather, the mirror itself consumed between 1 and 10 G-points per day, and every use drained the balance further.

Today's question was a small matter. Not only had Chen Hua lost out on Qin Jing, whom she’d considered a promising catch, she’d also sold him something valuable at a loss—a move so foolish it could well be the most idiotic act in the world at that moment. The answer was obvious, so the G-point consumed was minimal.

When Qin Jing first met Chen Hua, he truly liked her. Back then, he had only just begun communicating with the mirror and flipping items for profit. They met at an equestrian club, each pretending to be something they weren’t: she, the glamorous heiress; he, the dashing young tycoon. Their charades somehow made them seem perfectly matched.

Qin Jing was well aware of Chen Hua’s shortcomings, and he’d always known he couldn’t keep her. But as a nobody from humble beginnings, he had to accept reality: Chen Hua was the best woman he could ever hope to be with, and all he could do was pray she’d continue to overlook his inadequacies.

But now, things had changed. After a year of diligent effort, he’d finally accumulated enough G-points.

Standing before the mirror, a string of data appeared on the blank space to the left of his reflection:

Qin Jing

Attractiveness: 69

Physique: 75

Vitality: 81

In the center of the image, every article of clothing he wore was listed, right down to his hair and the ten-yuan face cream he’d applied:

Hair—15 yuan maintenance fee (every 22 days)

Facial skin—10 yuan maintenance fee (every 60 days)

Uniqlo men’s jacket—118 yuan (remaining lifespan: 91 days) (remaining value: 25 yuan)

Cheap cotton underwear—20 yuan (remaining lifespan: 29 days) (remaining value: 3 yuan)

…

All told, the total value of everything Qin Jing wore barely amounted to a hundred yuan.

He placed Chen Hua’s Chanel bag before the mirror and whispered, “GDP, open the skill tree.”

The image shifted; Qin Jing’s reflection transformed into a rotating, three-dimensional human silhouette. The silhouette branched out like a tree, with two squares at the top illuminated—these were the mirror’s basic skills: Recycle and Sell.

When Qin Jing first discovered the mirror’s secret a year ago, it took him about a month to stumble upon the shadowy skill tree within his own reflection. Only after seeing the two lit-up skills did he realize why the mirror could only appraise secondhand items: he had activated “Recycle,” not “Purchase”—and the difference was significant.

Focusing on “Sell,” a line of text naturally appeared: Upgrading this skill consumes 100 G-points.

“Upgrade Sell!” Qin Jing said, his voice tinged with excitement.

Even with “GDP” at his disposal, this past year had not been easy. Understanding the value of an item was one thing; persuading a seller to accept a low price, or convincing a buyer to pay a premium, required real skill. Accumulating his first pot of gold had been anything but simple.

Fortunately, he’d finally completed the initial accumulation. Between “Recycle” and “Sell,” Qin Jing unhesitatingly chose to upgrade Sell. After all, for someone in his position, “capital” was more enticing than “supply.”

As a poor boy from the mountains, Qin Jing had suffered enough in this materialistic world. Countless times, in the dead of night, he’d dreamt of becoming a wealthy, suave man, stuffing wads of cash into the bikini tops of beautiful women. He was poor, yes, but not despicable. If he’d had the means, why should he always have to accommodate Chen Hua?

But without money or confidence, he’d lived in fear that his “heiress” would leave him, resigned himself to the role of the groveling sycophant, and indulged Chen Hua’s every whim.

Who wouldn’t want to stride confidently through life, fearless and uninhibited? But that kind of freedom requires capital. Why does everyone envy the rich second generation? Because their parents’ wealth gives them a head start, with access to resources most could never dream of.

Fixing his gaze on the skill tree, Qin Jing was disappointed to find that, after a brief glow, the word “Sell” was simply followed by “Mastery.” Sell—Mastery.

And that was it. Nothing felt different. The world around him seemed unchanged.

“What’s going on?” Qin Jing said to himself, crestfallen.

Upgrading a skill cost 100 G-points, and given the daily drain, he’d had to wait until now to meet the requirements. It seemed extravagant, but in his experience, the mirror’s prices had always been scrupulously fair—what you gave was what you got. For 100 G-points, he was certain the upgrade would bring a qualitative leap.

But now, the rule he’d always trusted seemed to have failed him.

After a few minutes, nothing happened—his skill simply read “Sell—Mastery.” He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and forced a wry smile. “Looks like Chen Hua really got under my skin today. I’ve managed to keep my cool for a whole year—why can’t I wait a little longer? Having GDP may not make me a ‘superman’ like in those web novels, but it’s still better than being an ordinary man.”

As that thought crossed his mind, the shadowy skill tree faded away and his reflection returned to normal—except now, something caught his eye.

He was still holding the Chanel handbag he’d bought from Chen Hua. Previously, the mirror had displayed its price, usage, and remaining value. Now, beneath all that information, there was a new line:

Searching for a potential buyer…