Miss Witch Doesn’t Want to Become a Songstress

Under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, rows of prisoners in uniforms worked at an assembly line, assembling intricate components or packing finished goods into boxes.

This scene unfolded in the industrial zone beneath Arpeggio City—a facility that served both as a factory and a prison housing recent detainees.

After a month of thorough investigations and interrogations, the Northern Federation’s Seventh District government had untangled much of the city’s underworld, gradually lifting blockades and processing those involved in the previous incidents.

“Bulu!”

A guard in a gray-blue uniform entered the underground workshop, holding a personal terminal displaying information.

“Here!”

A towering man with a bear-like physique stood up from the crowd, instantly drawing attention.

“Follow me.”

The guard motioned, leading Bulu out of the room and into a heavily monitored conversation chamber.

“Sit down. Have some water.”

The guard’s tone was softer than usual, signaling a shift in his demeanor.

“Yes, sir.” Bulu obediently opened a bottle of water from the table and drank it.

Watching him comply so readily, the guard nodded approvingly. Though many of the underground inmates were unruly and defiant, there were exceptions.

“You’ve been performing well in prison. Your conduct has been commendable, and given that your offenses were relatively minor—” He paused for effect.

“You’re being released. As of tomorrow, you’ll be a free man. For the next five years, follow the law and avoid trouble, and you’ll be able to live as an ordinary citizen of the Federation.”

“Thank you, sir!” Bulu’s expression lit up with restrained excitement, his gratitude sincere but awkwardly expressed.

“That’s all. Good luck out there.” The guard patted his shoulder before leaving.

…

Two days later, the gates of the sprawling underground prison slowly opened. A convoy of armored transport vehicles rolled out, followed by a group of released inmates, Bulu among them.

Carrying a large bundle of his belongings—clothes and bedding he had been allowed to take—Bulu stepped into the outside world.

“This is 500 Federation credits, your modest earnings from prison labor. Use it wisely and find a job quickly to stabilize your life.”

Touching the small card containing the credits, Bulu recalled the guard’s parting advice with a mix of gratitude and determination.

Though 500 credits wasn’t much, it was enough to scrape by for a week if spent carefully. Securing a job was his top priority. With the dissolution of the underground gangs and his old contacts scattered, he was on his own.

In the days of old, his size might have ensured a living through manual labor, but in this era of advanced technology, physical work was increasingly automated. Intelligence and adaptability mattered most now, making his prospects uncertain.

Regardless, he was free at last.

Standing outside the gates, Bulu glanced back at the fortress-like prison, its steel structure resembling a slumbering beast under the amber glow of streetlights.

…

Three days later, in Market 14 on the 45th underground level of Arpeggio City, Bulu found his first job: unloading and transporting goods in a wholesale market.

The pay was 2,400 Federation credits per month, with meals and accommodation included.

While T6-grade AI machines handled the bulk of standardized and encoded goods, scattered and irregular items were still cheaper to manage with manual labor.

To combat rising unemployment, the Federation had significantly increased taxes on AI chips. A staggering 90%-95% of the chips’ cost consisted of taxes, with additional usage taxes levied over time.

“Hey, big guy! Another batch of goods just arrived. Follow me!”

In a dimly lit corner of the warehouse, Bulu wiped sweat from his soaked tank top. He had just finished unloading one batch and was taking a rare moment to rest.

“Got it.” His deep voice echoed as he stood and followed his lean, tall supervisor.

The loading area was bustling with activity. Trucks of various sizes parked at designated bays, while drivers lounged nearby, smoking as they waited.

“You’re finally here, Old Gu! I’ve been waiting forever!” one burly driver grumbled, his voice rough and impatient.

“Well, I’m here now.” The supervisor greeted him casually before inspecting the truck’s cargo.

“How many boxes in total?”

“31 boxes of lychees, 42 boxes of watermelons, 12 boxes of strawberries, and 5 boxes of blueberries… Damn, hauling watermelons is such a loss,” the driver complained while reading from his terminal.

Despite watermelons selling well, their low price meant slim profit margins.

“Better to have work than none at all,” the supervisor retorted while verifying the shipment numbers, then signaled Bulu to start unloading.

The fruits had been freshly harvested from nearby districts that morning. Once unloaded and distributed, they would be on supermarket shelves by 4 PM—a streamlined process that prioritized speed over complex coding for perishable goods.

“Bulu, carefully unload these one by one. Don’t drop anything.”

“Understood.”

Bulu got to work, efficiently moving the boxes onto a conveyor belt while the supervisor and driver monitored the process.

“Is he new?” the driver asked, watching Bulu work diligently.

“Yeah, just got out of prison,” the supervisor replied, offering the driver a cigarette.

“Not bad—he’s a hard worker,” the driver commented, lighting up.

After about 20 minutes, the cargo was unloaded. The supervisor and driver inspected the boxes, opening a few for quality checks.

The lychees and most of the other fruits passed inspection, but two boxes of watermelons were found to have cracked open.

“This…” The driver ruffled his hair, looking irritated.

“I drove carefully the whole way. These watermelons are just like that—barely touch them, and they crack open. Look, they’re still fresh, aren’t they?”

“What good does that do me? Customers won’t accept damaged goods—they all want the perfect ones,” the supervisor replied, waving his hand dismissively.

“Damn it…” the driver cursed a few more times, grumbling about never hauling watermelons again. Then, he pulled out his personal terminal and transferred a small sum to the supervisor.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you off this time.”

Pocketing the payment, the supervisor picked up a nearby water bottle and climbed into the cab of his truck, preparing to leave.

“Supervisor?” Watching the driver leave, Bulu asked tentatively.

“Don’t worry about it, let him go.”

As a low-level warehouse supervisor, he’d seen this kind of situation countless times and had various ways to handle it.

“Take these goods and distribute them to the designated shelves according to their order numbers. In about an hour, the transport trucks from the supermarkets will come to pick them up. As for the two damaged boxes, just leave them there for now; I’ll deal with them later.” After giving instructions, the supervisor began contacting a supermarket manager he was familiar with via his personal terminal.

…

“Yes, that’s right. This batch is half price—damaged but still decent. You can use them for fruit platters or something. The official billing will remain the same; I’ll reimburse you separately for this portion. … Alright, just let the delivery driver know when the time comes. Don’t start arguing about mismatched goods again.”

After ending the call, he put down his terminal, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Another little side deal today—this extra income put him in a good mood. Even the sight of Bulu, sweating profusely as he worked, became more tolerable.

“Keep it up, Bulu. I’ll give you half a watermelon after your shift to cool off.”

“Understood,” Bulu replied, panting.

Time passed slowly, and Bulu gradually settled into his job at the wholesale market. Though the pay was meager, it provided him with a small sense of stability. Occasionally, he could enjoy damaged fruits—premium T5-grade quality that, despite their flaws, were far better than the half-rotten scraps he used to scavenge from the garbage heaps.

Thus, July rolled around, and Bulu finally got a rare day off.

With an old second-hand personal terminal he’d bought for just over 300 federation credits, Bulu headed to the area where Qiao Long had grown up.

After asking around for a while, he learned that Qiao Long hadn’t returned and that there was no news of him. Scratching his not-so-bright head, Bulu decided to visit the cemetery Qiao Long had once mentioned.

The black tombstone looked the same as always. On the grave of Qiao Long’s master lay only a few dried twigs weighed down by stones, remnants of a bouquet placed there long ago.

“Boss hasn’t come back? Or has he gone somewhere?” Bulu murmured. Holding a bouquet he’d bought on the way, he placed it gently in front of the tombstone.

After pondering for a while and finding no answers, he tucked a small card with his contact information under a stone, hoping someone might reach out in the future.

Returning to Warehouse 14, Bulu thought his monotonous life might continue indefinitely until, perhaps, a few years later, he might hear some scattered news. But then, a call from an unfamiliar number made him stand up abruptly.

“Hark? Is it really you?” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement. The caller was none other than Hark, his old partner who had always been by his side when they worked under Qiao Long.

The next day, Bulu met his long-lost friend. Hark wore a baseball cap and casual hip-hop-style clothes, with green paint smeared across his face.

Hands in his pockets, Hark stepped into the warehouse and stopped, flashing a mischievous grin at Bulu.

“I’m alive, and that’s great. Seeing you alive too? Even better!” With that, he let out a loud whoop, ran forward, and leaped onto Bulu, embracing him tightly.

After a while, the two of them sat in a corner of the warehouse, catching up on each other’s lives.

“I found a hidden route early on and sneaked back to the lower residential district in Arpeggio City. I hid near a garbage dump for a week before quietly moving elsewhere. Once the dust settled, I was safe,” Hark explained. Slim and clever, he had no trouble blending in with the crowd—unlike the conspicuous Bru.

“Hark, you’re amazing,” Bru praised, then began asking about other matters.

“I don’t know where the boss is, but I’m sure he’s alive. A guy like him won’t go down so easily,” Hark assured him.

“Are you working here now?” Hark glanced around.

“Yes, the supervisor’s decent.”

“Yeah, right. He just likes how cheap and useful you are,” Hark said, rolling his eyes.

“I’ve been hanging out with some night roamers recently, life’s not bad. Why don’t you join me? I can help you get a job as a bouncer at a nightclub. It’d be much easier for someone like you.”

“No, Hark.” Bulu shook his head. He’d resolved in prison to steer clear of such lines of work.

“Uh…” Hark scratched his head, momentarily stumped by the big guy’s stubbornness. After all, he wasn’t Qiao Long—he couldn’t make Bulu do whatever he said.

“Alright, let’s drop that for now. Actually, there’s a lead on the matter the boss entrusted to us. If you’re free, we need to find that young lady.”

“You mean helping her search for someone?”

“Exactly. In the night roamer community, I managed to dig up some info. Apparently, when residents were being relocated back then, her parents’ details were recorded in the process.”

“Isn’t that information already in the archives? Why do we need to tell her?” Bru didn’t understand.

“No, no, no. The archives only contain the official records, but there are things the young lady doesn’t know,” Hark explained, shaking his head.

“When residents were being settled, the local community committees conducted interviews and inquiries to understand their situation. These weren’t formal procedures—very casual, but they often revealed interesting details.”

“For example, her parents left a deep impression on the interviewers back then. I learned this while treating one of them to a meal—it cost me a few hundred federation credits,” Hark said with a smug grin.

“You can find out stuff like that?” Bulu had thought it would take at least half a year to piece together some scraps of information. He hadn’t expected Hark to produce results so quickly.

“I’ve only found out about her parents’ past. As for her father’s whereabouts, I’m still in the dark. What’s suspicious is how cleanly he disappeared—it makes me think he had professional help.”

“Normally, when someone’s deeply in debt and legitimate means fail, they’re forced to resort to shady methods—loan sharks, illegal labor, underground boxing, or racing.”

“But her father left no trace of such activities. It seems like he suddenly came into some money, paid off his debts, and vanished without a word. The whole process was too smooth—none of the gray market operators in Arpeggio City had any dealings with him.”

“Considering her mother’s background, though, a lot of things start to make sense.”

“Her mother’s background?”

“According to an old-timer, this was over twenty years ago. The young lady’s mother was in her prime—her voice and demeanor were far from ordinary. The old guy didn’t realize it at the time, but after traveling to other regions, he figured out that the couple likely came from Northern 2nd District.”

“That kind of bearing is hard to describe, but anyone who’s been there would understand. At least, that’s what he told me,” Hark explained, leaning back on a cushion in the corner.

The two chatted until a delivery truck pulled into the warehouse. With that, Bulu returned to his work.