Chapter 19 | The First Mistake Under Low Authority

The wind was light that day.

The yard was eerily quiet; even the weeds in the corner barely stirred.

But Li Xing had felt uneasy since early morning.

Not physically.

It was his judgment.

Since activating the low-privilege mode, he had become accustomed to making decisions based on "feelings."

Most of the time, they were accurate.

But today, that accuracy was tinged with an inexplicable bias.

Like a weight that wasn't properly balanced.

In the morning, a middle-aged man pushed a bicycle into the yard.

The bicycle wasn't old, and it was well-maintained, but riding it felt "a little awkward."

"Can you take a look and tell me what's wrong?"

Li Xing nodded and squatted down.

The moment his hand touched the handlebars, the low-privilege space was gently activated.

Heartbeat, breathing, wrist status—everything was normal.

There were no obvious overload warnings.

He checked based on his senses.

The brakes rebounded normally, and the chain tension was just right.

When his fingers touched the front wheel axle, he sensed a slight, almost imperceptible, asymmetry.

Very faint.

Almost negligible.

“Slight axle wear.”

That was his assessment.

He began adjusting, disassembling, aligning, and reassembling—all in one smooth motion.

The whole process was remarkably smooth.

Even smoother than before.

The man test-rode it, nodded, and said, “Great, much smoother.”

He paid and left.

Everything seemed perfect.

But it was precisely that feeling of “too smooth” that left Li Xing uneasy.

At noon, he sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), repeatedly reviewing his inspection.

That slight asymmetry was too faint.

Too faint to seem like an axle problem.

But he had already fixed it.

In the late afternoon, as he was closing up shop, the courtyard gate opened again.

It was the same man from that morning.

This time, his expression was grim.

“The bike you fixed for me, I was riding it halfway when the front wheel suddenly wobbled, I almost fell.”

Li Xing’s heart skipped a beat.

“Where did it wobble?”

“The axle! Didn’t you say it was fixed?”

Li Xing immediately went to check.

Pushing the bike into the yard, he touched the front wheel and froze.

It wasn’t the axle.

It was at the frame joint, there was a very fine crack.

It wasn’t obvious.

In a static state, it was almost imperceptible.

But under stress, the deviation would be magnified.

His low-level perception did detect the “inconsistency.”

But he misinterpreted the source.

This was a misjudgment.

The man’s tone had turned harsh: “If this had really fallen, could you afford to pay for it?”

Li Xing’s throat tightened.

He knew the other man was telling the truth.

This wasn’t a small problem.

“I’ll take responsibility.”

He spoke softly, but steadily.

He didn’t argue.

Because it was his fault.

He immediately disassembled the car completely and re-inspected it.

This time, he wasn’t in a hurry.

He didn’t rely on his senses, nor on intuition.

He examined it inch by inch.

The crack was finally exposed.

There was only one solution—reinforcement, or replacement.

Materials cost money.

Time cost money too.

Li Xing did the math.

He wouldn’t just not make a profit on this job; he’d have to pay out of pocket.

The man stood aside, his tone softening, but still cold: “In the future, don’t make hasty judgments.”

These words were harsher than an insult.

After the man left, the yard was empty.

Li Xing sat on the ground, his fingers covered in grease, but he didn’t move.

The low-privilege space offered no warning.

No comfort.

No remedy.

It simply existed coldly.

At this moment, Li Xing finally understood completely:

Perception is not the answer.

Amplified feelings, if misinterpreted,

can come at a higher price than when you have no ability.

Because you become more confident.

And confidence is most likely to lead to ruin.

That night, he reopened his planning notebook.

Under "Perception Assistance," he added a line:

—Any conclusion must be verified by reality.

After writing it, he stared at that line for a long time.

Then he slowly closed the notebook.

He felt no anger.

No regret.

Only a chillingly clear realization:

The higher the level of ability, the higher the cost of mistakes.

And he had just paid his first tuition fee.