Chapter Sixty-Eight: Money Spent Is Money That Counts

The wolfdog's unconsciousness only made his lackeys more helpless; even Lamey was flustered. All he could do was drag the wolfdog into their midst, not daring to utter a single word.

Lamey had long since been engulfed by confusion and fear. In his eyes, even his cousin—usually fearless and brash—had suffered a great loss. How could he possibly summon the courage to seek revenge against Chen Huajiang?

“Let’s go.”

Fortunately, Chen Huajiang had no intention of punishing them further. He simply waved his hand and left with Ermao and the others.

As soon as the matter was settled, the gathered workers departed with laughter. To them, today’s event had been far too easy—much easier than a shift at the factory. They could earn two yuan for a pack of cigarettes just by cycling over; it was almost laughably simple.

On the way out, Chen Huajiang deliberately walked alongside Hao Jianguo, continuing to strengthen their relationship.

“In the future, the factories will inevitably undergo reform. The current situation has become a burden. Factories can’t move their goods, workers don’t get paid, production is inefficient, and there’s too much redundancy. Take the textile mill, for instance. For over a decade, their products haven’t changed—plain socks and shirts in the same patterns for years on end. It’s absurd!”

“Planned economies aren’t necessarily bad, but they’re no longer suitable. Our productive capacity just isn’t up to par. Look at the women working in the textile mill—they make lovely, colorful clothes for themselves, yet the products for the masses are heavy and drab. Why? Because the plan guarantees the sales. Buy it or don’t—if you don’t, you’ve no alternative. But people’s needs are always changing. If you can’t keep up with the times, you’ll be eliminated. Once the market opens up to competition, do you think the textile mill, with its current attitude, is even qualified to compete?”

“No matter what, the market economy will come. The textile mill could be saved, as long as someone with vision keeps pace with the market, streamlines production, and introduces styles the public likes. Turning a profit wouldn’t be hard. But as for your 115th Military Factory, I see no hope. After all, you can’t exactly make artillery barrels that everyone’s eager to buy, can you? You might be bold enough to make and sell them, but who would dare to buy?”

Along the way, Chen Huajiang and Hao Jianguo discussed a great deal—about the current state of the factories, possible future transformations, and the merits and drawbacks of planned versus market economies.

Chen Huajiang’s memories of the future gave him a clarity Hao Jianguo lacked. In this light, Chen Huajiang’s incisive observations resolved many of Hao Jianguo’s doubts, as if a fog had been lifted.

The more they talked, the more they found themselves on the same wavelength. But parting was inevitable. They exchanged contact details and home addresses, and reluctantly said their goodbyes at a street corner.

“Brother Chen, you seem to care quite a bit about that fellow.”

“I’m curious—don’t you resent him? After all, he tricked you out of forty yuan.”

Black Tiger, who hadn’t managed to get a word in earlier, finally caught up with Chen Huajiang after the two had parted. Today’s events had been a shock to him; Chen Huajiang’s method of gathering allies by throwing money around was ruthless and overbearing, upending everything he thought he knew.

In Black Tiger’s world, street bosses rose through years of experience—simply put, by surviving in the underworld until they amassed a loyal following. His own rise had begun with displays of ferocity, earning a reputation, then recruiting underlings, always emphasizing loyalty and grand gestures, gradually earning greater fame.

If someone like Chen Huajiang used money against him, Black Tiger doubted he could withstand it. But that approach had its weakness—it required a lot of cash. Today’s confrontation had only been a negotiation; if it ever came to knives, two yuan would be useless.

“Forty yuan is a small price to pay to win over a talented man, don’t you think?”

Chen Huajiang smiled faintly, unconcerned.

Black Tiger opened his mouth, unsure how to respond. Forty yuan was no small sum—it was two months’ wages for the average worker. If one of his own men dared swindle him out of forty yuan, he’d at least break an arm.

“Brother Chen, you called out so many people today. Haven’t you spent all your money?”

A little disgruntled, Black Tiger changed the subject, trying to regain some ground by taking a jab at Chen Huajiang.

“Money only counts when it’s spent. If you can’t spend it, it’s just numbers.”

“Tiger, I have to say, you really ought to change your way of thinking. I imagine you’ve saved up quite a bit by now—why not invest it? Surely you’re not just sitting at home counting your cash for fun?”

Chen Huajiang grinned, giving him a meaningful look.

“Don’t even think about it. I’d rather save it than throw it away like you do.”

Black Tiger instinctively shook his head and even stepped back warily. At this point, he figured Chen Huajiang must be out of money and was eyeing his own savings.

He wasn’t wrong—this latest show of force had cost Chen Huajiang nearly all he’d earned recently, leaving him with just over three hundred yuan. He was indeed hoping to use Black Tiger’s funds to open another shop.

But since Black Tiger refused, Chen Huajiang didn’t press the matter. In this era, there were countless ways for him to earn more.

Thus, after entering the eastern district, the two parted ways. Chen Huajiang went straight home, where he happened to run into a farmer selling apples at the entrance to the residential compound.

The seller was an old peasant with a kerchief on his head, driving an ox cart piled high with apples.

Three cents a pound—Chen Huajiang bought three pounds and told the old man to keep the change.

He’d always felt sympathy for farmers. Even before his rebirth, agricultural prices had remained low. On one hand, city apartments could cost hundreds of thousands, even millions; on the other, vegetables and fruit were just a few cents or a fraction of a yuan. The contrast was surreal.

“Jiayin, I’m back.”

Opening the door, Chen Huajiang called out as he took off his shoes.

“Hua Jiang.”

“Brother Chen.”

But the voices that greeted him belonged to two guests in the living room—both familiar faces: Lin Guoshan and Fangfang.

“Hua Jiang, you’re back.”

“Sit down, wash your hands, and get ready for dinner.”

Just then, Lin Jiayin’s head peeked out from the kitchen. She spoke quickly before ducking back in, and the sound of stir-frying resumed.

“What brings you here?”

“Well, since you’re here, have a seat. I just bought some apples—help yourselves.”

Chen Huajiang didn’t care much for Lin Guoshan, but as his brother-in-law, he managed a polite smile and headed for the kitchen.

“No need to fuss—we’ll be leaving soon.”

“Brother-in-law, how did the negotiations with the wolfdog go today? What did he say?”

“Come on, don’t keep us in suspense. We’re here to ask about that.”

Lin Guoshan grabbed Chen Huajiang’s arm, pulling him into a chair and staring at him anxiously.

Beside him, Fangfang nodded, her eyes fixed on Chen Huajiang, equally tense.

“It’s settled. They won’t bother you again.”

Chen Huajiang replied coolly.

“That’s good, that’s good.”

Lin Guoshan breathed a sigh of relief and shot Fangfang a meaningful glance, smiling as he declared, “I told you so—those thugs might act tough, but in the end, they only bully the weak. My brother-in-law knows how to handle things. With him negotiating, there was never any doubt.”

“And even if things had gone wrong, I’d have stepped in. I’ve got plenty of connections at the match factory, loads of colleagues. If I called my friends, we’d scare those punks off too.”

He was clearly showing off, trying to impress Fangfang.

Sure enough, Fangfang smiled, tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked at Chen Huajiang, saying, “Thank you, Brother Chen.”