Chapter 17: Where There Are People, There Is a World

This was naturally no challenge for me, as I had already done plenty of homework during this period. I could speak about the territories controlled by the Henan faction, the Sichuan group, and even the Hubei folks, down to the number of factories in the industrial area, the number of restaurants in the village, and roughly how many people lived there.

After listening, Xiaowen said, “Not bad. It’s clear you’ve done your research. Since Uncle Wang Yong trusts you, let me help you refine your understanding. Strictly speaking, there are four types of people here: locals, out-of-town investors, social hangers-on, and workers. These four groups form the entire social landscape around Kumquat Village. Can you untangle the relationships among these four?”

I furrowed my brow. The “social landscape” of Kumquat Village? The term was apt. Wherever there are people, there’s a social undercurrent. The relationships were complicated: locals needed outside investors who could make money by selling land; workers earned through factories, which profited from their labor; locals also conducted business and rented housing to workers; while the social hangers-on acted like parasites, sucking resources at every level.

When I finished, Xiaowen nodded and casually pulled a book from the shelf, handing it to me. I glanced at the cover—it read Contemporary Economics.

“Sociology is just economics. Don’t think it’s irrelevant to you. Whether you’re venturing into the rough lower echelons or pursuing any trade, to rise above, you must understand society’s structure and economic fundamentals—leveraging momentum and aligning with the times,” Xiaowen said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Are you working as a security guard at Awang Restaurant?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Have you told Uncle Yong? What did he say?” she continued.

“He told me to work hard and said I should ‘walk out’ from Awang Restaurant. He said it’s not easy to get out of there,” I said.

“How much do you know about Awang Restaurant?” she asked.

“There are twenty-one waiters, two security guards, nine kitchen staff. The owner is Zheng Tianwang, who has two wives—the first wife keeps a low profile; the second wife is the sister of the lobby manager Caige, whose real name is Xu Facai, a Sichuan native. The hotel has a lobby on the first floor, private rooms on the second, and a clubhouse on the third,” I recited.

“The third floor is a casino—and the biggest one in all of Kumquat Village. The gamblers there are local nouveau riche and out-of-town investors. The business on the first and second floors is just a cover; the casino upstairs is where the real money is made daily. When Uncle Yong says to work hard and get out, he means for you to get into that third floor. Work hard, and if you really make it there, you might even earn the right to drink Uncle Yong’s treasured Huadiao wine. ‘Raw tea, aged wine’—that’s your line to say,” she said.

The third floor is a casino? Why did I not know? I’d never heard anyone mention it. My cousin was the star waiter at Awang’s! And I was the golden security guard!

“Believe it or not, I’ve shown you the path. How you walk it is up to you,” Xiaowen said lazily.

“I should gather some intel first,” I said, scratching my head.

She smiled softly. “Is the information I gave you worth lending me your book?”

“Not quite,” I said.

“What else do you want?” she asked.

“How about pledging myself to you? That’s my Bible,” I said.

“If you’re not afraid of being chopped up and fed to the dogs tomorrow, that’s possible,” she said.

“To die beneath peonies is still to be elegant in death,” I stood up.

At my bold words, she instinctively shrank a little but wore a look of defiance, even casting a challenging glance at me. I took a few steps forward but eventually backed off.

Suddenly, she laughed—loud, unrestrained, a laugh that sparkled in her eyes.

“Don’t try to provoke me!” I warned.

She pointed at me. “You’re useless even when given the chance.”

I put my hand on my belt. “Fine.”

As I tugged at my belt, she kept staring at me provocatively.

I bet she would stop me.

She seemed to be betting that I wouldn’t dare.

I was about to pull my pants down when—

Her brow furrowed slightly, and a hand shot out, grabbing the hand pulling at my pants.

At that moment, I felt the strength in her grip; my wrist ached. I tried to pull free but couldn’t.

Just as I wondered where this girl got such strength, she suddenly stood up. Her hand still firmly grasped my wrist, while her other hand pressed against my neck.

A blade.

It must have been a razor blade.

It was pressed right against my Adam’s apple.

Every hair on my body stood on end.

If she exerted the slightest pressure, my throat would be cut.

I looked down at her. She sneered coldly, then gently pushed me. I felt as if struck by a powerful force, bouncing off the wall and falling onto the sofa.

She casually sat in a chair, holding a common razor blade between her right index and middle fingers, idly playing with it.

“Scared now?” she asked.

That was the first time I’d seen real skill.

I had no doubt that if she wanted, I’d be dead by now.

I frowned and cupped my fists. “May I ask what faction you belong to? What backing do you have?”

I asked this because in the old martial underworld, all martial arts circles were called factions, roughly divided into “open” and “secret” factions. Those who learned martial arts and became guards, bodyguards, or street performers belonged to open factions, with subcategories like spear, hook, point, or stab techniques. But those who used martial arts for theft, robbery, murder, or arson were part of secret factions.

My question was a customary greeting among faction members.

If she were from a faction, she should reply: “I belong to the ancestor’s faction, relying on friendship and loyalty as solid as a mountain of gold.”

Unexpectedly, Xiaowen waved her hand. “Don’t bother telling me these nonsense things—I don’t understand. I’ve never been part of the underworld, and no one taught me these things. Let me ask you: There’s a girl who grew up in an orphanage, later adopted by an old lady who took in seven similar girls. The old lady made them all call her ‘Mama,’ supported their schooling, and taught them some martial arts. When the girls grew up, she blindfolded them and led them to a large house, where the seven girls were stripped and lined up for selection. In your understanding, what kind of sect would that belong to?”

“Hm?” I was stunned.

“Hm?” she asked back.

I scratched my head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. In ancient times, male chauvinism was severe. The underworld was mostly men trying to make a living. My book is about the low-level underworld, where women mostly did unsavory things. There’s a saying: ‘Men rob, women prostitute.’ Do you understand? Wait—are you saying the girl you described is yourself?”