Jiang Luo had just taken a bite of his steamed bun when he arrived at the Jing’an brokerage the next morning. The place was packed. The counters were overflowing with people, the entrance was jammed, and the giant screen in the lobby was nothing but a sea of red—so red it looked like it might catch fire. Every stock was skyrocketing.
The investors inside were practically vibrating with excitement. No matter how much they’d bought or how much money they’d put in, with numbers like these, everyone was making a killing.
The local aunties and uncles chatting in groups were all beaming from ear to ear.
Not only had they thrown in all their own savings, borrowed wherever they could, and shoved every spare cent into the market—they’d also dragged their relatives and friends along. Everyone was making money.
The whole market—and everyone in it—had gone completely crazy today.
The counters were jam-packed with people clutching trade slips, squeezing forward to place orders, shoulder to shoulder without a sliver of space left.
Some of them recognized Jiang Luo—knew he was the kid who’d taken ten thousand from that guy to make a bet. When they saw him, they laughed and greeted him:
“Hey kid, you’re rich now! With this surge, you’re about to become a millionaire!”
Jiang Luo stayed calm. With no seats left, he simply stood there with his arms crossed, staring at the numbers on the screen. His expression was steady, composed—yet beneath that, a faint trace of arrogance and ambition simmered.
Before the market closed and the brokerage shut its doors, he finally filled out a sell order form, shoved his way through the crowd at the counter, and sold all his shares.
—
That night, at the Hilton in Jing’an, someone knocked on the door. Huo Zongzhuo opened it.
A hotel manager stood outside, respectfully offering him a plastic bag.
“Good evening, Mr. Huo. Someone dropped this off at the front desk just now and asked us to pass it to you.”
Huo took the bag. “Did he say what it is? Or who it’s from?”
“No, sir. He only said your name. Said he knew you were staying here. That’s all.”
“Thank you.”
The bag had a bit of weight to it. Huo didn’t know what to expect.
Back inside, he opened it—and the first thing he saw was a neatly folded suit.
It was his.
The one he had draped over Jiang Luo weeks ago when he’d found the boy sleeping alone on a bench along the Bund. He thought Jiang Luo never knew. Turns out, he knew all along.
He lifted the suit out. Beneath it was a folded pocket square—and an entire stack of newspaper-wrapped bundles.
Money.
No wonder the bag was so heavy.
He unwrapped the pocket square first; the faint scent of detergent and sunshine still clung to it.
Then he picked up the newspaper bundles. The weight in his palm told him instantly—this wasn’t ten thousand.
He unwrapped them. One stack of crisp hundred-yuan bills after another.
Huo counted. In total: 120,000 in full stacks, and another thousand or two in loose bills.
Ten thousand was the original capital. Whatever profit the boy made, they’d agreed to split down the middle.
But Jiang Luo had earned forty thousand in just three days? Impossible.
Huo thought back to the recent stock movements and did a quick mental calculation.
No way.
Which meant…
Jiang Luo had given him all the profits.
Huo froze for a second, genuinely stunned.
A thought struck him. He reached into the suit pockets—found the few hundred yuan he’d deliberately left there—and also a folded slip of paper.
A few words:
Thanks.
Till we meet again.
—
The next morning, Huo went to the brokerage. The place was even more crowded than yesterday.
He scanned the entire room, but Jiang Luo was nowhere to be found.
He did, however, spot the bespectacled guy. The man waved enthusiastically and squeezed his way over.
“That kid paid you back, right?”
“Must’ve been a lot huh? You gave him ten thousand! Stocks are going crazy lately!”
Huo didn’t smile. “Where is he?”
“Oh, he left. I asked him too—he said he gave me the money to pass to you, then he was heading off. Said he won’t be coming back anytime soon. Got other things to do, apparently.”
—
Jiang Luo had just reached Oriental No. 1 when a few guys—Yu-ge and the others—immediately surrounded him, saying they needed to “talk.”
Zhu Yu slung an arm around Jiang Luo’s shoulders, full of swagger. “Come on, let’s chat.”
He dragged Jiang Luo into a narrow alley outside the club. Once there, Zhu Yu demanded that Jiang Luo hand over all the money stuffed inside his jacket.
“C’mon, we’ve treated you pretty damn well, haven’t we?” he said with a crooked grin. “We take you smoking, drinking, messing around, tearing through the Bund on motorbikes at midnight.”
“And you? You get some cash and suddenly you’re hiding it from us?”
He held out a hand like he already knew Jiang Luo was carrying money.
“Hand it over.”
When Jiang Luo didn’t move, Zhu Yu narrowed his eyes.
“What, you want us to beat it out of you? Gonna drink the hard liquor instead of the toast?”
“You really need us to rough you up before you’ll fork it over?”
Jiang Luo looked at him expressionlessly. Then he unzipped his jacket, took out the newspaper-wrapped bundle, and passed it over.
Zhu Yu snatched it without hesitation.
“That’s better.”
He slapped Jiang Luo’s shoulder. “Relax. We’ll still treat you good. You’ll eat and drink well with us. Benefits won’t be lacking.”
He jerked his chin toward the club. “Looking for Brother Hua? Go on. He’s in the office.”
His buddies behind him all smirked, waiting to enjoy the show.
Jiang Luo gave them a mild glance, said nothing, and walked back into Oriental No. 1 to find Lu Fuhua.
Zhu Yu jogged after him again, this time slinging an arm around him once more. “What’d you do? Offend the boss?”
That day when Jiang Luo came to borrow money, Zhu Yu had been called in right after he left. Lu Fuhua had instructed him to wait about a week—then when Jiang Luo came back with the money, they were to intercept him and take it.
So Zhu Yu followed the plan—but he still didn’t know why.
Jiang Luo tilted his mouth, unhurried, unfazed.
“You’re asking me? You already took my money. Think I’m still in the mood to explain anything to you?”
“Hey, hey.” Zhu Yu tightened his hand on Jiang Luo’s shoulder. “We still gotta mix together, you know. We’re gonna see each other all the time. It’s just a bit of cash—don’t be mad.”
Jiang Luo gave a soft, indifferent laugh.
“Mad? What’s there to be mad about?”
When they entered the office, Zhu Yu tossed the newspaper bundle toward Lu Fuhua right in front of Jiang Luo—didn’t even bother pretending.
Lu Fuhua caught it easily and smiled at Jiang Luo.
“Xiao Jiang, here to repay me, huh?”
“Oh? Out of money now? Well, we can just stick to the terms we agreed on earlier.”
He exchanged a look with Zhu Yu—a look dripping with smugness.
Jiang Luo snorted quietly. “Bro, this isn’t what we agreed on. Isn’t this a bit much?”
“‘A bit much?’”
Lu Fuhua weighed the bundle in his hand, still smiling. “You’re only realizing that now? Too late.”
“You didn’t dare borrow earlier—thought you were bold enough back then. How’d you think it was gonna end?”
Zhu Yu laughed along. He didn’t even care about the reason anymore—watching someone get screwed was entertainment enough.
But that laughter didn’t last long.
Because Jiang Luo slowly slipped both hands into the pockets of his pants, pulled out a thick stack of cash from the left pocket, then another from the right, stepped forward, and dumped them onto Lu Fuhua’s desk.
All while saying calmly,
“One thousand interest on ten thousand. I owe you eleven. Paid in full.”
Lu Fuhua stared—real cash this time.
He quickly tore open the newspaper bundle he’d been holding.
Inside was not cash at all.
It was spirit money.
Funeral paper bills.
His face immediately darkened. He hurled the stack at Zhu Yu.
“Are you blind?!”
Zhu Yu’s expression also collapsed. “I—”
He pointed at Jiang Luo. “You little—”
He moved to lunge at him, but Lu Fuhua barked at him to stop and threw something else at him.
“Get out! Useless piece of trash!”
Grinding his teeth, Zhu Yu pointed at Jiang Luo again before storming out.
Once the door shut, Lu Fuhua’s expression flipped instantly. He smiled again, reaching for the stack of real cash.
“Look at this mess… Anyway—”
Jiang Luo pressed a hand down onto his wrist, stopping him. His tone was sharp and decisive:
“The IOU.”
Lu Fuhua tried coaxing him. “At least let me count the money first, huh?”
“The IOU.”
“…Fine, fine.”
He pulled open a drawer, took out the slip Jiang Luo had signed days ago, and tossed it on the desk.
Jiang Luo picked it up, unfolded it, glanced at it. It was indeed the same IOU he’d written.
“See? I didn’t scam you.”