Jiang Luo’s promise didn’t sway him one bit. Not even close—his ass was worth far more than that.
He didn’t answer right away because his mind was busy working. Lu Fuhua’s uncle, Xue Zhizhong… what kind of “friend” did he have that needed this level of accomodation?
Xue Zhizhong was a well-known figure in Haishi, wealthy and connected.
For someone like him to personally pull strings… just who was this man?
Jiang Luo stood, slid the unlit cigarette from his lips, and spoke cleanly, “Since you’re not lending me the money, I’ll figure out something else.”
“You’re busy, Brother Hua. I’ll head out.”
“Hey—hey, don’t rush off.”
Lu Fuhua stopped him. “How about this…”
He thought for a moment. “I’ll give you three thousand. You write me an IOU. In ten days, you pay me back four thousand. Straight loan—if you return it, we’re square. If you can’t…”
“Then you go keep my uncle’s friend company. How’s that?”
No matter how he phrased it, it all circled back to the same thing—Lu Fuhua wanted his ass.
Jiang Luo saw straight through him. But this offer…
Jiang Luo slowly sat back down. “Brother Hua, if I take the money, you’re not gonna just tie me up and deliver me, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
Lu Fuhua snorted. “The country’s cracking down on fake and shoddy goods—news is blaring about it every day. You think I’d dare talk nonsense?”
“Fake goods are illegal. Fake promises are the same. If I really wanted to kidnap you, would I be sitting here discussing terms? I’d just grab you. What’s there to talk about?”
He muttered, “I’m not some damn gangster.”
“Really—not lying to you.”
Saying that, he pulled open the desk drawer. “I lend you the money, you write the IOU. You pay it back—we’re done. You can’t—then you go keep my uncle’s friend entertained.”
“Clear enough?”
Most people would’ve backed off right there—too much risk, too little certainty.
But Jiang Luo was too sure of himself. In his vocabulary, the word “failure” simply did not exist.
Back in his previous life, he’d carved a path through the world of business by sheer nerve.
Big courage, big money.
Small courage, eat cheap pickles.
And Jiang Luo hated pickles more than anything.
He loved money—especially making it.
So even knowing Lu Fuhua was digging a pit, waiting for him to fall in and be forced to sell his ass, Jiang Luo stepped right in without blinking.
Because he knew—believed—he could pay it back.
One hundred percent. No margin for “what if.”
So Lu Fuhua took out blank paper and cash. Jiang Luo reached for the paper, grabbed a pen, and began writing the IOU.
While he worked, Lu Fuhua sat back counting out bills—three thousand.
Jiang Luo didn’t even look up as he wrote, just said calmly, “Brother, I want ten thousand.”
Lu Fuhua froze mid-count.
He looked up. “You little brat—trying to shake me down?”
Jiang Luo glanced at him. “If I can’t pay it back, ten thousand’s worth a few nights. Your uncle won’t lose out.”
The cash in that drawer didn’t belong to Lu Fuhua—it was the club’s money.
Which meant it was Xue Zhizhong’s money.
Lu Fuhua actually thought about it—considering whether Jiang Luo’s ass was worth ten thousand.
Ten thousand! That was ten thousand!
He hesitated. “Hold on,” he said, picking up the desk phone and calling Xue Zhizhong’s pager.
Not long after, the landline rang. Lu Fuhua answered and—right in front of Jiang Luo—explained the entire “trap deal.”
No one knew what Xue Zhizhong said, but Lu Fuhua kept responding with a few drawn-out “yeah, yeah, okay.”
When he hung up, he leaned back and restarted the count. “Alright. Ten thousand it is.”
“My uncle says—this price is for his friend. Not for your ass.”
Jiang Luo didn’t react. Money was money.
Not long later, with a thick envelope tucked inside his jacket, Jiang Luo walked out of the office with ten thousand yuan.
He’d barely stepped out before Lu Fuhua called over “Brother Yu,” who’d been sitting outside. Yu left soon after.
Lu Fuhua leaned back, cigarette between his lips, thinking: No wonder my uncle makes real money.
Damn heartless, that one.
Outside, Jiang Luo flagged down a “mian-di”—one of those tiny van-taxis—and headed straight to the Jing’an brokerage.
He had cash now. Why walk?
Inside, the small hall was packed. The trading counter was directly across from the entrance, chairs were filled, screens hung overhead flashing red and green. People crowded the counter with their order slips.
The Shanghai Composite still sat at a hundred points.
The screen listed a few stocks—Shenhua Holdings, Dian Zhenkong, Feile, Yanzhong Industries—the future “Eight Old Stocks.”
Jiang Luo didn’t hesitate. He lined up for an order slip.
After filling it out, he squeezed with the rest toward the counter.
An auntie scolded him, “Hey! Where’d you come from? You queue or not?!”
He shot back in local dialect, “Queue what? Where? You squeeze yours, I squeeze mine.”
Like everyone else, he shoved his order slip forward whenever there was an opening.
By the time he finally pushed through and got his trade done, he couldn’t even remember how many times his shoes had been stepped on.
He shook off the dust, found a corner seat just as an old man vacated it, and sat to stare at the screen.
The hall buzzed—traders arguing, gossiping, predicting rises and crashes. Jiang Luo sat quietly, the youngest face in the entire room.
At some point, a bespectacled man around thirty sat down beside him.
Seeing how young Jiang Luo looked, he asked in dialect, “How old are you?”
“Thirty,” Jiang Luo said lazily, eyes still on the board.
The man blinked. “Scared me—I thought you were a teenager buying stocks.”
He leaned closer. “What’d you buy?”
“Dian Zhenkong.”
“I bought that too,” the man said proudly. “And Yanzhong. Yanzhong dipped yesterday—good time to top up. Definitely going up.”
“How much Dian Zhenkong did you buy?”
“A round ten thousand,” Jiang Luo said lightly.
The man startled. “Ten thousand shares?!”
“Ten thousand yuan.”
“Oh—god, you scared me again. Ten thousand shares is two hundred grand. You’re that rich at your age?”
Jiang Luo snorted, “How much did you buy?”
“Around ten thousand shares.”
“So you’re the one rich at your age.”
The man laughed. “Not the same—I’ve been trading forever. Sold my house, my wife divorced me—she ran off.”
Jiang Luo could believe it. In this era, there were stable workers like Zhang Xiangping who earned a few hundred a month… and there were the radicals like this guy, selling their houses to gamble in the market.
Jiang Luo asked, unhurried, “Been in the market that long—made much?”
“Not much, not much, a few ten-thousand.”
A “few ten-thousand.” Not much, he said. When a normal worker made two or three thousand a year. In small cities or rural places, maybe eight hundred.
The man then said, “You hear? The Pudong Development Office hung its sign a few days ago. Pudong’s gonna blow up in the future.”
A reborn man naturally knew that.
Jiang Luo said, “Didn’t you say you don’t have a house? Go buy one. Wait for relocation. You’ll make a killing.”
The man stared, stunned—then burst into a bright grin. “A man of vision!”
“I’ve already been looking.”
“Let’s exchange numbers,” he said. “Good to have a friend. We can share intel, talk strategy.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
He didn’t. Neither did the people he lived with.
Landlines weren’t common yet.
The man blinked, but recovered quickly. “Then you remember mine. You call me.”
He gave the number. Jiang Luo memorized it instantly.
Just then the man yelled, “Dian Zhenkong’s rising! Again! Haha—told you it’ll climb!”
Jiang Luo lounged back, arms folded, legs spread, more relaxed here than he ever felt in that so-called home.
He’d decided: once he stepped out today, he wasn’t going back.
From this moment on, he was no one’s adopted son, no one’s biological son.
He was Jiang Luo.
Just Jiang Luo.