“Find a job yet?”

William had just gotten back from another aimless circuit around town. He looked at his girlfriend, who was standing over the stove cooking dinner, and shook his head with a trace of guilt.

She wasn’t disappointed. She barely reacted at all, as if failing to find a job was the most ordinary thing in the world.

William did his best to avoid talking any more than necessary. He was afraid the woman who slept beside him every night might notice something was off.

Carrying a slightly warped frying pan, his girlfriend walked over to a rickety wooden table with peeling paint. She slid a fried egg onto a plate of minced meat, then sat down.

“Don’t worry about it so much. I’ve still got a little money left. Maybe you’ll find something tomorrow. Eat first.”

William nodded and began working on a dinner that was far from appetizing.

His fork broke through the thin skin that had formed over the egg. Thick yolk spilled across the chunks of meat like a natural sauce, instantly making them look more appealing.

He ate mechanically while his mind wandered elsewhere.

He had transmigrated.

He had no idea what scientific principle, cosmic accident, or other explanation might account for it, but the fact remained: he had crossed into another world.

Before that happened, he had done all kinds of jobs. Courier. Insurance salesman. Waiter. Half-trained cook. A little of everything.

For the first thirty years of his life, he drifted through one insignificant job after another. Then everything changed.

As he liked to describe it later, he had spent thirty years accumulating experience, only to explode onto the scene all at once. One passionate, emotionally charged speech had successfully moved a judge…

Then, after spending his first night in a cramped little room, already imagining the autobiography he would someday write about his legendary life, he drifted off to sleep.

And woke up here.

The moment he arrived, he found himself in this apartment. The original owner of the body happened to be named William as well, but that was where the similarities ended. This was a completely different world, one with no connection whatsoever to his previous life.

Aside from a girlfriend, he had nothing.

At the moment, he resembled the most hopeless kind of social deadbeat. He lived off his girlfriend, ate her food, stayed under her roof. Other than helping her deal with certain frustrations at night, he contributed almost nothing.

He was practically a parasite.

For the past few days, he had been using job hunting as an excuse to wander around and observe the city. The world fascinated him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

It felt like the nineteen-forties, fifties, or maybe sixties. Technology wasn’t especially advanced, yet it was clearly in the middle of an explosive growth phase.

New products appeared before the public almost every day, one after another, too quickly for people to keep up.

As far as William was concerned, money was lying all over the ground in this world.

All he had to do was bend down and pick it up.

His blood stirred. His heartbeat grew stronger.

Deep inside, he felt a powerful certainty.

There had to be a reason he had been brought here.

Maybe whatever force had sent him to this world had done so for a single purpose:

To leave behind a legend that belonged to him.

“Go run the hot water. We’re taking a bath tonight,” his girlfriend said while clearing away the dishes.

William nodded and stood up.

As he headed toward the bathroom, he casually remarked, “We just bathed yesterday…”

Since arriving in this world, he had noticed that he and his girlfriend actually lived according to a fairly strict routine. Their lives weren’t completely chaotic.

The weather wasn’t particularly hot or cold. Unless someone exercised heavily, there wasn’t much reason to sweat, so daily baths were unnecessary.

It wasn’t that people disliked being clean.

The problem was that clean clothes and hot water both cost money.

People with money didn’t think twice about expenses like that. Some even installed boilers in their homes to provide central heating and bought washing machines so they could do laundry whenever they pleased.

For poor people, however, those were luxuries, unnecessary expenses they simply couldn’t afford.

As a result, their lives had to be disciplined.

Carefully accounting for every dollar and adhering to a schedule as strict as a monk’s in order to save every possible cent, that was how they lived.

Not because they loved routine.

Because they were poor.

His girlfriend turned toward the sink, opened the faucet, and began rinsing the dishes.

“Our hot water gets shut off after midnight. If we wait until next week to pay the bill, we’ll save a little money.”

William shrugged.

He stepped into the bathroom and turned the valve. After the initial burst of cold water drained away, steaming hot water began flowing through the pipes.

After bathing, the two of them climbed into their narrow bed and quickly fell asleep.

William’s girlfriend worked as a cashier at a supermarket.

She put in ten-hour days, including a one-hour break.

She often brought home food that was close to expiration, food that had already expired, or heavily discounted household supplies. That was one of the main reasons the two of them could survive on a single income.

They had been classmates in high school.

Neither of them had managed to get into college.

William had worked in a factory for a while before quitting because the work was too exhausting.

Eleanor, his girlfriend, had landed the supermarket job and managed to hold onto it.

It was a textbook picture of a household going nowhere.

Neither William nor Eleanor knew how much longer they could keep living this way.

Maybe they would survive long enough to get married and then spend the rest of their lives barely scraping by.

Or maybe a sudden burst of frustration would end their fragile relationship at any moment.

Early the next morning, William washed up and got dressed.

Eleanor had already left for work.

A box of cereal and a bottle of milk sat on the table.

He walked over to the cupboard, poured the milk into a saucepan, and set it on the stove to warm.

Out of habit, he checked the expiration date.

Not surprisingly, it had expired two days earlier.

Milk like that was supposed to be discarded by the supermarket and thrown straight into the trash.

Yet countless employees willingly endured long hours and miserable wages for jobs like these.

This was one of the reasons.

The free food.

The rich smell of warm milk was almost intoxicating.

William preferred soaking things in hot milk. Eleanor and most other people simply poured cold milk over their cereal.

He hated that.

After breakfast, he spent some time tidying up his appearance before heading to a street corner not far from the apartment they rented.

The last few days hadn’t been wasted.

Not because he had been looking for work.

He had been thinking about something far more important:

Where to get his first stake of capital.

This world was vastly different from the one he had left behind.

Yet some patterns remained universal.

Suppose you knew that the land beneath your feet would be worth a fortune a hundred years from now.

Suppose you knew that the value of certain works of art would climb year after year.

Suppose you knew…

Anyone standing in William’s position would feel ambitious.

Most people would believe they could grasp the pulse of the future.

The problem was that ambition alone remained ambition.

It didn’t magically become reality.

The future wasn’t here yet.

And every opportunity required capital.

So where did capital come from?

It didn’t fall from the sky.

It didn’t wash ashore with the tide.

The truth was that even if many people were given a chance to return to the past, they still wouldn’t possess the ability to fundamentally change their lives.

Perhaps they could improve things a little.

Perhaps they would buy an extra house or two and spend their old age staring at assets worth twice what they had owned in their previous life.

But that wasn’t the grand destiny they had imagined when they started.

Some people were destined to shape events.

Others remained powerless even when opportunity was handed to them.

William was clearly one of the former.

He already possessed everything that mattered.

He had succeeded once before.

That was the decisive difference.

He stood there for most of the morning, staring at a laundromat across the street.

All the while he scribbled notes in a notebook.

He was in the process of earning his first fortune.

Near noon, as foot traffic on the street began to thin out, two men in trench coats stepped in front of him.

One of them had a hand tucked inside his coat, gripping something.

“Mr. Fox wants to see you, friend.”

The pair looked like bad news.

Then again, maybe William was simply making assumptions.

Either way, he felt no fear whatsoever.

Instead, a smile spread across his face.

“I’ve been waiting for you for days,” he said. “What are we standing around for? Lead the way.”

Mr. Fox had a certain reputation on this street. He was the sort of man with “ability.” He was willing to help the poor, lending them money so they could get through hard times.

Of course, he was not purely charitable. He also needed the poor to repay his kindness with kindness of their own, sometimes in amounts larger than the principal.

But on the whole, he was a good man. Probably. Maybe. More or less.

In an underground office, William met Mr. Fox, a gentleman who looked somewhere around thirty-six, perhaps closer to forty.

He wore this year’s most fashionable dark-gray suit with red and blue flecks, with a red-and-blue silk scarf tied at his collar. It was not quite formal, but it was elegant.

Before William arrived, Mr. Fox had already heard from his men that there was something odd about this kid, including what he had said earlier. That had made him curious.

“You’re not afraid of me?” He had his men press William down into the chair across from his desk. “There aren’t many people on this street who aren’t afraid of me.”

William showed no fear at all. As far as he was concerned, a scene like this barely counted as trouble. He shrugged and asked in return, “Mr. Fox, are you going to hurt me?”

That question brought Mr. Fox up short. He thought about it seriously for a moment, then shook his head. “I generally don’t go out of my way to hurt anyone. But if you do something unfriendly first…”

For anyone, hurting people for no reason was a stupid thing to do. First, it damaged one’s image. Second, pointless behavior like that had a way of attracting the FBI’s attention.

Most people were looking for money, not trouble. Mr. Fox was no different.

“Exactly. Then why should I be afraid?” William’s composure and smile made Mr. Fox hesitate for one brief instant.

He glanced at the assistant beside him, then turned his eyes back to William’s face. “But my men say you’ve been watching me for the past few days. Maybe you can tell me why. Are you with the FBI?”

Before bringing him here, they had already searched William. There was nothing on him that proved his identity, and judging by the clothes he wore, he did not fit the style of those FBI people at all. Mr. Fox did not think he was a special agent.

That was precisely what made him curious. Over the past few days, this kid had been watching one of his businesses, the laundromat. He had also looked into the kid’s background. Out of curiosity, and caution, this little meeting had come about.

He very much wanted to know what William was doing.

He picked up the notebook from William’s pocket, opened it, and flipped through a few pages. It was full of things he could not understand. He asked the assistant beside him, who had graduated from college, but even that college-educated assistant could not tell what the marks on the pages meant.

The warmth in William’s smile made Fox feel… somewhat uncomfortable. It was like… he did not know how to describe it. Like he was being cared for.

“It’s like this, Mr. Fox. I noticed the laundromat’s business, and I noticed a few of your small difficulties. On top of that, I believe you’ve already investigated me and know the problem I’m facing right now…”

Mr. Fox nodded and emphasized one word. “Poverty.”

William pointed toward the ceiling, using the small gesture to draw Mr. Fox’s attention and take back control of the conversation. “You’re right. So I need to get out of my financial crisis as soon as possible. I’d like to do a little business with you.”

In an instant, everyone in the office burst out laughing. Mr. Fox, his assistant, and the two big men who plainly looked like trouble all laughed out loud.

William looked at Mr. Fox without the slightest embarrassment. Only after they had laughed for nearly thirty seconds and finally stopped did he say, “This isn’t a joke.”

Mr. Fox laughed again. While laughing, he asked, “But I don’t see what kind of business there could possibly be between us…” As he spoke, his laughter naturally faded. Then he frowned. “You want to borrow money?”

William shook his head. “No. Business, Mr. Fox.”

Mr. Fox had laughed enough. The curiosity and desire for answers buried in human nature kept the conversation going. At least until he learned the answer, or lost interest, he would not stop this amusing exchange.

“Then what kind of business do you want to do with me?”

William’s smile was as confident and bright as ever, the sort that easily made people feel well disposed toward him. “I can provide more change. Nickels, dimes, quarters, and half-dollars. Coins, new and old…”

Mr. Fox’s expression changed sharply. Something chilling appeared in his narrowed eyes. If that look had to be interpreted, it could only be called killing intent.

“You know what I’m doing?” He could not help taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “You’ve got nerve.”

William remained completely unmoved. “If poverty doesn’t scare me, why would anything else?”

The two men looked at each other for a moment. It seemed this fellow named William really did have nerve. At the same time, his words began to draw Mr. Fox’s genuine interest.

Some industries had gray areas. For instance, the finance company he currently ran was not entirely legal. Not only was the FBI watching him, the IRS was watching him as well.

He needed channels through which he could pay taxes on the money in his hands in a reasonable and legal-looking way, without drawing too much attention. A laundromat was an excellent channel.

No one cared where every single coin came from. Nor could they figure out where those coins came from. Across the entire Baler Federation, laundromats were basically controlled by people like them.

But they had a problem as well: it was too slow.

The middle class and the upper crust had their own washing machines. They did not need to take their clothes down to the street to be washed. Only poor people did that.

But poor people often saved up a week’s worth of clothes before washing them once, and when they did, they washed everything at the same time.

For that reason, men like Mr. Fox had even come up with a new pricing system, charging by the pound. Even so, it was a drop in the bucket.

They could not exactly force everyone to come wash clothes every day. Doing that would only attract the attention of the FBI and the IRS. This was Mr. Fox’s greatest headache.

There was nothing worse than having a safe full of money and being unable to take it out and spend it.

Now the bastard in front of him was saying he could solve that problem. Mr. Fox’s interest immediately sharpened. “How do you plan to do it?”

William stated his method without hiding anything. He could not hide it. Given his current identity and position, he had no way to stop Mr. Fox from digging into it. In that case, he might as well say it outright and show some sincerity.

“I’ll collect large quantities of coins and resell them to you in exchange for a fee. My income will be the spread.”

Mr. Fox glanced at his assistant again. The assistant leaned in and muttered to him for a while. Only then did Mr. Fox ask with a frown, “How much do you want?”

William’s warm smile once again gave Mr. Fox that inexplicable illusion of being cared for. “Ten percent.”

“Are you insane?” Mr. Fox could not help shouting. “I’d rather wait it out slowly.”

A ten percent price was completely unacceptable to him. When the transaction was one dollar, it was only ten cents.

But when the transaction reached one hundred thousand dollars, or one million dollars, it became a number painful enough to make a man’s heart ache.

William did not immediately start bargaining with him. Instead, he raised a new question. “Mr. Fox, do you have The Wall Street Journal here?”

The Wall Street Journal was one of the largest-circulation newspapers in the Baler Federation. It covered all seventeen states of the Baler Federation and all its territories. Its content focused mainly on national and international financial and economic trends, as well as financial and economic changes in local regions.

Through this series of “confrontations,” Mr. Fox gradually lost the initiative. He glanced at his assistant. The assistant nodded, indicating that they had it here.

Although their business was not exactly proper, their work was indeed closely tied to finance.

“Give me one of the earliest copies you have, and one of the latest. I’ll make you understand who the real winner in this deal is.”

William’s firm, powerful voice and confident expression made Mr. Fox begin, faintly, to believe him. He looked very much like William once had when he stood before a crowd with a microphone in hand, giving a speech.

People looked at him, believed every word he said, then stuffed money into his pocket and thanked him for it.

A few minutes later, Mr. Fox’s assistant brought over two newspapers. One was from four months ago, and the other was from the current week.

Finance companies like Mr. Fox’s paid very close attention to financial trends, both across the country and internationally. They dealt with money every day and understood exactly what those trends meant.

Beyond that, they paid close attention to social indicators as well, things like employment rates, unemployment rates, and public safety.

If unemployment continued rising, they would lower interest rates while reducing large loans to minimize risk. At the same time, that made their business more attractive.

When the national economy showed clear signs of improvement, they would raise interest rates and encourage people to borrow more, because people could afford to repay it.

Every day, Mr. Fox’s assistant had to read a large number of newspapers, analyzing the direction of the country’s situation and deciding whether certain lines of business should be wound down ahead of time, or whether it was better to pretend they had forgotten about them altogether.

This was by no means a simple business. Most people couldn’t scale it, and even fewer could stay in it for long. Only men like Mr. Fox could operate this kind of enterprise over the long term.

That was why he had spent heavily to hire a college graduate to assist him. He viewed this as a career, not a quick-money scheme.

After opening the newspapers, William spent some time reading through them, about fifteen minutes in all. Mr. Fox did not interrupt him once. He even had someone bring over coffee and cigarettes.

Deep down, he found himself anticipating something.

This ordinary man named William was going to surprise him.

The feeling wasn’t baseless.

It came from observation.

An ordinary man like William should not have remained calm after being brought here. He certainly should not have been able to maintain eye contact after Mr. Fox had openly revealed his murderous intent.

He wasn’t an ordinary kid. From Mr. Fox’s perspective, William was indeed just a kid.

He was only twenty years old.

About fifteen minutes later, William used his pen to draw several lines, then placed both newspapers in front of Mr. Fox.

“I’ve underlined the sections you need to read. It’ll make it easier for you to see them.”

Mr. Fox and his assistant both leaned over and studied them carefully.

They read the marked sections several times, going back and forth between the two papers, but neither could make sense of them. They were nothing more than real estate rental listings.

Neither of them saw anything special.

Mr. Fox frowned.

“I don’t know what any of this means. Is there some special significance to it?”

William showed no irritation whatsoever.

He was extremely patient. After all, when dealing with an excellent customer and the money in that customer’s pocket, anyone who needed money could become patient.

He walked around to Mr. Fox’s side of the desk.

One of the bodyguards moved to stop him, but Mr. Fox waved him off.

That small gesture meant William had earned a measure of Mr. Fox’s trust, at least temporarily.

If he could deliver on what he had promised, that trust would last a long time.

“This listing advertises two street-facing apartment buildings. The monthly rent on this one is…” William pointed at the underlined section and deliberately left the sentence unfinished.

Mr. Fox instinctively supplied the answer.

“One hundred and thirty-five dollars.”

William nodded.

“That’s right. One hundred and thirty-five dollars. Let’s ignore everything else and look at the property beside it…”

Mr. Fox cooperatively shifted his gaze to the underlined listing in the other newspaper.

“One hundred and seventy-two dollars.”

“The two apartment buildings sit on opposite sides of the street, and the straight-line distance between them is less than a hundred feet. Looking at this price change, Mr. Fox, what do you notice?”

Mr. Fox thought for a moment before answering seriously.

“The monthly rent increased by thirty-seven dollars.”

In William’s previous life, throughout all of his successful ventures, he had always believed one thing:

The deeper you involved people in the process, the more time you saved, and the more hidden obstacles revealed themselves.

People would persuade themselves.

They would convince themselves that the conclusions they reached were correct.

This tendency was especially obvious in mathematics.

Until someone explicitly demonstrated that a solution was wrong, every person who solved a problem believed their answer was correct and everyone else’s was mistaken.

Through a simple piece of arithmetic, Mr. Fox had completed the process of deep participation.

The experience wrapped him in a false illusion, a sense of security he had personally constructed.

He would not think William was a con man, because William hadn’t told him the conclusion.

He had arrived at it himself, using his own intelligence and reasoning.

And he trusted his own conclusions.

“Higher rent means it takes more money to buy these properties. Four months…” William paused briefly. “No. In reality, the increase happens every day. A little at a time. You may not notice it, but it’s happening. Do you agree, Mr. Fox?”

Mr. Fox nodded.

“What does that have to do with the business we were discussing?”

“Everything, Mr. Fox. These buildings are still standing exactly where they’ve always been. Time hasn’t added extra bricks to them, nor has it stripped shingles from the roof.”

“When they were completed, they looked a certain way. Today they look exactly the same. The asset itself hasn’t changed. It’s constant. Yet the price has changed. What does that tell you?”

Without giving Mr. Fox time to think, William supplied the answer himself.

The answer was beyond Mr. Fox’s ability to arrive at independently.

William’s talent wasn’t encouraging people to think freely.

It was guiding them, at the right moment, toward the corner where he wanted them to look.

“If the value of an object hasn’t changed, but the terms under which it is paid for have changed, then the only conclusion is that the thing being used as the standard of payment has changed in value.”

“In other words, over the past four months, the currency in our hands…”

At some point William had produced a coin from his pocket.

He balanced it between the joints of his thumb and forefinger.

With a flick of his finger, the coin spun upward. The metallic vibration was subtle but audible enough to draw attention.

Mr. Fox, his assistant, and the bodyguards all watched the coin rise.

William spoke with complete confidence.

“It has been losing value. Over the last four months, it has depreciated by roughly twenty-two to twenty-five percent, Mr. Fox.”

Mr. Fox finally tore his eyes away from the stationary nickel resting on the newspaper.

He began seriously considering William’s argument and looked toward his assistant.

The assistant looked uncomfortable.

He hadn’t studied finance.

His degree was in management.

If Mr. Fox hadn’t offered such a high salary, and if Mr. Fox hadn’t also happened to be his father, he wouldn’t have been sitting in that room.

He felt that something about William’s argument was wrong.

Yet he couldn’t identify any obvious flaw.

During the discussion, William went on to use gold as a second example, introducing concepts like depreciation and the idea that currency itself was a commodity.

He wasn’t lying.

Everything he said was true.

His examples were valid.

He even brought up the fact that ten years earlier people could buy a newspaper for five cents, whereas today the same newspaper cost fifty cents.

The newspaper was still a newspaper.

The ink was much the same.

The paper was much the same.

The production process had not changed significantly.

It wasn’t that newspapers had become expensive.

It was that money had become cheaper.

As understanding slowly dawned on him, Mr. Fox felt a chill crawl down his spine.

He shifted in his chair and forced himself to respond.

“But our interest rates are very high. Some of the loans are even compounded!”

He was trying to reassure himself.

Trying to create a little sense of safety.

But that fragile comfort lasted only a few seconds before William’s laughter shattered it.

“I know, Mr. Fox. The problem is that the currency being devalued isn’t just the money you can take out and put in front of people.”

“It’s all of your assets.”

“Every asset you own is losing roughly five percent of its value every month. And that’s a form of compounding too. If you can’t move your money through the IRS and complete the final process as quickly as possible…”

William returned to the chair across the desk and sat down.

He shrugged and spread his hands.

“Those fortunes you’re so proud of today might not be worth a damn a few years from now.”

“And you’re still worried about a measly ten percent?”

After leaving Mr. Fox, William wandered around the street for a while. Now that the deal had been settled, he would soon have his first income, and the size of that income was directly tied to how much he put in.

The more he invested, the higher the profit. In fact, even the top financial groups would be envious of a business like this.

During this period, he had been reading newspapers constantly. Even with the whole world throwing itself into development and construction, even with all the talk about financial growth and economic improvement, the annual rate of return promised by certain funds had not exceeded fifteen percent.

In the first-quarter issue of The Wall Street Journal this year, some detailed data from the previous year had been disclosed. The foundation with the highest actual rate of return had achieved only 9.74 percent for the year, not even ten percent, and that was already the most profitable fund of the year.

So this deal was extremely important. At the same time, however, it created a new problem: he needed a sum of “principal” to exchange for all that change and those coins.

Mr. Fox had not mentioned that money. Given his investigation into William’s background, it was impossible for him not to know that William had less than a hundred dollars on him and in his bank account combined, never mind enough to fulfill the scale he had promised for helping Mr. Fox complete his “transition” as soon as possible.

He had to get another sum of money. It did not need to be too much. A few hundred dollars, or one or two thousand, would be enough, because once the machine started turning, it would only spin faster and faster. For a small amount like that, he planned to speak with Eleanor when he got home that night.

Although he did feel that what he was doing was somewhat… improper, there was no way around it if he wanted a future.

Time passed bit by bit as he wandered. Today, William returned home early. At six-thirty in the evening, Eleanor came back from outside carrying a bag.

Inside were meat scraps the supermarket where she worked had planned to throw out that day, along with some vegetables that did not look especially fresh. Things like this were usually divided among the employees. After all, the whole reason people accepted oppression and exploitation there was to get these things for free.

The moment she entered the apartment, Eleanor was somewhat surprised. Recently, William had always come home very late. This was the first time in quite a while that he had returned so early.

At first, she had still fantasized that William might honestly find a job, preferably at a plant.

Although work in a plant was exhausting and carried a certain amount of danger, there was no denying that factory workers had the best benefits and social protections.

Those major factory owners not only had to take care of them in all kinds of ways, but the workers could also join organizations like labor unions. Eleanor, who worked at a supermarket, had no way to join one, because she was not a worker.

Besides, there was no unofficial organization called a “Cashiers’ Union.”

Nightmares had a way of holding people inside them. Good dreams, on the other hand, were far too easy to wake from.

After a full week, William, who had seemed to pull himself together again, had returned to his original state. Only now he had changed the pattern. Instead of staying home, he used job hunting as an excuse to go outside and kill time.

Thinking of this, Eleanor felt a wave of despair. She began to think her past choice had not merely been stupid. She had been blind.

It was precisely because she had gone through all this that she realized how right her mother had been: good looks were useless. Life needed a foundation, not a pretty face.

She glanced up at William, changed her shoes, and carried the bag into the kitchen, where she began washing the meat scraps.

The scraps had been shaved off bone racks, irregular pieces with no proper shape. Most were about the size of a finger, little lumps here and there. For certain reasons, they looked darker than the neatly arranged cuts of beef.

So even though they were very cheap, they were hard to sell. Most people bought them not for themselves, but to feed dogs.

In truth, there was nothing wrong with the scraps.

The silence in the room was filled with something uncomfortable. That something kept spreading, kept surging.

William sat on a sofa they had picked up from a garbage pile and watched his girlfriend silently preparing the food. The distance between them was less than ten meters, yet it felt as if an abyss had opened in the middle.

“Do you have… any spare money?” William asked.

Eleanor’s hands paused slightly. She did not turn around, nor did she say anything. After that brief pause, she continued with the work in her hands. “Some. Less than five hundred dollars. I saved it this year.”

Saving money was not easy, especially for young people like them with only high school educations.

Rent, electricity, water, heating, necessary expenses and losses, plus two people living on one person’s wages. Managing to save more than four hundred dollars was already very difficult.

All at once, something heavier entered the strange atmosphere and pressed down on both their chests.

Neither of them spoke again until Eleanor finished dinner.

As always, it was scraps with fried eggs, along with some ragged vegetable leaves and bits of wide noodles broken into pieces one or two centimeters long.

These were all things the supermarket had to throw away every day. Now they kept many poor families alive.

“My mother came to see me today…” Eleanor broke the silence while they were eating. “She doesn’t want us to keep going on like this. But I couldn’t convince her…”

William set down his knife and fork. He looked at the plate in front of the girl, where some fresh “seasoning” had been added: clear, slightly bitter, and faintly salty.

In truth, Eleanor had made herself perfectly clear. If she could not convince her mother, then one of them had to have been convinced by the other. And it could only have been Eleanor.

The food on the plate had not been especially good to begin with. Now it tasted even worse.

William sighed. “When are you leaving?”

Eleanor was almost falling apart. “Tomorrow. My mother and my brother are coming to pick me up. I’m sorry. I don’t want this, but…”

“That’s enough. You don’t need to apologize. I’m the one who should apologize.” William reached out and touched the girl’s tear-wet cheek. He had to pay the bill for what this body had done before he arrived.

For more than two years, all the burdens of their life had been placed on this twenty-year-old girl.

There was no question that William had been a bastard.

A real one.

This kind of life had gradually worn away every fantasy the girl had once held about romance and the future. After living through all this, she had begun to bow her head to reality and fate, even if somewhere in the deepest part of her heart a trace of hope might still remain.

For example…

There was no example. William would not ask the girl to stay. Whether because she had been the first to say she wanted to leave, or because the uncertain life ahead would undoubtedly be filled with unease and danger, none of it was suitable for this girl.

It was cruel to say so, but facts were facts.

After the two of them went through an unforgettable night, Eleanor left early the next morning with her belongings. But she left William a few things as well.

A bank card, and the apartment key.

One had to thank the bank for not caring too much who deposited or withdrew money from a bank card. Or perhaps this was Eleanor’s witness to her farewell to her old life.

After cleaning himself up again, William withdrew all the money from the bank card that morning: four hundred forty-nine dollars and thirty-five cents.

Then he found the landlord. After talking with him for about half an hour, he returned the apartment, which still had half a month left on the lease, and got back one hundred dollars. Originally it should have been seventy-five, but William did not want any of his belongings.

The landlord felt the deal could not really be considered a loss, and in the end he agreed, giving him an extra twenty-five dollars.

The small change would be kept for the first few days of living expenses. The rest would be rolled into his plan. He was already beginning to feel impatient.

He urgently wanted to teach this simple world a lesson.

“Newspaper, sir?”

A boy of about eleven or twelve appeared in front of William, wearing a filthy flat cap and carrying an enormous cowhide satchel over one shoulder.

He looked up at William with expectation in his eyes and pulled open the satchel, revealing the newspapers inside.

Children like him all belonged to different “news bosses.” The term did not mean a newspaper headline. It referred to the men who managed the newsboys.

Through certain connections, methods, or other arrangements, these men firmly controlled the street newspaper market in particular districts. Only their own newsboys could sell papers there. No one else was allowed in. Newsstands were not included.

Every morning, they gathered outside the newspaper office, loaded papers still warm from the presses onto handcarts, hauled them back to their “base,” then distributed them to these half-grown children and drove them out onto the streets.

Each child had a sales quota, a minimum limit. If they failed to meet it, they were beaten or left hungry. Only after they exceeded that standard were they allowed to enjoy food, but there was no reward of any kind.

The orphanages and poor families had already taken away the pay for their work. All they had to do was work as much as possible in exchange for a place that kept out the wind and rain, and two meals barely enough to keep them alive.

Some people might call that hell. But compared with those living in even more hopeless pits, these children were practically in heaven.

William took a one-dollar bill from his pocket and selected two newspapers. Locally published papers were fifty cents each, while nationally distributed papers cost one dollar apiece.

The newsboy kept thanking William for his business, and even remembered to take off his cap and bow. To William, one dollar for two newspapers was merely an unavoidable part of life. To this child, it was the salvation he most wanted each day.

The boy was about to leave when William called him back.

“Sir, is there anything else I can do for you?” the half-grown boy asked.

Children like him were often better adapted to society than those from decent families who were still in school. Looking at that young face, still childish yet already ripened by reality and covered with a practiced smile, William felt a little moved.

It was the worst of times.

It was also the best of times.

He asked, “Want to make money?”

The boy nodded at once. “I dream about it, sir. But I won’t do anything illegal.”

Where there was light, there would be darkness. The darker the darkness made the light appear, the more, in return, the light made the darkness deepen.

Some people used children to sell newspapers. Others used children to commit crimes. None of this was some secret rumor. In the course of this society’s vigorous development, everyone had been dazzled by wealth.

As long as money could be made, someone would do the work, no matter what kind of work it was.

William shook his head. “Do you have ninety-seven cents?”

The newsboy hesitated, but quickly pulled ninety-seven cents from his pocket. He had some change on him, all arranged by the news boss and placed in each child’s bag before they went out.

The money did not belong to them. When they returned, the news boss would count it. If anyone lost money, or came up short, they would be starved at best and beaten at worst. That made the children extremely sensitive about money.

Looking at the ninety-seven cents the boy had taken out, all in coins, William took out another dollar and placed it in the boy’s left hand, then took the ninety-seven cents from his other hand.

“Sir, you’re still short three cents. I’ll get it for you right now…” The newsboy thought William wanted change. City transit usually sold tickets in two fares, ten cents and twenty-five cents, one for rides within five miles and the other for rides beyond five miles.

Whether on buses or subways, no change was given. If you handed over fifty cents, they would give you two tickets, not one ticket and change.

Because of that, most people carried at least some change on them to avoid losing money.

William stopped the newsboy and repeated his question. “Want to make money?”

The newsboy still had not quite understood. For the first time, being allowed to take advantage of someone so openly made him uneasy. After hesitating for a moment, he nodded and said, “Yes, sir. More than anything.”

William’s slow smile felt to the boy like sunrise breaking through cloud. It was not blinding. Its light was gentle, yet it could tear through darkness and illuminate the whole sky.

“Do you have ninety-seven cents?” he asked again.

After a brief spell of confusion, shock, and helplessness, the newsboy hurriedly took another ninety-seven cents from his bag and held it out in his palm.

His face flushed red. It was obvious that he was excited, nervous, uneasy, and a little suspicious all at once. His clear eyes stared at William, watching to see what the man in front of him would do.

William took out another dollar, placed it in the newsboy’s hand, and took the ninety-seven cents from his other hand. With a faint half-smile, he asked again, “Do you want to make money?”

By now the newsboy was trembling with excitement. He nodded again and again, finding every bit of change he could piece together into ninety-seven cents. “This is all of it, gentleman…”

William counted twelve dollars into his hand and put all the change into his own pocket. “Looks like that’s all you have.”

The newsboy was excited. Although he had exchanged only fourteen dollars in change with William, his own income had already reached forty-two cents, almost half a dollar.

One had to understand that no matter how well he did at his present job, he would not receive even a single cent for himself. The news boss would give all the pay to the orphanage.

This newsboy was a child raised by an orphanage. In the orphanage’s words, it was time for them to do something for the orphanage, since the orphanage had raised them all these years without asking for anything in return.

Generally speaking, once a child passed the age of ten without being adopted, the odds of adoption afterward became very small, except for certain girls, who were adopted for other reasons and purposes.

The orphanage, however, would not interfere much. After children turned fourteen, they could refuse to be adopted. Once they turned sixteen, they had to leave the place and enter society alone to survive.

In other words, boys over ten were basically already “marginal people” within the orphanage. It was difficult to earn adoption subsidies and adoption donations from children like them, so they had to work.

They had to use labor to compensate the orphanage for the cost of raising them all these years. As for whether this was right, that did not matter. No one cared about such things. Everyone’s eyes were fixed only on whatever touched their own immediate interests.

How to enter society as quickly as possible after being driven out of the orphanage, and how to find a place to survive, were the greatest problems facing these children at the moment.

If they could get hold of some money before leaving, not too much, just enough to last for a short while, then they would have a chance to survive.

William’s act of exchanging change showed this child a bright road forward, just like the question he had asked before:

Do you want to make money?

And the child’s own answer:

He dreamed of it.

After putting the money away, the newsboy hesitated before asking, “Gentleman, will you still be here tomorrow?”

William nodded. “Before lunch, I’ll be here. If I’m not, I’ll be here the next day.” He tapped his wrist with one finger. “You still have enough time…”

These children, who had already begun coming into contact with society, immediately understood what William meant. About ten minutes later, a group of newsboys had gathered around the area, and more were still rushing over.

“Today’s money…”

Mr. Fox looked at the money sacks William had hauled in only after great effort and two trips back and forth, then fell silent for a moment.

To be honest, his people had been watching William the entire time, so he already knew how William had obtained all this change. It left him curious, and a little shocked, by the way William’s mind worked.

What kind of man could come up with a method like this to gather coins so quickly without creating any obvious disturbance in society?

At this point, he could very well follow William’s method himself. That way he would save the ten percent fee. But he had no intention of doing so.

All at once, he realized that compared with the ten percent fee, what was truly valuable was William’s head. That astonishing head of his was his greatest asset.

“Want to count it?” William straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and let out a breath. Without the slightest concern for appearances, he dropped into a chair, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and drew on it comfortably. “I can wait.”

Mr. Fox shook his head and had his men take the coins away. Later, the money would be sent to the IRS for counting and registration, then taxed, then deposited in the bank.

For people like Mr. Fox, there had never been any particularly good way or proper channel to solve these problems.

To put it bluntly, most men in this line of work were not exactly members of the social elite.

They did not have much education, and they understood nothing about many specialized fields. Some could barely read.

Their business had never required any of that. As long as a man was not afraid to die and not afraid of trouble, he could do it. Naturally, that created many problems.

In recent years, the Baler Federation’s FBI and IRS had been watching people like them closely. They were not only trying to catch certain activities, they were also watching the money in their pockets.

They did not have much legitimate business, which created all kinds of trouble. Having money but being unable to spend it had become a silent kind of agony.

For this reason, the Baler Federation had also introduced a series of legal clauses restricting large cash transactions. Under the regulations, any cash transaction over five thousand dollars had to be reported, and anything over fifty thousand dollars had to undergo review.

Even depositing a large sum of cash into a bank required advance disclosure of the source of funds and the possible intended use of the money, along with sufficient and complete tax payment certificates proving there was no issue with the money.

With that kind of full-spectrum blockade, and with IRS investigators, agents, and senior agents watching closely, everyone was having a hard time.

The vaults were plainly stuffed with cash, yet they could not take it out. Even going out to enjoy themselves once might subject them to targeted questioning and review. That kind of life was truly difficult.

But now, from William, Mr. Fox saw something special. Not merely something as simple as coin transactions, but something more, something he had long desired.

He came back to himself in a slight daze, looked at William, and shrugged. “I should pay you…”

“Round it down. Five hundred sixty dollars.” William generously wiped away a few dollars in loose change. It was also a way to build trust between them.

Mr. Fox smiled. He pulled open a drawer. Inside lay a great deal of cash, including plenty of fifty-dollar and hundred-dollar bills.

As his hand reached toward the hundred-dollar bills, William gave a light cough. “I think fives and tens would be better. Don’t you?”

Mr. Fox nodded without changing expression and counted out five hundred sixty dollars for him.

Hundred-dollar bills were rarely used in everyday life. Most of the time, they appeared in corporate settlements and certain reported large cash transactions.

This was a society that still had no internet and no electronic office systems. In truth, the banking system contained plenty of loopholes that could drive people mad.

To avoid certain problems they had already discovered, large transactions between firms still used cash rather than telephone transfers. This was especially true for interbank transfers, where something always seemed to go wrong.

If someone took a hundred-dollar bill and spent it outside, that fellow would certainly be watched by certain departments at the first opportunity. Never underestimate the public’s sense of righteousness.

Many shop bosses, while handling official business such as tax filings, would receive pamphlets, or sometimes be directly instructed on certain matters.

For example, what they should do when someone paid with a hundred-dollar bill, what benefits they would receive if they did so, and what consequences they might face if they did not.

This made hundred-dollar bills extremely difficult to spend in lower- and middle-level society. If a person had a larger quantity of hundred-dollar bills on him, even a judge might consider approving a search warrant despite the evidence being less than fully sufficient.

That was the most painful part for men like Mr. Fox. The money was sitting in a drawer, or wherever else they kept it. Not only could they not spend it, even giving it to someone else did not guarantee the other person would take it.

The reason he had made a show of reaching for the hundred-dollar bills was actually to test William. If William had said nothing, then their business would have been limited to coin transactions.

Someone who could not read danger or understand what mattered was not worth deeper contact. Fortunately, William passed this test smoothly.

Mr. Fox rested both hands on the arms of his chair and tilted his head slightly as he looked at William. “This pace is too slow. Do you have a better way?”

William put the cash into his pocket without counting it. “In a few days, there’ll be more and more. And very soon, those precious things of yours will see daylight.”

Mr. Fox did not press further. He merely let out a breath. “I look forward to that day.”

Sabine City, where William lived, was a small city ranked near the bottom among the Baler Federation’s second-tier cities. Its total population was not even eight hundred thousand.

But every day, this small city could sell at least one hundred thousand newspapers. In other words, even if all of them were local papers, that still represented fifty thousand dollars in change.

And in William’s plan, the channels for change were not limited to this. There were also all kinds of retail businesses.

At present, the main currency circulating through society consisted of coins, along with one-dollar, two-dollar, and five-dollar bills. Aside from two-dollar and five-dollar bills, which could not possibly appear in a laundromat, one-dollar bills could.

Once his influence began to expand, he would be able to draw in the entire city’s loose change. But this business could not be done for long.

The IRS would start watching him. The FBI would also investigate whether he had overly close ties with these people.

He did not want to become someone like Mr. Fox, forever hiding in corners and shadows. What he wanted to become was a tycoon, a legend.

He wanted to stand beneath the spotlight and receive people’s admiration and praise. That was the life meant for him.

Everything he was doing now was only to give himself the most perfect opening possible.

“Wealth glitters like gold. It draws in everyone lost in the fog of poverty.”

“They may not obtain enough wealth to shine themselves, but at least it can change their lives a little.”

Those words were William’s. In just a few short days, every news boss in Sabine knew there was a man who could quickly turn loose change into bills, and there was profit in it.

Large amounts of change kept rolling through William’s pockets and turning into whole bills. It was not only the news bosses doing it. Some newsstands and retail stores were doing it as well.

A three percent profit required no effort and carried no risk. To many people, perhaps that profit looked like only three cents.

But once the principal was large enough, it became a considerable number. One hundred dollars. One thousand dollars. All they had to do was hand the money to William, then take back more money. It was that simple.

According to the Baler Federation’s various laws concerning wages and working hours, along with the specific adjustments made by local statutes, an ordinary worker in Sabine City earned roughly two hundred to three hundred dollars a month.

If the work was more dangerous, the pay might be somewhat higher, but jobs like that were relatively few. Wages were more or less at that level.

Ten dollars was already equal to a worker’s full day of labor. But with William, no labor had to be paid at all. They only needed to give him money, then receive that money back.

Some people indeed looked down on it. But far more people did not.

Large quantities of change began to converge and appear, in an orderly fashion, inside the laundromat controlled by Mr. Fox.

One day a week later, when William pushed a handcart into the laundromat Mr. Fox controlled, two men in black wool trench coats, formal suits, small waistcoats, and white shirts appeared in front of him.

That made him understand why Fox had first said he did not look like someone from the federal executive departments. He had lacked this instantly recognizable outfit, and the arrogance on these men’s faces, the kind that seemed desperate for everyone to know exactly who they were.

“William?”

The man blocking the handcart casually called William’s name according to routine, then pulled open the front of his trench coat, revealing a leather badge wallet clipped to the pocket inside.

Half of the wallet was tucked into the upper inside pocket of the trench coat, preventing it from falling out casually. The other half, the half with the identification, hung outside. The men from the Federation FBI did the same thing. They thought it looked stylish.

As for why they had such a stupid idea, it was probably related to a few popular movies from the past couple of years.

When actors did it, it did look stylish. When ordinary people moved those things into reality, it only made them look foolish.

“I’m a special agent with the IRS. I need you to cooperate…” There was no room for discussion. His tone was not just hard; it was barbed.

William smiled and asked, “Should I raise my hands?”

In fact, from the very beginning, he had known he would have to deal with these people. Not only this one time, either. He would be dealing with them constantly in the future. He simply had not expected to draw their attention so quickly.

That was how this game worked. The golden glitter of wealth attracted not only ordinary people hungry for wealth, hoping to stand in the glow and get a little benefit, but also certain nitpicking “bad people.”

His words sounded like mockery of the two special agents. Generally speaking, people always associated raising both hands with firearms.

Obviously, these two special agents were not qualified to carry weapons. In the Baler Federation’s IRS system, junior field officers stood far below agents and senior investigators, though many people were curious why the IRS needed “special agents” at all.

The man behind William grabbed his wrist with one hand and the back of his collar with the other, then shoved him against the wall to teach him a little lesson. Pedestrians on the street immediately moved a certain distance away to avoid being dragged into it.

Some people left. Others stayed to watch the excitement.

After showing his identification again, the special agent who had spoken to William dispersed the crowd. Then, together with his partner, he pushed William’s handcart and took both William and the cart into an alley by the roadside.

Looking somewhat disheveled, William rubbed his cheekbone. When his face had been pressed against the wall, it had struck the masonry. It hurt a little and would probably bruise, but he did not care much.

One special agent was rummaging through his handcart. He opened the cart’s box and pulled out some old clothes, throwing them onto the ground as if searching for something.

The other man asked, “You’ve been close with Fox lately. Are you working for him?” He also took out a small notebook and a pen, as if ready to record something at any moment.

The IRS had, in fact, been watching men like Mr. Fox for a long time. But “watching” did not necessarily mean they had to bring men like him to justice. Wherever there was light, there would always be darkness. That was not a characteristic of darkness. It was a characteristic of light.

Without William, perhaps this strange but socially necessary balance could have continued for some time, until a new local tax bureau director took office, or until the current director needed an accomplishment. Only then would they have gone after Mr. Fox.

The problem was that now there was an extra William. Mr. Fox, William, and their strange movements were accelerating certain matters out of control.

Catching a tax evader with a massive amount of money involved would be an enormous achievement within the Federation tax system, the kind that could bring a promotion.

But if Mr. Fox were allowed to escape the swamp, no one would praise the current local tax bureau director. They would only suspect some sort of deal behind the scenes.

On top of that, there were possible personnel changes inside the Sabine City IRS, and some people could no longer sit still.

As soon as these signs appeared, the local IRS immediately began taking action. After clarifying William’s identity and his recent activities, they roughly figured out the issue between him and Mr. Fox.

In the eyes of these experienced agents, William was nothing more than a lucky kid. He had accidentally discovered a way to make money. If they used William as the point of breakthrough, it was very possible they could cooperate directly and take down Mr. Fox’s gang.

But first, they had to figure out exactly what Mr. Fox and William were doing, and whether it matched what they imagined. Thus came this “raid.”

Facing the special agent who looked as vicious as a thug, William kept smiling the entire time. A smile could put people at ease, and it could also make them lower their guard. “May I know your name?”

The special agent facing him sneered, then suddenly stepped forward and punched William in the stomach. In an instant, William’s gut churned violently, and nausea rose in him.

“You don’t need to know my name. You just need to answer questions. Understand?” The special agent grabbed William by the hair, forcing him to bend at the waist and lift his face to look up at him. “I’m asking you again. What transactions do you have with Fox? How is his money getting into the bank…”

The muscles in William’s face twitched. Slowly, he straightened. The smile returned to his face. He shaped his right hand like a pistol, pressed it beneath his jaw, and looked at the special agent. “Do you have a gun? Give me a bullet to taste…”

For a short moment, the special agent did not react to his words at all. Then came humiliation and anger. But when he met William’s eyes, it was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head, extinguishing him completely.

Those bright, clear eyes carried a kind of anticipation. Matched with the words in his voice and that faint touch of madness capable of making a man’s heart tremble, it made the special agent’s heart contract sharply.

He could feel it clearly.

This man was insane.

He swallowed unconsciously and looked away. Then, almost immediately, he turned back, staring hard at William. He shoved him away and shouted, seemingly fierce, “Answer the question!”

In truth, he had already grown somewhat afraid. He was only using this method to cover his fear while keeping his distance from William. He did not want his true inner state exposed before a big kid who had left school only a few years earlier.

William acted as if nothing had happened. He raised his head slightly, facing the narrow strip of sky above the alley, and revealed his brightest smile.

“May I ask your name, sir?”

“There’s nothing here…”

The other special agent had no idea what had just happened on this side. He had thrown out all the old clothes from both boxes, including the wooden crates that held them, which he had broken apart into several pieces.

There were no coins or change here at all. Forget the hundreds or thousands of dollars in loose change mentioned in the tip. There was not even a single coin.

The special agent locked in that subtle standoff had an immediate first reaction after hearing this: impossible. They had already investigated the matter almost thoroughly. This kid named William had been exchanging change on a large scale, in ways ordinary people could hardly imagine.

Before William appeared, no one had ever exchanged change at such a loss. He had set the precedent. Behind his almost limitless exchange of loose change, the special agents of the Sabine City IRS believed the money was being used for Fox.

During this period, William had only been in contact with Fox. He had not contacted anyone else. On top of that, over the past few days, the tax credit line of the laundromats under Fox’s name had shown an extremely obvious increase. Sabine City IRS believed William was “the key man.”

In fact, they had already begun watching him the day before yesterday. According to his pattern of movement, he should now be taking the coins he had collected to the laundromat. On the surface, he was going there to wash clothes. In reality, he was conducting an illegal transaction.

After that, he would continue exchanging change until the next time he accumulated a certain amount.

As long as they caught the change in his possession, marked it, then let William deliver the coins to the laundromat, the entire chain of evidence would be complete.

Once Fox began filing his tax information, they would immediately arrange for a commissioner to come inspect the documents he submitted, catch him in the act, and send him to prison.

Everything had been calculated perfectly, yet the problem had appeared here of all places. Aside from a pile of old clothes, there was not a single coin on the cart. Where had the money gone?

In the span of just eight seconds, the special agent’s eyes briefly lost focus. Then he turned back toward William, pointed at him, and said, “Watch yourself…”

As he spoke, he patted the front of his trench coat and quickly left with the other special agent. They had to hurry to another scene.

Their rich work experience meant they had not placed all their hopes on this one group. Another team had raided William’s current temporary residence. If the money was not here, then it had to be in his room.

Only, the special agent kept feeling that things would not be so simple. This young man William… he could not quite see through him. He was nothing like a young man who had just stepped out of the ivory tower and still held some reverence for the world.

William watched the two special agents leave the alley. He spat, then bent down and picked up all the clothes from the ground before pushing the handcart out of the alley.

Sunlight fell across his face. There was no sign at all that he had just been humiliated and punched. It was as if nothing had happened. Even his smile had not changed.

A few minutes later, he arrived at the laundromat and went straight into the storage room behind it. Immediately afterward, two young men greeted him, then took tools and began dismantling the handcart.

The handcart was not small. Its main structure was made of sturdy steel tubing, with steel wire as the inner lining. At a glance, one could see straight through it, so the special agent had not examined the handcart carefully.

The laundromat manager standing nearby handed William a cigarette, lit it for him, and apologized. “I’m very sorry. I already know what happened just now, but we didn’t step in to help you…”

William’s gaze passed over the manager’s shoulder. He watched the two workers laboriously lift the disassembled steel tubes from the handcart and tilt them toward a basket.

With a clattering rush of metal, coins of every denomination poured out of the steel tubes like tap water.

William withdrew his gaze and let it settle on the manager. He shrugged indifferently. “It’s fine. I’ll have to deal with them sooner or later. That’s exactly why I refused. I don’t like trouble.”

During this period, Mr. Fox had expressed more than once that he wanted to recruit William. He was willing to offer William an extraordinarily high salary of three thousand dollars a month.

In a society where the average monthly income was only two or three hundred dollars, ten times the average monthly wage was enough to tempt many people. But not William.

He knew that someone like Fox, who walked the gray tracks, would find it difficult to shake off certain people’s surveillance for the rest of his life. Once William agreed, he too would become one of them. No matter what he did in the future, someone would be watching him.

If he did not join, that was another matter. His youth, his “shallowness,” would keep people from paying him too much attention.

By the time people started noticing him, he would have more or less completed his initial accumulation of capital.

Besides, he looked down on a man whose business was lending money to poor people in a small city so they could get by.

The manager smiled and said nothing. William, on the other hand, asked another question. “Who was the man who hit me?”

He lowered his head and drew on the cigarette. His gaze was cast downward, his hair and the smoke hiding his eyes. The manager had no way to observe William’s true emotions through them.

“Michael. Team leader of the Sabine City IRS Investigation Unit. He’s a very troublesome man. You’d better not get any inappropriate ideas.”

The manager gave him a friendly warning. The Federation’s tax system was its own separate structure. They had investigators, agents, special agents, and even their own militarized enforcement units.

It sounded laughable and absurd, but that was the truth. A formal, complete force that received proper professional military training, used to deal with certain special cases of armed tax resistance.

That was why most people would tell rookies just entering the trade: you can do almost anything you want, but before the seventh of every month, you must report your taxes to the local IRS. Otherwise…

As team leader of the Sabine City IRS Investigation Unit, Michael did not have the highest identity or standing, but he could be considered middle management.

Even Fox was unwilling to offend someone like that without reason. To tax investigators, everyone had flaws.

Because no one could accurately remember every single piece of income and the ratio for every tax category. As long as one decimal point, or one digit after the decimal point, was wrong, they could send you to prison.

William nodded. Pinching the cigarette butt between both hands, he took a hard drag. “I know. Next time I see him, I’ll step aside on my own…”

The manager patted William on the shoulder and did not continue on that subject. “How much this time?”

“Not counting the loose ends, four thousand five hundred dollars.”

The manager was slightly stunned after hearing that, then laughed. He took several rolls of cash bound with rubber bands from his pocket.

They were all in five-dollar and ten-dollar bills. The bills were also very old, and very easy to spend.

For society as a whole, these five- and ten-dollar bills were just like the coins in the laundromat. No one could say precisely what each coin had gone through before appearing here.

The IRS could only follow the amount reported by the laundromat, let the money become clean, and watch it be deposited into the bank under their own supervision.

William rolled the money up and stuffed it back into the handcart. He waited a while, then after his dirty clothes were washed, he took them all with him and pushed the handcart away.

At the same time, on the other side of town, a group of men had just raided William’s temporary residence. Not only had they failed to find a single copper, they had failed to find anything of value at all.

“Damn it!”

They had failed to obtain any solid, effective evidence, and they had alerted both William and Fox. This would bring them even more trouble. The investigation itself might even be terminated because of it.

With a loud crash, a chair came apart in Michael’s hands. His partner hurriedly stepped between him and the informant, doing everything he could to calm Michael down.

Today’s operation had been a complete failure. Whether it was the sudden strike against William while he was out making his delivery, or the other team searching his temporary residence, they had found nothing abnormal at all.

Forget the at least five thousand dollars in change the informant had mentioned. They had not seen even one dollar in loose change, not on William himself and not in that room.

Failure meant Michael would lose face in front of his colleagues. The hierarchy and office politics inside the IRS gave this special department a level of internal competition outsiders could scarcely imagine.

Michael was one of the people with a very real chance of promotion.

But if this failed operation had alerted William and Fox and caused the follow-up plan to fail, then he would become a laughingstock, and for the next two or three years he could forget about moving up.

When most people encountered trouble, they pushed the blame onto someone else. Michael blamed this failure on the informant providing unreliable intelligence.

So he had called the informant to this room, then, amid furious roaring, lifted the chair and smashed it hard across the man’s back.

“Do you know how much you’ve cost me with that bad information of yours?” he shouted, struggling to break free from his partner’s restraint while pointing at the informant, who was slumped over the table in obvious pain.

The informant was a news boss. In Sabine City and other cities, the main channels of information were controlled by professional intelligence brokers and news bosses.

Newsboys reported anything unusual they saw to their news bosses. This was another kind of work between the news bosses and the boys.

They might not receive any pay for it. No money, no reward. Yet the newsboys still obeyed, trading obedience for a miserly bit of favor.

Some smart special agents and agents had informants like this. At the same time, a news boss did not serve only one buyer.

Everyone in the business of buying and selling information was doing it for money, not for justice or morality. There was no need to dress oneself up as noble.

People like Michael existed, but not many. Taking his anger out on an informant was an exceptionally stupid move.

Because the chair had struck him hard across the back, the muscles in the news boss’s face twisted together. Hatred gleamed in his eyes, but that hatred soon turned obedient.

Michael had leverage over him. The man had once gotten hold of a young girl, and later, certain things had happened. As it happened, Michael had discovered it.

Michael had taken the girl away, while also keeping certain evidence, such as a recording of the man’s confession and a handwritten account of the crime bearing his fingerprints.

“I didn’t lie. The kids under me gave him almost fifteen hundred dollars in change. I swear I didn’t lie!” He defended himself, while also praying for this terrible moment to pass quickly.

He seemed to have forgotten that once, a girl had begged like that too, and had not received the result she wanted.

Michael shoved his partner aside and walked to the table. He grabbed the news boss by the hair and punched him in the face. His partner stood to the side and did not continue interfering.

As long as Michael did not use an object, he would not interfere too much. At least a man was not easy to beat to death barehanded. With objects, that was different. He had only acted to prevent an accident, not because he truly wanted to stop Michael from being violent.

Of course, if someone really died, it was not as if there were no way to handle it. It would only be somewhat troublesome, with a great many people to grease.

Sabine City was a small city. Whether it was the FBI, the IRS, or the courts, everyone knew one another well. They would not destroy a promising government employee just because of someone wandering along the gray margins.

There was a strong chance he could be acquitted in court. After all, the public could accept a few small accidents happening during the pursuit of a fugitive.

One punch. Two punches. Three punches…

After several punches in a row, after the news boss’s cheek had swollen high and begun to deform, Michael finally lowered his fist.

He shook out both hands, picked up the water glass from the table, raised it, and poured the cold water over the news boss’s head.

The water ran through his hair in thin lines, snapping his blurred consciousness awake. Then came the violent pain, mixed with the numbness of places that had lost sensation, leaving him somewhat… at a loss.

It hurt badly, but exactly where it hurt, he could not tell.

“Have your people send him five thousand dollars in change this afternoon. Then we catch him in the act!” Michael quickly came up with a plan. He turned and glanced at his partner. The partner gave a slight nod, indicating his agreement.

From a judicial standpoint, this kind of behavior, which might constitute entrapment, was itself illegal. Moreover, every action produced by the suspect in the process, and every piece of evidence collected from it, would have no legal effect.

But this was a small city, after all. Everyone knew everyone. There was no need to make one another look bad over things that would never reach the outside.

Sometimes, for frontline investigators, making a few small adjustments to the chain of evidence so a criminal could be smoothly brought to justice was entirely normal. Everyone had long since grown used to it.

He tugged the news boss’s hair again, pulling it backward and forcing that stupid face, half of it swollen, to look up at him. “Understand?”

The evasive look in the news boss’s eyes made much of Michael’s anger, and certain emotions he could not quite name, dissipate. He was still Michael, the man people could not “refuse,” not the man who had suddenly felt afraid and backed down.

“Yes… I understand…”

Michael let go. The wet hair left water on his palm. He wiped his hand back and forth on the news boss’s clothes, then patted that swollen face. Amid the news boss’s screams, Michael left with a faintly satisfied smile.

The room returned to silence. The look in the news boss’s eyes went from a brief flash of hatred, hostility, and madness, then gradually became obedient again.

He slowly stood up. The moment he straightened his back, a piercing pain forced him to hunch over. He picked up his hat, pressed it onto his head, paused for a minute or two, then left the room.

On the other side, after returning from the laundromat to his temporary residence, William looked at the ransacked room and immediately chose to call the police.

Yes, call the police. He did not silently pretend nothing had happened, though he knew exactly what had taken place here.

The police arrived quickly. They looked over the scene and made a judgment at once. Combined with William’s statement that he had lost five hundred dollars, this was clearly a burglary case, and the amount was not small.

As for whether it could be solved, that would depend on William’s luck. In the officer’s words, no one knew who had come in, and there were no witnesses nearby. If the other party did not continue committing crimes and get caught, it would be very hard to recover William’s losses.

The meaning was basically that the case ended here.

Just as the police were about to leave, William suddenly added another clue. “Officer…”

The policeman standing at the door taking notes shifted his attention away from his colleague and looked at William. “Yes?”

“I just remembered. I also lost a gold ring. It was a gift I was going to give my girlfriend. Inside it was engraved, ‘My Beloved Eleanor’…” He sighed regretfully. “I should have kept it on me.”

The officer felt even more sympathy for the young man. He wrote that small detail at the bottom of the incident report and comforted him. “That’s an important lead. If the guy tries to unload it soon, maybe we’ll spot it.”

“Anything else to add?”

William shook his head. “No. Nothing else. Thank you for coming, gentlemen.”

The policeman put away his pen, tucked the clipboard under his arm, and adjusted the brim of his cap. “Wait for good news from us, kid.”

After briefly tidying up the room, William had visitors. The place where he lived now was an old four-story building facing the street. The first and second floors were occupied by a small bar, while the third and fourth floors were ordinary residences.

Many hotels or taverns rented out rooms on the second floor for short stays, three to five days, or a week. The shortest leases could be for a single day, more like an inn or hotel.

This model had first been discovered through drunks. The tavern boss would give them a bed, then charge them an extra fee. Soon, most taverns began doing the same thing. No one complained about digging money out of a drunk.

Alcohol was a very special thing. It could leave some people unconscious and tossed into a “high-class” room for the night, paying extra money for the privilege. It could also make some people simple and direct. That was why every bar, every tavern, needed rooms.

This also meant the place William currently lived could not be some remote, deserted suburb. People came and went here. Whether day or night, plenty of pedestrians passed by.

The police said they had found no witnesses and that it might have been a seasoned repeat offender. In truth, there could not possibly have been no witnesses. Whether the other tenants on the second floor, the bartender behind the bar counter downstairs, or the scattered handful of customers, it was impossible that no one knew anything.

But they would not speak. First, William had no direct interest tied to them. Second, there was no need to draw the attention of the IRS over someone they did not know and had nothing to do with. Everyone chose silence.

Yet that happened to make the police misunderstand certain things, and later gave them room to maneuver.

He had just finished straightening up the messy room when someone came to the door. It was several newspaper boys.

The cowhide satchels slung across their bodies were bulging. Each of them looked strained, their faces flushed, partly from the heavy satchels and partly from excitement.

The news boss had promised them that as long as they delivered this money and remembered some details about the room, they would receive an extra reward this month, no less than fifty dollars each.

That money mattered a great deal to children their age. In two or three years, they would have to start living independently. Before that happened, they had to save something to face society. The chance was not easy to come by, even if it was only fifty dollars.

Before closing the door, William glanced outside. The little tavern where he lived sat right beside the main road. Outside the door was a corridor, and beyond the corridor railing was the street. From where he stood, he could see most of what was outside at a glance.

Nothing seemed abnormal, but his mind had already begun to move. Based on his many years of experience fighting against… such things, these children had come under very suspicious circumstances.

Over the past few days, it had indeed been these newsboys who traded with him, but the news bosses came as well. They simply did not enter the room. Most of the time, they stood in the corridor outside.

They had handed large amounts of change to these children, so naturally they had to watch them and make sure they did not run off. It protected their property and intimidated the children at the same time. But today, there was no news boss in the corridor.

What did that mean?

Any abnormal phenomenon meant a deeper problem existed. The news boss’s absence had two possible explanations.

The first possibility was that he did not want to have any direct relationship with this place, or with William.