Chapter 21: Daily Life

In the following days, Wang Yan had no heart for work, wandering aimlessly through the streets and alleys of Jingcheng, touring its scenic landmarks.

It was also to relax his mind and process the sense of alienation from the real world.

After a full week of aimless drifting, Wang Yan finally felt completely recovered.

Then he began his daily harassment: casually checking out major real estate developments and luxury villas in Jingcheng. One must live—no matter how powerful Wang Yan was, he still had to eat, drink, and relieve himself.

Honestly, Wang Yan was tired of the endless sales calls and endless house viewings.

Working hard was for money, and also to realize personal ideals and self-worth through work.

To him, the real world was a warm harbor. He had no desire to stir up trouble here—he just wanted to live quietly, for he’d already been powerful and elegant enough in countless film worlds; he didn’t want to grow tired of it all later.

Otherwise, Wang Yan could’ve just gone to the Golden Triangle, tracked down his old brothers, and made money faster than selling houses.

He flipped through his skills, looking for one that could support him without a job.

After much searching, he settled on stock trading. Thanks to his accumulated experience across two worlds—and especially his role as a big shot and operator in “Infernal Affairs”—even without direct involvement, just the exposure alone was enough to bring his stock and finance skills up to Level 2 proficiency.

This was the system’s objective assessment, combining Wang Yan’s trained instincts, his understanding of financial markets, and the industry insights he’d gained from controlling Long Teng, a vast conglomerate spanning countless sectors.

Lately, Wang Yan had heard some things about the financial market’s condition. But no matter how turbulent it became, there would always be profitable companies.

With his experience and insight, he couldn’t guarantee steady profits—only that he’d avoid major losses, cut losses promptly, and keep any damage minimal.

That was enough. Nothing’s perfect. Minimizing losses and maximizing gains was already heaven’s favor—he didn’t need a bicycle.

Wang Yan cashed out some money via credit card to fund his stock trading; he had zero cash on hand, clean as a whistle.

His capital was limited, so he stuck to short-term trades, grabbing opportunities whenever they came.

He still had to keep doing sales for a while, since it carried risk. He said he wouldn’t lose much—but the weather’s unpredictable; who could guarantee anything 100%?

He was drowning in debt, counting on selling houses to turn things around.

So Wang Yan was busy on two fronts: making harassing calls when idle, and occasionally checking market updates and trading stocks.

Unexpectedly, Zhang Hai called him.

It was a day off—the only days real estate agents made deals—and Wang Yan was no exception.

There was no way around it: his social standing was what it was. Selling villas or top-tier properties? No chance. What did old Wang have? Who even knew him?

Without bias: he wasn’t a pretty girl, nor did he have a handsome face. Maybe after talking with him, someone might find him insightful—but they wouldn’t listen past his first sentence. No matter how powerful he was, without opportunity, he was nothing.

Wang Yan kept doing his usual thing—harassing people, hoping to trick a few into viewing houses, aiming to close two deals.

Then Zhang Hai called, saying his classmate also wanted to buy a house, and he’d referred Wang Yan to him, asking Wang Yan to help find a suitable one.

Wang Yan thanked him profusely—he hadn’t expected a referral right after closing one sale.

Zhang Hai thought Wang Yan was excellent, which was why he’d made the referral.

During their conversations, many of Wang Yan’s viewpoints had greatly inspired Zhang Hai. Their interactions were a process of clashing, blending, and absorbing each other’s worldviews and levels. At that time, Wang Yan had just returned from “My Country, My Parents,” and his level was roughly equal to Zhang Hai’s—no more than a little stronger.

If they met now, it wouldn’t be a conversation—it’d be Wang Yan giving one-sided guidance. Think about what Wang Yan had done in the “Infernal Affairs” world: built a gang, became a big shot, studied Confucianism, philosophy, Daoism—those mystical things. Their ranks and levels were too far apart.

Using the contact Zhang Hai gave him, Wang Yan called his classmate, asked in detail what kind of house he wanted and what requirements he had, and finally arranged to meet the next day to view some properties.

After the call, he began filtering listings that matched the criteria. From their conversation, Wang Yan had already grasped the client’s key needs and selected several houses as top recommendations.

With Wang Yan’s level, as long as the client had enough money and the desire to buy, he’d almost certainly close the deal. Of course, exceptions existed—some people had special traits. Not selling wasn’t a big deal, but such clients were just… annoying, and spoiled the mood.

The next day, Wang Yan took Zhang Hai’s classmate and his girlfriend to view houses.

With his skill and deliberate effort to please, their conversation flowed naturally and pleasantly, the atmosphere warm and harmonious.

This buyer, like Zhang Hai, was getting married.

They were the same age. Seeing everyone around them getting married, and remembering how his own classmates’ kids were already running around, Wang Yan felt a faint urge to marry too. Not for anything else—just for stability.

In these two worlds, Wang Yan had never lacked women. In “Infernal Affairs,” they were all high-quality—either noble ladies or beautiful women—he’d grown somewhat numb to them.

His parents were also a major factor. They were getting old and constantly dreamed of holding a grandchild. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have entertained this idea—why not just enjoy life alone?

After two worlds and nearly forty years in the real world, Wang Yan still hadn’t transcended the terror of life and death.

Children disguise themselves as mature; the elderly pretend childishness to escape the truth of aging.

Of course, in this vast world, some truly face life and death calmly—but how many are there?

He shook his head. Thinking about it was useless. Finding a wife wouldn’t be solved overnight—better to focus on making money.

Over three days, Wang Yan showed the classmate over a dozen houses, and they finally chose one similar to the one Zhang Hai had bought.

That was normal—they were nearly identical; otherwise, how could they be friends and get along so well?

This house, like the last one, earned him about 100,000.

When signing the contract, the boss of the agency where Wang Yan was registered looked at him differently.

Selling two houses in a month? That was impressive. He’d earned nearly 200,000 from these two deals—roughly 15,000 per month. Among tens of thousands of salespeople in Jingcheng, few reached this level.

After signing the contract, Wang Yan treated Zhang Hai and his wife, the classmate, and his girlfriend to dinner—to express his gratitude.

Even though to them he was an outsider, under Wang Yan’s guidance, everyone enjoyed the meal, laughing and chatting happily. Even the girlfriends grew curious about Wang Yan—ordinary-looking, yet witty, articulate, and intriguing. They felt an unconscious urge to dig deeper and understand what kind of man he really was.

In Wang Yan’s eyes, their level was just average—he had no real interest. Besides, he was a man of principle, still had some dignity. Otherwise, he’d have let them see just how powerful old Wang really was—perhaps have a detailed discussion on whether manual transmission was better than CVT.

With his current physical condition, without braking, he could maintain high-speed maneuvering for half an hour. With braking, handling two was child’s play—effortless.

Judging by the harmony at today’s dinner, anyone in their circle wanting to buy a house would undoubtedly turn to Wang Yan first.

During this time, Wang Yan had also made some profit from stock trading.

The overall market environment wasn’t good, and he had no divine abilities—earning anything at all meant he was skilled.

The money from house sales would take a few more days to land, but these gains eased Wang Yan’s financial strain somewhat.

Once the money arrived, he’d instantly turn things around—his life would truly stabilize. After selling two more houses, with 100,000 or 200,000 in hand, he’d truly have the sea wide enough for fish to leap and the sky high enough for birds to fly.

He had no long-term plan for how to live in the real world, nor did he need one. He’d take it one step at a time—given his skill set, how could he fail to eat?

For the short term, he had a goal: save up to buy a house and RV, then travel the country and truly enjoy himself. Now, it was a short-term goal—but once, it had been his lifelong dream.

After two worlds, Wang Yan had visited many places. Except for Shanghai and Hong Kong, everywhere else had been a whirlwind tour—he’d focused mostly on learning.

“Everyone is a thinker”—this isn’t entirely true, but it’s not wrong either.

Everyone is romantic.

No matter their age, background, or education, most people harbor some artistic impulse—only differing in whether they recite poetry or curse.

Some people actually became artists.

Others remained stuck, only remembering their old dreams when they heard a song, saw a story, or stumbled upon a news article—that was what they once wanted, the story they once dreamed of having.

My motherland, mountains majestic. My motherland, vast and rich.

In the future, he would truly feel the weight of this land of China, soaked in the blood of millennia of ancestors.