Chapter 343

Standing apart from them was a middle-aged man in a suit, polished shoes, and a slicked-back haircut, slightly overweight—clearly a professional.

"Hello, Mr. Wang, I'm Xu Hong. Is there anything I can help you with?"

He wasn't a senior lawyer, not a famous one, and had no high-level connections. Though lawyers were an elite profession and he himself was an intellectual, his position was too low to ignore an undercover detective whose name rang loud across both legal and criminal circles—especially one known for his ruthlessness.

After shaking his hand, Wang Yan said: "You're proficient in registering companies, trademarks, and related tax-avoidance methods?"

Xu Hong adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and smiled: "Proficient? I wouldn't say that—but if it's business matters, leave it to me. You can rest assured, everything will be handled."

"Good." Wang Yan nodded, glanced around, and pointed to a broken table in the corner: "Pig Fat Zai, clean that table."

Pig Fat Zai obediently gathered the others, and with rags they wiped the dust off the table. They'd already been cleaning, so supplies were plentiful.

Once the table was clean, Wang Yan had Xu Hong sit there, and in his surprised gaze, Wang Yan calmly gave his instructions.

The name didn't need elaboration—it was still Long Teng. This current iced tea business would be called Long Teng Tea Drink. Other registration details would be symbolically concealed, with one shareholder listed. Of course, anyone determined to investigate would know the company was his. After all, his goal was to appear clean and upright—if no one could trace it, his business would be meaningless. Most crucially, the police force had no rule forbidding officers from running businesses. He wanted people to know, to see—he couldn't be touched.

After giving clear instructions, he handed Xu Hong the remaining thousand dollars, and reiterated: everything must have receipts, be legal and professional.

While he was instructing Xu Hong, Pig Fat Zai and the others had nearly finished cleaning. After seeing Xu Hong off, he began teaching them how to process herbs and how to package them.

Iced tea isn't medicinal, so herb ratios don't need strict precision—close enough is fine. Even if they couldn't measure herbs properly, as long as they guessed roughly, the taste wouldn't be significantly affected.

He wasn't making finished products, but tea bags. Each was sealed in gauze and could be directly tossed into a pot to boil. One bag could brew three pots, costing between seven and ten cents each. The three-cent fluctuation came from these workers' inaccuracy—they were sloppy, so quantities varied, affecting quality. But he didn't demand perfection; just enough was fine.

As for pricing, he planned to sell each bag for fifteen cents—this profit margin wasn't thin, since it doubled the cost. And it was a consumable: any stall could set up a pot and sell it daily, one bag minimum. Across Hong Kong's countless stalls, excluding those with century-old lineages, the market was undoubtedly enormous.

For retail, he suggested ten cents per large bowl. Though ten cents could buy a bowl of dumplings, he was confident his taste justified it. His taste wasn't necessarily better than ancestral recipes—even if slightly better, it wouldn't be much, since it was just a drink. But his efficacy was definitely superior; long-term consumption offered far greater health benefits than similar iced teas. Those ancestral brands sold for ten cents or more—he, with his royal imperial formula, shouldn't be worse.

Even if it didn't vastly surpass ancestral recipes, it was unquestionably far better than ordinary stalls. Good taste, reasonable price—sales were guaranteed. Everyone could do the math: higher cost, but higher volume, vastly better than before. So this tea bag would absolutely sell like wildfire.

After a half-day of bustle, night fell. Wang Yan ladled a bowl of freshly boiled, scalding hot iced tea, took a small sip, nodded, and looked at Pig Fat Zai and the others staring eagerly: "What are you standing around for? Waiting for me to serve you? Try some."

The others quickly filled their bowls, hissing as they burned their tongues but refusing to put the bowls down, slurping eagerly.

It wasn't especially delicious—mainly, they'd spent the whole afternoon making it themselves, so it felt different. Plus, it was well past mealtime, their stomachs were empty, and knowing they'd produced something meant they could leave soon—they were eager.

"Mmm…" Pig Fat Zai pointed at his bowl: "It's delicious, Brother Yan, really delicious—no worse than ancestral recipes, way better than ordinary stalls. Brother Yan, we're going to get rich!"

"Enough. You all know how to make it now—do it like this every day. Taste the tea if you want, but from now on, you produce this. If you want to drink, just boil a pot. Besides, drinking too much gives you diarrhea—clean this place up, then I'll treat you to alcohol and meat."

Though lazy, these men now worked with enthusiasm. On one hand, three dollars a day wasn't low—it was far better than doing nothing on the streets. On the other, Pig Fat Zai had told them how powerful Wang Yan was—they dared not hold back. To them, he was a living King of Hell—he could kill them anytime.

After tidying up, Wang Yan took the four to a nearby restaurant, ordered a full table of dishes and white liquor, and ate heartily with them.

Pig Fat Zai and the others lived hard lives. The feast of fish and meat had them eating like starving ghosts, grease dripping from their mouths.

He himself was a big eater; though years of habit had made him eat elegantly, his speed was lightning-fast. At the five-man table, little was said—raise a cup, drink; set it down, devour.

After a while, full and drunk, Pig Fat Zai and the others lifted their shirts, one hand rubbing their bellies, the other picking teeth with toothpicks.

Wang Yan sipped tea leisurely: "Pig Fat Zai."

Pig Fat Zai straightened his posture, put down the toothpick, to show respect: "Brother Yan."

"Did you memorize the boiling order?" Seeing him nod, Wang Yan sipped his hot tea and continued: "Today we made dozens of bags. Tomorrow, take them all and start here—every one or two streets, find a tea stall and deliver our tea bags. Make the price clear: fifteen cents per bag, no haggling. Ten cents per large bowl—don't let them set their own prices. Bring a notebook, record every stall's address. The day after tomorrow, go back and collect payment. Can you handle it?"

His tea bags didn't contain raw herbs in bulk. All herbs were ground into powder, mixed, and sealed in fine gauze packets. Multiple packets were used, with strict brewing order—no mixing allowed. This ensured good secrecy—even if machines analyzed the components, dosage would be hard to determine, greatly increasing the difficulty of reverse-engineering.

And frankly, though this could bring big profits long-term, he didn't care much about it—he wouldn't mind if it went public. As long as he secured his first pot of gold to fund other ventures, that was enough.

Selling raw materials now was just step one. The next step was clear: open a factory to produce canned iced tea—premium, upscale, high-end, sellable at high prices. Market it to Japan, Korea, Europe, America, Southeast Asia—that's real business.

Moreover, long-term storage formulas differ from freshly brewed ones. Honestly, even if he published his current recipe, few would bother making it themselves—it wouldn't affect the market at all. He could even mass-produce small household tea bags for single-pot brewing—a great way to reach every home.

Either way, he made money.

"Brother Yan, forgive me for speaking out of turn," Pig Fat Zai said cautiously. "I think we could just make it ourselves—get more pushcarts, buy more big pots, claim street spots. We wouldn't just sell tea—we could sell snacks too. We don't lack hands—our neighborhood, and your Dongtou Village, have too many unemployed. We hire them—it'd be perfect…"

Wang Yan shook his head: "You think anyone can run a street stall? If so, wouldn't the whole city be full of them? Use your brain. So what if the tea tastes good? Without skill to draw crowds, what's the point of just tea? Hire so many people—we'd go bankrupt. Those stall owners have been doing this for years—if they didn't have real skill, they'd have quit long ago.

They don't survive on tea alone. You think you can steal their customers? You know the streets—triads rule, cops and gangsters are one. Who can handle all that? Even I'm just a lowly undercover cop, not the chief—I can't cover everything. So we just supply raw materials. We make good money, and avoid endless headaches."

What Pig Fat Zai proposed? A chain of snack stalls. Could he do it? Of course he could.

Tea could supply raw materials; producing semi-finished snacks wouldn't be hard—he could guarantee consistent taste, with slight variation depending on the stallholder's skill. But he didn't want to bother—there were far more profitable ventures, no need to waste energy on this.

Besides, markets eliminate the weak. If he flooded in en masse, he'd trigger industry over-saturation, causing many families reliant on single stalls to lose their livelihood. In the end, would this increase or decrease employment? Unclear. Unlike now: one tea bag won't threaten any stall's survival. It even boosts their sales—he profits, and herbal suppliers profit too.

Though he selected only one stall every one or two streets, the superior taste and efficacy might affect others' business. But people are cunning—they'll investigate. Once they see their income drop, their first reaction will be to find out why—within three days, they'll track down Pig Fat Zai. Then he'll welcome them all—sell wholesale, dominate the entire Hong Kong and Kowloon tea ingredient market.

Then tea prices rise across Hong Kong and Kowloon—everyone starts on equal footing. Only consumers lose, but Hong Kong and Kowloon tea becomes tastier and more effective—ten cents is still worth it. Multiple winners, everyone happy.

"Understood, Brother Yan. Don't worry—I'll start from Tsz Wan Shan to Kowloon tomorrow. I'll get it done." Pig Fat Zai thought a moment: "Should we hire two more people? Otherwise we won't keep up. Missing out on money is painful. And what if those with ancestral recipes see us making big profits and try to compete?"

"I've told you how to make it and how to sell it. The rest is up to you. In the next couple days, I'll find an accountant to check the books—after that, you're in charge." Wang Yan stood up with a smile, patted his shoulder: "I'm counting on you, Pig Fat Zai. Don't let me down."

"Don't worry, Brother Yan."

"You too—work hard. When we grow bigger, you won't be stuck doing manual labor forever. Don't forget to read. If you fall behind, don't blame me for not giving you chances."

After casually encouraging the other three workers, Wang Yan waved goodbye and left the restaurant…

"Big Brother Zai, you weren't wrong. Brother Yan is terrifying. He's always smiling, but we, who fear nothing, dare not joke with him. Just one look from his eyes, we feel naked—nothing hidden."

Watching the silhouette walking outside, lighting a cigarette, Pig Fat Zai nodded with a grin: "Not your fault—I feel the same. You guys? You've picked the right man. Look at Brother Yan, then at Yan Tong, Liu Fu—they all think of business to make money, or how to embezzle, buy property, find mistresses. The gap is huge. I say, Brother Yan will rise fast—maybe even become police chief one day. Work hard, don't mess up, and I guarantee you'll all wear suits and lead. Later, bring Ah Yi and the others too—let's all get rich together."

"Good. Working together is best…"

…

"Morning, Brother Yan."

Lei Luo walked in smiling, deliberately using his left hand…

"What's the good news? You're so happy?"

Right now, Lei Luo was still a straightforward, carefree young man, utterly without guile. With his positive guidance, things would proceed smoothly. Of course, no one who takes bribes can truly be clean and bright.

But isn't there a trope? Villains pursue grand ideals with ruthless methods; heroes fight for justice to eliminate heretics. Simplify it: they're the former. After all, he always emphasized: taking money is temporary—to adapt to the rules, integrate into them, change them, and ultimately shatter the old order to rebuild a new one. In short: an ambitious idealist.

"I'm getting married. The second of next month. Isn't that good news?"

"That's definitely good—picked a lucky day too: the second day of the second month, when the dragon raises its head." It was January 1950; the New Year was days away.

"We planned to wait two more months, but…" Lei Luo chuckled foolishly: "But Xia has gotten pregnant. We just found out yesterday."

"Oh! That's wonderful." Wang Yan showed slight surprise: "Today I'll go to a gold shop and have them make my future nephew a solid gold locket."

"Yan Ge, who needs a golden lock? You're such a badass uncle—that's enough. Besides, we don't even know if it's a boy or a girl yet."

"That's a bad mindset. Whether it's a boy or a girl, isn't it your blood? Either way, I'll make one golden lock for each child you have." Wang Yan held the lock as he walked out the door with Lei Luo, hanging it up while smiling: "Alright, you're becoming a father this year. You'd better start acting more serious."

"When have I ever not been serious?"

"The moment you bounced over my threshold, grinning like an idiot at me."

…

Lei Luo fell silent. Until they finished breakfast near the police station and parted ways for work, they barely spoke. He felt awkward, embarrassed. His discomfort was written all over his face—he'd blushed all the way. As for what exactly he was thinking, Wang Yan didn't know, but he guessed Lei Luo was recalling those past moments when he'd been utterly foolish.

"Yan Ge, I've fully investigated what you asked me to look into yesterday."

Just as they reached the second-floor Criminal Unit, the plainclothes officer who'd given him the assignment yesterday walked over with files.

"Thanks, Brother Liang," Wang Yan said politely. "Tell me, what's the situation?"

"You were right. The dead man's wife is pregnant and gave birth just a month ago. She was already pregnant back then, but she said it wasn't important, so she didn't tell our people. She really did find a new man—and he knew the deceased. Word is they used to hang out together, close friends. Now, their life seems decent. He works outside to earn money; she stays home to care for the child. Neither has parents—they rely on each other. They look fine."

"When did they get together?"

"They just got married recently, but I heard that after they found the corpse, they basically started living together." Brother Liang hesitated. "Are you suspecting they were lovers? That they conspired to kill the man?"

He'd felt it when he questioned and investigated yesterday; now he couldn't help voicing his suspicion.

"Highly likely," Wang Yan nodded. "The case file says neighbors heard loud arguments, crying, and begging ten days ago, though they weren't sure. They said the couple argued almost daily, and beating his wife was routine. This new man had known them for a long time and was close to them. So I suspect the woman and this current man were already having an affair before. The child is theirs—the dead man was a drunk, gambler, and womanizer; having a child was probably impossible. Of course, the child might still be his—but it doesn't matter."

"Because the child is just a trigger. The real motive is probably that the woman couldn't stand this scumbag anymore, didn't want to live like this, so she secretly killed him—or did it together with this current lover. They just wanted a quiet life. In that case, the one who dumped the body is definitely this man—he's not the main killer, but he's an accomplice. Whether it's exactly like this? We'll never know."

"I think so too. Yesterday when I went over, both of them acted strangely. But their strangeness makes sense—we're not welcome. Besides, they never thought we'd still be investigating this case." Brother Liang shook his head, smiling bitterly. "So… are we going to keep digging into this case?"

"No. I just had curiosity, so I told you to check the situation." Wang Yan shook his head. "Even if it's true that his wife and his buddy killed him, who cares? This scumbag—no matter how he died—he deserved it. No need to waste our energy. For future cases like this, just gather the facts, make a rough guess. If nothing else is involved, arrest some reckless thug and pin it on him."

"If it's hard to catch someone, tell the six big bosses—they'll arrange it. Often, the truth doesn't matter to us. None of them are good people anyway. Whoever dies, it's the same. We avoid trouble and boost our clearance rate. A win-win."

Brother Liang nodded, replied, and turned to leave. Indeed, those who rise to power have hard hearts—they don't care about human lives. Even though those scumbags' lives truly didn't matter…

Wang Yan, of course, didn't know what Brother Liang was thinking. Even if he did, it wouldn't matter. The legal system was still being perfected—there were plenty of loopholes to exploit. This was a special time when police and criminals were practically one family; good and evil didn't really matter.

You always have to pay back what you owe. Those who drink, gamble, whore, cheat, swindle, steal—doing nothing but evil—what does it matter if they die? Who cares? Even their own parents, besides crying, probably felt relief. What were they crying for? The adorable baby they once held. They didn't understand how such a sweet child became this.

Ultimately, the cause is the environment. The original sin lies with the police and criminals, with the Hong Kong government, with Queen Victoria, with colonial ideology, with the primitive plunder of imperialism…

With one case closed, Wang Yan sat back down and resumed flipping through the pile of case files.

Redrawing territory and dividing profits—this should be settled within the next couple of days. He'd heard that late last night, Rattlesnake took on two at once and brutally beat the Bald Guy and another gang boss—but after the fight, Chuishui Qiang struck from behind like a bird waiting in ambush, turning Rattlesnake into a worm. Ciyunshan was a tiny place, yet the six gang bosses played alliances and rivalries well. These thugs were even using military strategy—something he hadn't expected—but it proved human potential was limitless.

The big thug of Ciyunshan had been thoroughly subdued. He didn't dare move during the day or even the early night—only fighting after midnight. But even after midnight wasn't their domain—fighting and killing disturbed the people too much. This morning, they came to pay their fines…

So he needed to quickly go through the backlog of cases, assign suitable charges to these thugs, and not waste the opportunity. This wave of achievements should be enough to get him promoted—to Detective Sergeant.

That was the rank in the Criminal Unit, created by the foreigners just to give Chinese officers some psychological comfort. After all, the highest rank, Chief Detective, was still just a police superintendent. So they created tiers for better management. From low to high: Detective, Detective Sergeant, Senior Detective Sergeant, Detective Lieutenant, Chief Detective.

He was currently a Detective. Honestly, compared to his previous uniformed patrol duties, it wasn't much higher. But since the Criminal Department had higher status, moving from uniformed to plainclothes was still a promotion.

Of course, these internal ranks meant little. In Ciyunshan Police Station, among the uniformed and plainclothes units, his words and orders—except from Chen Tong and Lin Mingyuan—were never challenged. What mattered wasn't the title, but money. If he could butter up the foreigners, and had decent achievements, becoming the youngest Detective Lieutenant in Hong Kong and Kowloon wouldn't be a problem.

Weakness is always a crime. While the six gang bosses fought like dogs for profit, many small-time thugs and minor factions trembled in the cracks between the big gangs, shrinking their presence to avoid being crushed.

They didn't know that one man was buried in files, working overtime, laboring hard to sift through cases and assign fitting charges to them—all to earn merit and get promoted…