Chapter 396

"Bingkun, this is your factory?"

"It's this big? That doesn't match what you told us."

In a simple Shenzhen factory, barely sheltered from wind and rain, its air thick with the scent of medicinal herbs, Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao stood gaping, staring at the machines in motion and the bustling crowd working feverishly, frozen in shock.

Zhou Bingkun nodded with a smile: "Not bad?"

Xiao Guoqing sucked his teeth: "Not bad? It's seriously good."

"Bingkun, if you'd told us this sooner, none of that nonsense would've happened. I wouldn't have argued with Yu Hong, Guoqing wouldn't have beaten Wu Qian bloody, maybe Debao would've come over too."

Zhou Bingkun glanced at Sun Ganchao, then stepped into the factory: "Let's go. I'll show you how things are here, then assign you both jobs."

Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao exchanged a look, shook their heads, then cheerfully followed Zhou Bingkun's steps…

…

Zhou Bingkun's business was going smoothly—he was among the first to move, so he had the advantage. Add to that the formula and guidance from his good brother, and failure would've been unthinkable.

From tea bags to canned iced tea, then expanding into beverages and beer—this was the mature model from Wang Yan's previous world. Even with competitors, first-mover advantage held firm. And because operations ran well, with thin margins but high volume, commercial loans were easy to secure.

It was a snowball effect: once the foundation was solid, scale grew day by day. In just a few years, from nothing to something, Zhou Bingkun had become the famous "Iced Tea King."

Of course, his fame was only in the south. In the north, lagging years behind, no one knew who Zhou Bingkun was—except his own family. Even Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao, who worked with him, said little when they returned to Jichun.

When asked how the south was, they said it was good. When asked how working with Zhou Bingkun was, they said it was okay. But people weren't fools: since Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao had gone south for two months in 1981, their homes began smelling of meat, their clothes became newer and trendier, and later, they even got color TVs. Without earning money, they wouldn't have spent like that.

Cao Debao and Qiao Chunyan were also very curious. During the 1982 New Year gathering, they grilled them with questions. At that point, there was no point hiding—it couldn't be hidden anyway. Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao only described what they'd seen; since their roles were low—quality inspector and field sales—they didn't know the finer details.

But even that was enough to shock Cao Debao and Qiao Chunyan: a factory with over three hundred workers, imported machinery modified on-site, products sold across Guangdong, Guangxi, Hong Kong, and Southeast Asia.

Selling overseas? That couldn't be bad. And the factory's scale was obvious—a soy sauce plant had only a thousand workers. Zhou Bingkun had been gone for just over two years and already reached this level?

Cao Debao had drunk a lot. Drunk and dazed, he complained that the soy sauce factory was hard to run—business was tough, products didn't sell, the factory was struggling. Finally, jokingly, he asked: "Bingkun, I'm a workshop director, a bit of a leader—why don't I come work for you and manage production?"

Zhou Bingkun didn't answer. He just smiled bitterly, saying his operation looked big, but he still owed the bank hundreds of thousands. It wasn't nearly as glamorous as Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao made it sound. In bad times, he might end up with nothing—and still burdened with debt.

You voiced your needs; I voiced my struggles. Misaligned, yet still good friends.

Cao Debao and the others weren't stupid. After seeing the situation, Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao realized Zhou Bingkun's earlier words might've been testing whether friends were truly friends. He invited twice; they came. Cao Debao didn't. That was it—no more requests. That was basic social etiquette; anyone with a shred of dignity understood.

By now, Zhou Bingkun found these annual gatherings meaningless. Xiao Guoqing and Sun Ganchao worked under him, so naturally praised him in every word. Their wives, of course, said nothing else. Cao Debao and Qiao Chunyan? Even more obsequious—after all, Zhou Bingkun's old status was known, and now he was a big boss; they had to maintain appearances.

Having expanded his thinking, broadened his horizons, and risen in status through trading goods and now running a factory, he had nothing left to discuss with these people. All he heard was flattery, all he felt was elevation.

So this yearly friend gathering lost its genuine warmth, replaced by mundanity and boredom.

It wasn't that he looked down on his friends—it was the measurable gap that had formed, creating distance. Their sincerity faded, their honest words vanished. Drifting apart was natural.

Even with so much happening in the south and its rapid growth, Zhou Bingkun still returned home frequently. He mostly stuck to his old rhythm: stay a month or more in the south, then come back to rest for half a month—balance between work and rest. This was Wang Yan's constant advice: money is never enough, but children grow day by day, parents age day by day, and your wife's youth slips away—you mustn't ignore them.

As for others, Li Suhua still spent her days happily doting on her youngest granddaughter. Zheng Juan went about her daily chores—cooking, serving the elderly, caring for the children—everything peaceful.

The university graduates had returned to Jichun. Chen Jing still worked at the library, killing time. But university wasn't wasted—she began studying literary creation, writing every day. And perhaps because she was in Jingcheng, and Cai Xiaoguang and others often met up, she also started studying screenplays. The children were older now, their study habits well-formed, no need for constant supervision. When they were young, she read to them; now they were older, she didn't need to nag. She was a remarkably relaxed mother.

Zhou Bingyi, as previously stated, took a position at Jiangda. At the end of 1982, he was transferred to government work—after all, he had a powerful father-in-law. His earlier role at Jiangda was merely to test his son-in-law's mettle.

In fact, Hao Jinlong should've died in 1981. But after being nursed by Wang Yan, his wheezing eased, and he lived two more years, passing away at the end of 1983.

Hao Jinlong's two extra years greatly impacted Zhou Bingyi's career. This time, unlike before, he didn't get a quiet post—he worked in grassroots government in Jichun, and it was quite good.

In 1981, Hao Dongmei gave birth to a son, as she'd wished. The name was given by Hao Jinlong: Zhou Jirong. With a son, her life felt complete. After caring for the child for six months, she returned to Jichun Medical College. The baby was left to Jin Yueji, who was delighted and cheerful every day.

Zhou Rong's family also returned. They hadn't received housing in Jingcheng, and Feng Yue had grown up, so they came back to Jichun in 1982. As Zhou Rong had said, she became a teacher at Jiangda; Feng Huacheng joined the Writers' Association. They still lived in a communal apartment—nothing changed because they returned early. No house? Still no house.

After graduation, the apartment Wang Yan bought for Chen Jing sat empty. If Zhou Rong and Feng Huacheng had asked, logically and emotionally—even if not for them, then for Zhou Zhigang and Li Suhua—Wang Yan would've gladly let them live there. But sadly, perhaps they looked down on it, or felt too embarrassed to ask—either way, they never mentioned it.

Zhou Rong and Feng Huacheng's life was, of course, miserable. No housing, dissatisfaction, yet they still went on. Since 1978, when they brought Feng Yue to Jingcheng, they'd been arguing constantly. Housing was now a minor issue. The real conflict was the collapse of Zhou Rong's idealized image: once a dashing, brilliant poet, now reduced to years of stagnation, unable to give his wife and child a decent home.

People are like that: once you form a negative opinion of something or someone, you see it more and more unfavorably, more and more painfully—especially when it's your daily companion. In Zhou Rong's eyes, his scruffy face was repulsive, his groveling to give gifts was shameful…

Cai Xiaoguang said she was the classic type who could endure material hardship but couldn't bear spiritual suffering. Perhaps Zhou Rong could've endured material hardship all her life in the mountains of Qian Province, living in that cave school. But now, in the end, it's still about material things.

If Feng Huacheng had remained the same man, in this city, he'd need a house, enough to eat and wear, and fame. When those were met, their daily talks wouldn't be about when they'd get housing or why they had to give gifts. They'd discuss Feng Huacheng's new poems, or Zhou Rong's latest great book. Only then would she have the poet she'd once chased—traveling thousands of miles, breaking her mother's heart, staying away from home for nine years.

So Feng Huacheng was right to call Zhou Rong hypocritical. She only imagined herself as a transcendent, otherworldly literary girl.

Though Zhou Bingyi and Zhou Rong had returned to Jichun, both had families and responsibilities, so they rarely came home. Basically, every first Saturday night of the month, they'd gather at Guangzipi for dinner. So many people, so many mouths—it exhausted Zheng Juan.

Beyond that, they rarely returned. Including the dinner, they came at most twice a year.

Unlike Wang Yan, who brought his wife and children over every Saturday…

In mid-August 1984, a cool summer rain drifted down in the evening. In the old Zhou family courtyard, beneath the newly built shade pavilion, Wang Yan—just off work, with his wife and child—sat with Zhou Bingkun, who was home, sheltering from the drizzle, smoking cigarettes and sipping tea.

"This rain shows no sign of stopping. Why don't you stay the night?"

"We'll decide after dinner."

The rain was convenient—when Wang Yan arrived, it was fine. Soon after, it started pattering down.

"Shui Ziliu and Luo Shibin have arrived in Shenzhen and opened a sugar-pulling factory." Zhou Bingkun lounged with one leg crossed, smiling as he flicked ash: "No real tech involved—just basic raw material processing. I doubt they'll last."

Luo Shibin hadn't crossed Wang Yan's mind in a long time. In the original plot, he'd sneak over to Zheng Juan for the child this year. But this time, he didn't show up—maybe he was scared. After all, Zheng Juan had no reason to hide it; only a few people knew the truth. If Luo Shibin came, they'd have told him. Since they didn't, he didn't come.

The only possible reason: Wang Yan's reputation as Northeast China's #1 healer was too big, and the beating he'd given him years ago left too deep an impression. Luo Shibin dared not show his face.

But now, Zhou Bingkun's level was certainly sufficient. In this wild, unregulated era, he could casually say, "No tech, won't last"—a big step forward.

"Depends on how the boss feels," Wang Yan chuckled. "Though sugar-pulling factories have no future, you know the situation: anywhere you call a factory in the south, you make money. They're surely earning well. Who knows what'll happen later? Still, stay alert. Your name's big out there—didn't they come to you?"

Zhou Bingkun snorted: "If they dare come near me, I'll beat them senseless."

Given their history, no amount of flattery or leveraging would ever work. The only reason they'd approach him was over the child—and if it was about the child, those two bastards deserved a beating, no matter what.

"Hey, Brother, you built a factory here, right? I never asked—how's it going?"

Wang Yan smiled: "I was just going to tell you. My product's too expensive—people in our country can't afford it. Have your sales team promote it in Hong Kong."

"What product? People here can't afford it?"

"That pill you all eat regularly. But its effect is weaker. In Hong Kong, I plan to sell each bottle for ten thousand Hong Kong dollars. You know how much people here earn—barely a hundred or eighty yuan a month. How could they afford it?"

"Two and a half Hong Kong dollars equal one yuan. Ten thousand Hong Kong dollars is… four thousand?" Zhou Bingkun's eyes widened in shock: "Brother, the medicine we've been taking is that expensive? No wonder it works so well—I haven't been sick in years."

"Of course not that exaggerated. Including all other costs, I still make a good profit. For every bottle your sales team sells, I give them a hundred yuan, and you a hundred yuan—consider it a rental fee for the sales staff. I've already sent the delivery team. Just arrange it when you get back." Wang Yan waved his hand: "Hey, snap out of it. You've been taking this medicine for years—you know how effective it is, right? The rich care about health. Once they verify the results and confirm they can actually buy it here, they won't think it's expensive. There are plenty willing to pay."

He never planned to sell it domestically, because it wouldn't maximize profit. Domestic salaries are barely a hundred or eighty yuan. True, adjusting for inflation, the cost per bottle is only a few dozen yuan. But sell it domestically, you make a hundred yuan. Sell it overseas, you make over three thousand. Anyone can do the math—clearly, the real profits come from abroad.

"Bro, you're still the best."

"I'm still learning."

"By the way, bro, since everything's fully open now, what if I move the factory back? Or build a new one? Shenzhen's too far—this side's way more convenient."

Wang Yan thought for a moment and said: "Build a new one. And you could go to Changbai Mountain and see if you can lease a water source. Bottled water's a good business too—once you open the market, you'll make plenty."

"Alright, I'll look into it later. Right now, our cooling tea, drinks, and beer are selling like crazy—supply can't keep up. We should hold off on new ventures for now."

Zhou Bingkun nodded, then said: "Bro, what if we build apartments? I'm telling you, bro, the first time I went to Sister Hao's house, I was so jealous—I thought, if I could live somewhere like that, wouldn't it be amazing? Wouldn't Mom and Dad be so proud? Those two old folks never dreamed we'd ever live like that. Now people in Shenzhen are building high-rises—I want us to build in Jichun, right by the river. Tall buildings, villas, wherever you want to live—how great would that be?"

"If you want to build a palace in the sky, I won't stop you—the money's yours, spend it however you like," Wang Yan said, crushing out his cigarette. "Enough talking. If we keep going, you'll think of something even wilder. Good—you've made so much money, your ambitions are growing. That's a good thing. Come on, let's eat. No matter how big your dreams are, you still need to fill your stomach."

The two laughed as they walked inside, and soon, cheerful chatter rose above the sound of rain outside the window.

Now, at the dinner table, they weren't talking about how much money Zhou Bingkun had made. In fact, the family rarely asked about such things—no matter how much he earned, it didn't change their lives much. They still ate the same food, wore slightly newer clothes, but felt no great shift in their daily existence. Of course, that was Wang Yan's doing—over the years, the Zhou family had never gone without a meal.

Now the main topic was Zheng Guangming's marriage. Since regaining his sight, he'd been studying constantly by Wang Yan's side. Zheng Guangming had talent, was eager to learn, and knew how to value opportunity. Over the years, he'd grown quite skilled. Wang Yan had assigned him as a clinic doctor for common ailments—with an official post—and the conditions were more than adequate.

Zheng Guangming was twenty-one now—the boy from years ago had grown up, and it was time to marry. But he'd spent all these years studying and never sought out anyone on his own. His sister Zheng Juan was deeply worried, and so was Li Suhua, who had long treated Zheng Guangming as family. Lately, they'd been busy arranging dates for him, constantly nagging—just like Li Suhua once nagged about Wang Yan and Zhou Bingkun.

As the family enjoyed their warm meal, in a house far away in Shenzhen, smoke curled through the air.

Shui Ziliu stood up and opened the window wider, looking at Luo Shibin, seated on the sofa with his curly long hair, and sighed: "Bingzi, maybe we should just give up…"

Luo Shibin stared at the newspaper on the coffee table—its photo showed Zhou Bingkun smiling confidently. He crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor, then raised his head, eyes resolute: "Water Brother, I'm not like you. I will get my son back. Even if Zhou Bingkun is now the Cooling Tea King, even if he has a brother who's an official and another who's the Divine Doctor of the Northeast—so what? Water Brother, we'll still achieve something great. I'll make Jianhua know who his real father is. I'll build him a vast commercial empire…"

"Bingzi, it was our fault back then. And we made a promise to Wang Yan—the child has nothing to do with us."

"No, he does. I say he does, so he does." Luo Shibin jumped to his feet, took a deep breath, and said: "Water Brother, you know me—I'm just a broken man now. I'm not like you. I want a son, my own son. Otherwise, what's the point of all these years we've worked? What's the point of me still being alive?"

Shui Ziliu looked at him helplessly: "Bingzi, you're being unreasonable. You know Wang Yan would really kill us. We're just two little arms and legs—no different from ants."

"Water Brother, don't try to talk me out of it—I know what I'm doing. I won't go and throw myself at his feet to die. Wang Yan's powerful, sure—but so what? Jianhua is my son. That's an unchangeable fact. No one can change it. I will make him know who his real father is." Luo Shibin stepped forward two paces, gazing earnestly at Shui Ziliu: "Water Brother, help me. Let's grow big and strong together. I believe if we team up, we'll one day achieve something—something so powerful, no one will dare touch us. When that day comes, I'll stand before Jianhua in broad daylight and tell him face-to-face: I'm your father."

"If you're that set on it, what can I say? We've been brothers for life—I'll help you. But first, promise me: if we don't reach what you've said, you won't show up near them. We'll just live quietly, fade away."

"Don't worry, Water Brother. If I die, it'll be by my own hand—I won't drag you down with me."

"Sigh… do as you wish…"

——————Extra Notes——————

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