Chapter 3: I Think I Know How to Make Money Now

At eight in the morning, the morning light had faded.

A sudden chorus of cicadas outside the window woke Chen Yansen from sleep.

The fifteen-square-meter room was crammed with stuff: three stacks of textbooks and reference materials, two stacks of mock exam papers, and by the window stood a lacquered red wooden desk, equally piled high with books.

A poster of Xu Song was taped to the wall, in a distinctly non-mainstream style.

“Get up, make money!”

Chen Yansen checked his system, then glanced at his phone’s time, and finally accepted it—he was in 2010, and he couldn’t go back.

He put on a short-sleeved shirt, walked into the bathroom, and began brushing his teeth and washing his face.

Chen Yansen’s house had two bedrooms and a living room, totaling about sixty square meters; it had originally been housing for employees of the salt company, bought ten years ago by Old Chen for thirty thousand yuan.

By 2020, the demolition compensation came to 480,000 yuan.

A sixteenfold increase!

“I should tell Old Chen to buy the two apartments upstairs—this is a guaranteed profit.”

Chen Yansen thought aimlessly while brushing his teeth.

To make money, you first need startup capital!

Last night he’d counted everything—he had just over three hundred yuan, even the coins hidden in his dirty socks had been dug out.

Looks like I’ll have to “borrow” some from Old Chen.

After all, when the old man dies, this money will be mine anyway—I’m just using it early, no harm done!

Thinking this, Chen Yansen wiped the water from his face and, following memory, slipped into Chen Guobin’s bedroom.

Nightstand, second photo album.

Chen Yansen easily found two bank cards—one registered to Old Chen, the other to his mother, whom he’d never met.

For years, Chen Guobin had deposited money into both cards annually—for Chen Yansen’s college tuition and future marriage and children.

The passwords were told to him by Old Chen himself!

In 2018, Old Chen fell seriously ill; if Chen Yansen hadn’t exhausted every connection to find a hospital, he likely wouldn’t have survived.

The moment Old Chen woke up, he immediately told him where the cards were and their passwords.

“A man like Old Chen somehow gave birth to a scumbag like me.”

Chen Yansen chuckled bitterly.

He flipped to the last page of the album—a yellowed old photo, which, had it not been laminated, would have long since fallen apart.

In the photo, Chen Guobin wore a suit, stood tall, grinning foolishly, with a gentle-looking girl leaning on his shoulder, dressed in a linen dress, her face full of joy and happiness.

As someone who’d lived through it, Chen Yansen understood his father’s feelings perfectly.

Love that fades slowly rarely torments you long; love that ends abruptly is what drives you mad.

His wife died in childbirth, leaving behind a crying infant.

Old Chen became both father and mother to raise Chen Yansen.

Of course, he wasn’t a saint—when he was a kid, he was mischievous and reckless, driving Old Chen to emotional breakdowns, and the old man would kick him without mercy.

He’d kick while crying and yelling: “If it weren’t for you, my wife wouldn’t have died!”

That was when he realized—for Chen Guobin, his son was an accident; his wife was true love.

After too many beatings, Chen Yansen’s stubbornness flared up—he stopped calling him “Dad,” and instead called him “Old Chen” all day.

In a way, the grit and drive he later showed in entrepreneurship were kicked into him, one kick at a time.

“Mom, I’m taking the money you saved for me—I’ll use it now, and later I’ll get you more daughters-in-law.”

Chen Yansen grinned at the photo, utterly carefree.

He put Old Chen’s card back where he found it, and slipped his mother’s card into his pocket.

He pulled out his phone and called Wang Zihao.

“Haozi, meet me at the crossroads in ten minutes.”

Chen Yansen said bluntly.

“To the internet cafe?”

Wang Zihao’s voice was muffled—he was clearly still half-asleep.

“Kids play games all day. Dad’s taking you to make money!”

Chen Yansen was speechless, and spoke plainly.

“Huh? You mean we’re getting summer jobs?”

Wang Zihao sat up in bed, astonished.

It was almost August—they’d been glued to internet cafes and pool halls since the college entrance exam, never even thought about summer jobs or getting their driver’s licenses.

“Stop talking nonsense. Get here now.”

Chen Yansen hung up without another word.

Then he went downstairs, found a Jietian bicycle in the hallway, sat on it, and pedaled slowly outward.

Halfway there, he remembered he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

So when he finally spotted Wang Zihao, the other boy immediately stormed over and yelled: “Fucking Chen Yansen, please be a human being! You said ten minutes—you’re half an hour late!”

Spittle flew everywhere!

“Here, I knew you hadn’t eaten—I brought you breakfast.”

Chen Yansen wiped his face in disgust, stepped back slightly, and handed him a cup of soy milk and a fried dough stick wrapped in bean curd skin.

“You’ve got some conscience after all.”

Wang Zihao grinned, snatched it, and began wolfing it down.

“By the way, why the sudden interest in summer jobs? Ran out of pocket money? I’ve got two hundred—take it.”

Wang Zihao slurped his soy milk, then pulled two hundred yuan from his pocket.

“Summer job? I’ll never work a day in my life.”

Chen Yansen waved his hand.

“You don’t mean you’re gonna sell yourself? Let me warn you—I come from a family with clean morals. Selling your dignity or body? Absolutely not.”

Wang Zihao grinned wickedly, his belly fat jiggling.

“You wish. Even if you wanted to sell, someone’d have to buy you.”

Chen Yansen struck back without mercy.

Eighteen-year-old Wang Zihao was slightly overweight, 1.78 meters tall—four centimeters shorter than him, not handsome at all—who’d pay for this kind of rough grain?

“What do you mean?”

Wang Zihao glared, clearly offended.

“Literal meaning.”

Chen Yansen’s tone was light, his eyes mischievous, full of teasing.

“Forget it. Are you really breaking up with Zhou Keyuan?”

Wang Zihao changed the subject.

“Did I ever date her? We weren’t even a couple—no breakup to talk about.”

Chen Yansen replied, completely indifferent.

“True enough.”

Though Wang Zihao didn’t understand his best friend’s emotional shifts, it was clear from his tone that Zhou Keyuan was already history.

“Internet cafe, luggage, digital audio, milk tea, clothing, supermarkets, phones, cosmetics, idol shops...”

Chen Yansen fell silent, his gaze fixed on the rows of shops ahead.

He was weighing which industry or product could bring him his first pot of gold.

Plans flashed through his mind, only to be discarded one by one.

“I know too little about this era—I’ll survey the streets first, then decide.”

After a moment of thought, Chen Yansen cut off his train of thought.

“I’m done eating. Where to now?”

Wang Zihao wiped his mouth and looked up.

“Street survey.”

Chen Yansen swung onto his bike and rode south; whenever he spotted a store that caught his interest, he stopped, went in, examined the goods, and asked prices.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Wang Zihao, watching his serious demeanor, asked curiously.

“Shut up, learn.”

Chen Yansen gave no explanation, focusing entirely on the products in the display windows.

“Noah 5200, price 850.”

“Huatian K801, price 988.”

“Sony T303C, price 999.”

“Bodao V788, price 1388.”

“Blue Magic MP3, price 159.”

“Ziguang MP4, price 399.”

“...”

Chen Yansen recorded the prices with interest; a plan to make money was slowly taking shape.

Before 4G networks were fully deployed, remote small towns like Chunshen suffered massive information gaps in clothing, department stores, and digital products compared to first-tier cities.

Information gaps are cash!

“Mouse, come with me to the internet cafe again—I think I know how to make money now.”

Chen Yansen grabbed Wang Zihao and ran out.

“You’d better go after me instead of chasing money—I’m about to drop dead.”

Wang Zihao was drenched in sweat; he’d spent the entire morning walking four streets with Chen Yansen, his legs trembling, and now this yank nearly made him collapse.

“You wish—I’d rather go after your sister.”

Chen Yansen stopped and waited for him, annoyed.

“Monster! My sister’s only fourteen this year!”

Wang Zihao knew his best friend was joking, but that didn’t stop him from launching into an insult.

“Hah, she’s fourteen this year, but her cunning is scarier than most forty-year-olds.”

Chen Yansen cursed inwardly.

In his past life, he’d nearly walked into the grave of marriage—all because of Wang Zihao’s own sister, Wang Ziyan.

Fortunately, he woke up in time, turned away from the path of error, and returned to the sea.

He hadn’t kept walking further down the wrong road.

“How could Chen Yansen ever hang himself on one tree? This lifetime, I’ll stay as far away from her as possible.”

Chen Yansen silently resolved.

(End of Chapter)