Chapter 745: Night Rain, Lament (Part One)

In the evening of Haibincheng, the sunset was always brilliant; the lampposts in the estate district, adorned with intricate vine patterns, glowed golden in the light, and a gust of evening wind blew a piece of paper stuck to one of them, causing it to flutter through the air in a graceful arc.

It flew over walls weathered by time, passed through spires bathed in sunset rays, slid down iron railings entwined with patterns, and finally drifted into the mailbox at the estate's entrance, settling quietly at the bottom.

A hand clad in leather gloves toggled the mailbox lock, opened it, retrieved the paper, and after reading its contents, Merkel exhaled with excitement, holding the paper in one hand while pushing open the estate's main gate and handing it to Shi Ler, who was having dinner.

Shi Ler set down his newspaper, took the paper, glanced at it, and raised an eyebrow: "What's this? Some troupe actually wants to perform Shakespeare in Getan? And it's 'Macbeth'?"

"Yes, sir. I knew you'd be pleased—this is the famed Angelica Troupe from Quandou Society; they're popular across the entire East Coast, and their specialty is Shakespearean drama…"

Shi Ler examined the paper—it was merely a simplified program listing the troupe's name, the plays scheduled for performance in this city, the main attraction, and other light comedies.

This simplified program also bore Getan's distinctive style: the main attraction was 'Macbeth,' one of Shakespeare's four great tragedies, a play Shi Ler greatly loved.

But sadly, previous troupes that came to Getan lacked the ability to stage Shakespeare; most performed only after-dinner skits or light comedies—nothing serious. Since arriving in Getan, Shi Ler had never seen a single proper play.

"Quick, Merkel, call the troupe and get me a ticket… no, two tickets… no no no—besides Victor, Lawyer Harvey would probably enjoy this too; get him one as well. As for Chief Gordon… call first and ask if he's free. And the Godfather—though I suspect he'll act faster than I will?"

Merkel took the simplified program from Shi Ler and smiled: "Tomorrow, everyone in Getan will know you love Shakespeare… oh, no—perhaps tonight."

Shi Ler stood from his chair: "Since coming to this city, I haven't been this happy in a long time. By the way, who's the lead actor? Is the backstage open? Can I meet the lead?"

"I'll ask for you," Merkel said, returning the chair to its place and turning toward the phone. "But as far as I know, troupes from Quandou Society rarely allow backstage visits—they preserve the actors' mystique."

"That's fine. Even though I know the roles they play have nothing to do with who they are, and everything should stay confined to the stage, I still enjoy speaking with actors who embody different characters—their inner states during performance give me plenty of material…"

Shi Ler walked toward the door with light steps: "If you can get the full program tonight, check for me—where is 'Macbeth' scheduled? I hope it's after lunch. I don't want it drowned out by those after-dinner skits, drawing only crowds who laugh mindlessly."

Merkel gave a reassuring gesture, then watched as Shi Ler picked up his umbrella, stepped out the estate gate, summoned his driver, and rode through Getan's streets until arriving at the Bingshan Restaurant in the East District.

Inside, he found several children practicing carrying trays; they froze in fear upon seeing him, but then remembered they'd seen Shi Ler before—perhaps he was their boss's friend—and stood motionless.

The eldest child carefully set down his tray and ran upstairs. After a moment, Cobalt came down, and upon seeing Shi Ler, he asked in surprise: "Professor, what brings you here?"

"I came to see how your restaurant is coming along."

"Almost ready. We can open within a week," Cobalt said, descending the spiral staircase and adjusting his tie. "I was just about to hire people to post notices and hand out flyers."

Cobalt pointed to a nearby table; he and Shi Ler sat on opposite sides. A waiter brought them two glasses of water, while the children huddled in the corner, staring at them.

Neither Cobalt nor Shi Ler paid any attention to the children—they discussed the opening of the Bingshan Restaurant.

"I think the newsboys and street vendors can help you greatly," Shi Ler said. "Just slip an ad into newspapers or the brown paper wrapping bread, and soon the entire East District will know you've opened."

Cobalt paused. "Slip ads into newspapers? I was planning to have them deliver them personally…"

"In the East District, maybe—most residents here don't have individual mailboxes. But if you want to advertise in the West District, never send them alone. That's deeply rude." Shi Ler pointed out the flaw.

"Though I think these rules are unnecessary, the masters of the West District insist on them. Playbills, flower catalogs, even bakery price lists can be delivered individually to mailboxes—but not opening ads."

"Because spending time designing them, printing them on colorful, scented paper, proves the shop caters to these masters—they'll gladly buy something."

"But if you shove an opening ad into their mailbox, clearly stating it's an East District restaurant with a menu attached, they'll feel insulted. If they see your name, they might think you're a gangster forcing them to patronize you."

Cobalt nodded thoughtfully: "That's true. They'd rather see complex dishes on the menu, not simple steak or bread."

"This building has seven floors—didn't you plan any VIP rooms?" Shi Ler said, looking up at the ceiling.

Cobalt choked. "I don't know how to… how to interact with people like you, I mean, people of your class…"

Shi Ler smiled: "Didn't you already see how all kinds of elites behave when you were an umbrella boy? You must've known by now."

"Yes…" Cobalt nodded. "But when I actually started preparing the restaurant, I realized it wasn't as simple as I thought."

"I suspect you want too much," Shi Ler said, turning to the window. "You know well that the growth of logistics has drawn a massive labor force here—bringing you great wealth."

"For example, restaurants in the estate district are mostly opulent, each with elegant facades, frequented by the rich and noble—but they don't necessarily earn more than the most popular restaurants in the East District."

"Many of these restaurants are even losing money. Without backing from the Twelve Families, they'd have closed long ago. The premium ingredients they use have low demand and are hard to preserve; if mishandled, they ruin reputations—hard work for little reward."

"But East District restaurants that rely on volume and low margins bring in huge daily profits. Their ingredients are simple and easy to handle, customers aren't picky, and if portions are generous, everyone gives good reviews. Plus, proximity to the docks ensures heavy foot traffic—every owner is making a fortune."

"Seeing this, you naturally want a share—we all know, when someone in the family is ill, money is always scarce…" Shi Ler lifted his glass, took a sip, then continued:

"But at the same time, you want to fulfill your ambition—to climb higher, to connect with higher classes. That's why you chose this mansion as your restaurant's location: its facilities are luxurious enough to attract the Twelve Families and the wealthy."

"But often, these two customer bases conflict. The rich want rare, expensive ingredients to display their wealth and taste, yet your high volume of patrons only want generous portions. Different customers demand different approaches—but you have only one restaurant. Have you decided how to allocate it yet?"

Cobalt looked uneasy. As a child, he had indeed encountered Getan's upper class, but after his father's death and the decline of the Oswald family, he had become indistinguishable from the city's underclass.

He didn't know what topics were trendy among the wealthy, how to navigate their strange rules, or how to fit into their circle.

"Should I have kept them separate?" Cobalt frowned, beginning to doubt his original decision—he had indeed planned this from the start.

The East District's crowds could bring him vast capital, while the mansion's location and former status could attract upper-class patrons—a perfect two-in-one opportunity.

But in practice, problems arose: the rich were fussy—they'd never enter a restaurant frequented by dockworkers and laborers, let alone dine alongside them.

And their tastes differed: they paid high prices for rare, hard-to-preserve ingredients—even if they tasted bad—while the workers wanted the opposite.

To serve large crowds, the first-floor hall had to become a dining area; to attract the wealthy, a ballroom had to be preserved for parties. But there was only one restaurant—balancing both was difficult.

Shi Ler placed his hands on the table, looked Cobalt in the eyes: "Are you doubting your decision? Thinking these two groups are incompatible? But I think they can coexist."

"If you were my student, you'd have learned this in the past few days' lectures—where does human superiority come from?"

Cobalt frowned, thinking, then grasped something—but struggled to articulate it systematically.

"Human superiority comes from comparison. You don't need to be the richest person in the world—just richer than most others. You don't even need to be richer than most—just richer than your neighbors."

"It's human nature—nearly impossible to change. Even the most detached person feels joy from winning in comparison."

"The restaurant already has the foundation to create comparison. This mansion once served only the elite. Once ordinary people receive your flyer, they'll feel curious—even if they don't eat, they'll come to look."

"In the early days, you'll draw massive crowds. From my observation, the restaurant can't possibly hold them all. Long queues will form. If you maintain order and make them wait patiently outside, those people become the foundation for your comparison."

"On that basis, send invitations to the elites—let them enter through the VIP entrance to the upper VIP rooms."

"When they arrive, they'll see those beneath them, exposed to wind and rain, waiting in line—while they themselves are escorted by servants into luxurious private rooms. That's a victory of comparison—a validation of their wealth and status."

"Perhaps you could build a corridor letting these elites walk through the queue, or let them see the crowd up close—limited, controlled contact."

"But…" Cobalt objected: "As far as I know, the masters dislike dockworkers. They think laborers smell bad—even seeing them from afar makes them frown."

"Yes, they might sit in their gilded private rooms complaining—complaining the whole dinner, saying you're a terrible businessman, that those people ruined their suits, that even looking at them makes them sick."

"But these complaints reinforce psychological cues. To distinguish themselves from commoners, they'll order more expensive dishes, eat what those people can't afford, drink wines they can't buy—and use it as conversation to boast to their peers."

"They might even use you as a topic, thinking if they ran this restaurant, they'd make smarter choices—kick out those people, keep only the wealthiest and most prestigious clients."

"But what does it matter, Cobalt? Do you feel angry? Do you feel humiliated by their views?" Shi Ler asked.

Cobalt shook his head: "Of course not. I don't care what they say. I only care how much they spend here, how many times they come per week, who they come with…"

"Sometimes, playing the fool in interpersonal relationships isn't entirely bad," Shi Ler said, looking at Cobalt. "Becoming someone's topic of conversation might make you look like a clown—but at least your name circulates in their circle. Everyone remembers you. That's the first step upward."

Throughout, Cobalt's eyes shone brightly. He didn't know why Shi Ler understood these things—whether it came from Shi Ler himself or from the subject he studied.

As his interactions with Shi Ler deepened, Cobalt found his interest in psychology growing. He even squeezed time to attend classes at Huodi Yu School, and was looking into high school enrollment information.

His relatively simple worldview led him to believe that mastering these theories would let him cheat at gambling—gaining victory with the simplest, fastest method. That was his favorite thing.

Cobalt imagined the future, then added: "I've been away from this class for too long. I really don't understand them anymore. Thank goodness you're here, Professor—or I'd have mailed ads straight into their mailboxes. That would've set a terrible precedent…"

At that moment, Shi Ler pulled a neatly folded paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Cobalt: "You should see this."

"What's this? Quandou Society Angelica Troupe's performance schedule… Are they coming to Getan to perform?" Cobalt frowned, staring at the long list of plays, utterly lost.

"If you want to open a door to a certain class, you need a door-knocker first. If you join a hot topic, you can promote your restaurant in an entirely new way."

Cobalt recalled: "When I was young, my parents took me to the theater. It was dark—I remembered nothing of the stage, only that my father kept talking to his neighbor."

"Yes, that's the point of theater. I've known the plots of many plays and seen them many times—but I go with different friends, discuss the plot, the actors' performances, the troupe's skill—there's endless to talk about."

"Should I go see this play?" Cobalt stared at the program. "But I've never read this book or seen this play. If I don't understand the plot, how can I join their conversation?"

"Not knowing is better—or even if you know, pretend you don't," Shi Ler said, taking another sip of water. "Raise the topic, ask them your questions—you'll find them eager to explain. Bring up movies or TV shows, and you'll make them seem even more refined."

As Cobalt conversed with Shi Ler, he thought, and without realizing it, night fell.

Shi Ler glanced at his watch: "It's late. I might need to visit Wayne Estate—after all, he won't handle those children's troubles as easily as you did."

At the mention of Bruce, Cobalt's expression darkened: "I can already imagine what his side looks like."

When Shi Ler left the Bingshan Restaurant, it was fully dark. Light rain drifted down; car headlights shimmered like neon through the rain.

When Shi Ler arrived at Wayne Estate, Alfred did not come out to greet him. That was unusual—the old butler rarely left the premises.

Shi Ler walked into the estate's foyer alone. The room was unlit; only the hearth's fire flickered weakly—the logs had burned to ash, the flames about to die.

Suddenly, a sound came from behind. Shi Ler turned and saw Bruce Wayne passed out on the sofa.