Chapter 113

Jian Qiu went to find Yao Army; Gu Bing came in with a teacup, walked onto the stage amid constant greetings of “Secretary Gu,” and sat down behind the conference table. Unconsciously, this man had acquired a faint air of authority.

Then Qian Zhen arrived, smiled and greeted Gu Bing, and sat to one side. The two whispered a few words to each other, after which they fell silent.

At 12:02, Gao Qingkui and Zhang Deyou finally arrived late, acting as if they didn’t know Gu Bing or Qian Zhen, and sat down without even a greeting.

Qian Zhen and Gu Bing exchanged a glance, both smiling faintly—they could see this meant the mask was about to come off.

“Ahem!” Gao Qingkui turned on the microphone, cleared his throat, and tested the sound. “Uh, the meeting’s about to start—everyone, please be quiet.”

The hall gradually fell silent. Gao Qingkui handed the microphone to Zhang Deyou. After all, he was about to retire, and for the past period, Zhang Deyou had been managing the factory’s operations—so this meeting had to be chaired by him.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Zhang Deyou tapped the microphone: “Comrades, this meeting is primarily to summarize sales performance before and after the New Year. But before that, I have an announcement to make.”

Here, Zhang Deyou paused, scanned the crowd, and said with a cold smile: “I think everyone has already guessed—yes, the bonus. Our leadership made a promise: whoever sells the eighty tons of stored liquor will receive a bonus of two jiao per bottle.”

“Here, I want to thank Comrade Zhou Andong—he saved our factory from collapse, and he made the six-bottle Da Gaoliang sell for dozens or even hundreds of times its original price. Even Deputy Mayor Zuo said Comrade Zhou Andong is a rare talent, and since Da Gaoliang fetched such a high price, two jiao per bottle as a bonus is too little. So, after discussing with the former factory director, and following Deputy Mayor Zuo’s suggestion, we’ve decided to increase Comrade Zhou Andong’s bonus.”

As soon as Zhang Deyou finished speaking, a murmur erupted through the crowd.

“Eighty tons of liquor—how much money is that?”

“Eighty thousand!”

“What?”

“Eighty thousand!”

“Others sold some too, but not much. I’d guess Zhou Andong will get seventy-eight or ninety thousand.”

“That much?”

Some voices trembled; others turned envious. Eighty thousand—enough to earn in a lifetime. But what had Zhou Andong done? Just offered some advice? The legwork was all done by factory workers—why should he get so much?

Zhou Andong sat with arms crossed, leaning back and watching it all. Those seated beside him occasionally stole glances at his face—some envious, some jealous—but since they were too close, no one dared whisper.

At this moment, Zhang Deyou lifted the red cloth, revealing the pile of cash beneath. To maximize the shock effect, the old bastard had used nothing but ten-yuan notes—stacked high, undeniably eye-catching.

Zhang Deyou held the microphone: “Here is seventy-nine thousand one hundred and sixty-seven yuan. Since other comrades also sold considerable amounts of liquor, but all at the Da Gaoliang price, their bonuses remain two jiao per bottle.”

“Why?” A shout rose from the crowd. “We sold liquor in response to your leadership’s call, to help the factory survive. You can’t treat us differently just because the selling price varied!”

“Right! If you’re going to raise it, raise it for everyone—or don’t raise it at all!”

Jian Qiu and Yao Army, along with over a dozen brothers from the Second Workshop, stood among the crowd, directly in front of Chen Lao’ai, Meng Xiao, and Ding Liuhex—those three scumbags.

“Why should Zhou Andong get all the bonus?” Chen Lao’ai suddenly shouted. The man, in his thirties, had patchy scalp eczema that made people’s skin crawl.

Meng Xiao followed: “Giving this money to one person is unfair—it should be divided among all workers.”

“Exactly!” Ding Liuhex shouted. “Why give it to him alone? The liquor was brewed by all of us. If we hadn’t brewed these eighty tons, what would he have sold? The bonus should belong to all of us!”

Hearing this, some of the envious workers snapped out of their shock and began joining in.

“Right! This money should be split evenly—why should Zhou Andong get it all?”

Protests rose and fell. Jian Qiu’s face grew colder, her heart sinking. These people were truly a pack of ungrateful wolves—once fed, they turned on their benefactor. She felt Zhou Andong’s efforts for them were worthless. Now she wavered, thinking perhaps he should quit, and they could open a small shop and live quietly together.

Yao Army’s face turned ashen; he was about to move against Chen Lao’ai and the other two, but Jian Qiu stopped him.

Zhang Deyou and Gao Qingkui had staged this scene—not to deny Zhou Andong his bonus, no, absolutely not. Something else was hidden, still concealed. So she waited—for the final outcome.

Zhou Andong waited too. So did Gao Qingkui and Zhang Deyou. The crowd grew louder, some even beginning to curse Zhou Andong.

Time slipped away. Zhang Deyou grew impatient, constantly checking his watch.

Gao Qingkui frowned, sipping tea from his enamel mug one gulp after another, trying to mask his tension.

Suddenly, the Cultural Center’s door burst open. Yao Qixin stumbled in, followed by two others—Liu Zhiguang and Qian Wei, who had been absent from work for a long time.

Onstage, Gu Bing, Qian Zhen, Gao Qingkui, and Zhang Deyou—all facing the door—saw them clearly.

Gao Qingkui and Zhang Deyou finally smiled, their expressions relaxing.

The workers sensed the shift in atmosphere. The murmurs and curses faded. Only the footsteps of Yao Qixin, Liu Zhiguang, and Qian Wei echoed—every other sound vanished. The entire hall sank into an eerie silence.

Wang Ruomei saw Yao Qixin enter. Her face turned pale. A terrible thought struck her. She rose to leave—but she sat at the very back. By the time she pushed past row after row of legs, Yao Qixin had already reached the stage.

Wang Ruomei screamed: “Yao Qixin, what are you doing?”

Yao Qixin grabbed the microphone, glanced at Wang Ruomei, and let out a dry, sickly laugh—cold, sinister.

“Wang Ruomei, you forced me into this. All of it—your doing. Don’t blame me.”

At this point, some faces broke into triumphant grins—especially Liu Zhiguang and Qian Wei, who scanned the crowd for Zhou Andong. Though they couldn’t find him amid the throng, their joy was undimmed. They had won. Zhou Andong would be driven out of the brewery. The bitterness in their hearts had finally been purged.