Chapter 26

Who is that?

In another corner, seven or eight teenagers stood around a young man in his early twenties wearing a baseball cap.

It was clear this cap-wearing young man was the core of their small circle.

A younger one said, “I heard his name is Lans. He’s an illegal immigrant from Barmann Province.”

“He claims he earned two hundred bucks for completing one job—just now, that annoying Luo Bu argued with him over it.”

Barmann Province isn’t a developed region in the Empire; its economy relies on agriculture. Though it has some prosperous cities, it still lags behind bustling areas like the Imperial Capital.

Most Empire citizens with permanent residency and citizenship here came from the developed districts of the Imperial Capital; only these people could smoothly obtain permanent residency cards and citizenship.

So when mentioning Lans’s hometown, the youngest guy showed little interest.

“No matter where he’s from, as long as he’s got it out with Luo Bu, we can be friends.”

“As for that two-hundred-buck job, we can go listen to what he has to say.”

“Might as well get to know him.”

Luo Bu wasn’t popular here—he inherited Mr. Botton’s greed and snobbery but failed to mask these traits well.

He’d sneer at or mock those he looked down on, making them feel clearly inferior to him.

To children from wealthy, socially prominent families, he acted like a lapdog, wagging his tail and flattery.

The more he did this, the less people liked him—whether those he despised or those he tried to flatter.

Of course, while no one liked him, it wasn’t outright hatred—just dislike. That’s why he could still show up here.

As the group approached Lans, they heard him say, “I’ve got a job right now that needs someone to do it. I don’t want to give this opportunity to just anyone, so I thought first of my own people.”

The cap-wearing young man interjected, “Mind if I ask what exactly the job is?”

“And how much will you pay for it?”

Lans turned to look at him—a clean-faced young man, about one meter seventy-three to seventy-five tall, quite tall for this era.

He was slender, wearing a white shirt, dark trousers, a suspenders, old but polished leather shoes, and a gray baseball cap.

Lans often didn’t understand why anyone wore hats in this heat—yet not just him, many adults and passersby wore them. Didn’t they get hot?

Meeting Lans’s gaze, the cap-wearer extended his hand, “Ennio. From Dokanis.”

Lans shook his hand and smiled, “Lans. From Barmann Province.”

They quickly released hands. Ennio asked, “I heard you’ve got a good job to recommend to us?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I ask what it involves, and how much the pay is?”

All the teenagers around wanted to know this—otherwise they wouldn’t have gathered.

Though most here held permanent residency and citizenship, that didn’t mean they were rich or middle-class.

The majority of these immigrants lived like Mr. Botton—in cramped apartments in the slums.

Becoming a banker like Mr. Jo Ba was rarer than rare; among thirty thousand immigrants, maybe two or three.

Most still craved more money.

“I don’t know if you know what my work is like—it’s basically solving problems for others, and they pay me for it.”

“I can assure you it’s completely legal, but there might be a bit of trouble.”

“This job only takes one day—from ten a.m. to around eight p.m. No physical labor. Just sit in one place. Don’t leave during the shift.”

“I can pay you…”

He clearly felt everyone hold their breath. He held up one hand, fingers spread, “Five bucks!”

Someone stifled a gasp—five bucks a day? That’s a hundred and fifty a month!

Even Ennio’s breathing quickened. He needed money too—hardly anyone here didn’t.

“How many days can this job last? How’s payment handled?”

Seeing more teenagers gathering, Lans patiently explained, “It’s temporary work—just one day. But there may be other jobs later.”

“Payment will be given immediately after the job ends. No delays.”

“Like I said, I could give this money to anyone—but why not give it to my fellow countrymen?” He glanced at the women beside him and added with a smile, “And sisters.”

The girls giggled, finding Lans an interesting person—few spoke like this, so openly and cheerfully.

Ennio pressed on, “So what’s the actual task?”

“Eating food…”

At first, Lans had considered hiring vagrants—but quickly realized they couldn’t even enter the restaurant; the manager would stop them at the door.

If vagrants couldn’t enter, hiring them made no sense.

Providing them with proper clothing to enter would raise costs and defeat the purpose of annoying Mr. Anderson—better to just hire ordinary people.

Besides, giving this job to others was less effective than entrusting it to these second-generation immigrants.

They had legal status, the task wasn’t illegal, and the worst they’d face was a scolding—not serious consequences.

Meanwhile, he’d build his image among immigrants as someone “capable.” A win-win.

Soon enough, plenty of teenagers wanted to join—not just for the money, but because they were curious about Lans’s plans.

The next morning, Mr. Anderson inspected the prepared ingredients and was very satisfied.

The point of recruiting apprentices was this—

Pay the least, get the most work.

Unlike Fat Boss Johnny, who didn’t pay apprentices at all and made them pay him.

Mr. Anderson paid each apprentice fifteen bucks—but they lived almost entirely in the restaurant, with no days off.

They worked from six a.m. to ten p.m. every day, almost all their time spent working, unless the restaurant had no customers.

Despite the harsh conditions, people still fought to become apprentices, because Mr. Anderson himself had risen from apprentice to restaurant owner.

These apprentices and their families believed they’d learn real skills here and become merchants, middle-class, like Mr. Anderson.

After checking all ingredients, it was nearly ten. Weekend lunch hours started a bit later—around noon—and lasted until two or three p.m.

Then, without much rest, they’d begin preparing for the evening rush. Every weekend was the restaurant’s most profitable time—like yesterday.

Today he aimed to earn even more, preparing for his expansion.

At exactly ten, the manager called out to customers. Mr. Anderson thought it was early, but who cared if customers came? As long as they paid.

If they paid, he’d serve them whatever they wanted.

Soon, waiters brought orders. The cooks prepared to work hard—then looked at the menu: total cost, one dollar and ninety-nine cents.

One ninety-nine-cent bread basket, one dollar’s worth of mixed vegetable salad.

The bread was served in a handwoven basket—after all, a fifteen-cent loaf from a bakery filled you up; even a restaurant’s markup wouldn’t be outrageous.

Ninety-nine cents for a pound of bread—enough to feed two or three people.

The mixed vegetable salad was one of the restaurant’s best-selling dishes: crisp vegetables mixed with tender, slightly chewy shredded meat.

A tangy, refreshing appetizer—but few ordered it alone.

Mr. Anderson checked: only one customer. One person eating this? Definitely enough.

He’d seen people like this—wanting to experience upscale restaurant ambiance but short on cash. He said nothing, just told staff to maintain food quality.

Don’t treat a customer poorly just because they spent little and came alone.

Mr. Anderson rose early. After the busy peak, he was now idle and drowsy.

He greeted the manager and went to the break room for a quick nap.

Half-asleep, he didn’t know how long he’d slept—until loud knocking jolted him awake. He sat up sharply, stared blankly for a moment, then opened the door.

“Too many customers? Can’t handle it?” He grabbed the apron hanging on the wall, slipped it over his neck, “I’ll help right away.”

The manager was frantic, “Something’s happened out front!”