Chapter 35

“Mr. Chobaf wants to speak with you,” Lans turned to look at the man beside him—he had seen this man before, Mr. Chobaf’s assistant.

He ended his conversation with the young people early, left his contact information, and departed with the assistant.

The name Chobaf was extremely useful among all imperial immigrants.

Perhaps within the empire, nobility and power drew attention, but here, it was wealth that mattered.

Undoubtedly, Mr. Chobaf, who possessed vast sums of money, was the focal point—even though much of his wealth actually came from those who looked up to him.

It was absurd, yet utterly true.

Capitalists had already perfected a method of using ordinary people’s money to earn money from their pockets—and it worked well.

“Good morning, Mr. Chobaf.”

Mr. Chobaf smiled broadly. “We already greeted each other, but I called you over because I just heard you made a big deal.”

His exaggerated flattery, if spoken to anyone else, might have sent them soaring into the heavens.

This was one of the most successful figures among imperial immigrants, hailed as “the Banker from the Empire”—if such a man acknowledged your achievement, wasn’t that enough to make you swell with pride?

But Lans showed no sign of… triumph or arrogance; to him, it was trivial. “Just a little money.”

Mr. Chobaf became even more interested. Young men usually couldn’t withstand such praise, but Lans showed no reaction—he seemed indifferent to his own success.

He spoke with clear admiration. “One thousand—sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, but I saw you talking over there so enthusiastically, so I sent someone to ask.”

“Lans, when I was your age, I was still learning how to obey social rules—but you’ve already made money outside those rules. You’ve done better than I did!”

To another person, Mr. Chobaf’s words might have been incomprehensible—what did “making money inside or outside the rules” even mean?

He meant: earning money through your own means, beyond what society dictates. This society operated under a cruel, rigid set of rules—when and what each person should do was already predetermined.

A poor child at sixteen was expected to work the hardest jobs—in factories, at docks or train stations.

Meanwhile, the children of the powerful sat in classrooms, chatting with girlfriends about weekend plans.

A federal officer worked diligently, earning forty-seven or forty-eight dollars a month, barely scraping by—no one thought him remarkable.

But if that same federal officer earned extra income on top of his forty-odd dollars, people would consider him remarkable.

Even if not “remarkable,” at least he was “a man with connections”—a compliment, a description, entirely positive.

Breaking one’s fate was itself a sign of ability.

In Mr. Chobaf’s view, Lans’s fate had begun no differently from others—but he changed it.

“And… one thousand isn’t a small sum. I’m sensitive to money and numbers. Could we talk about the source of this income?”

“I’m not trying to pry into how you made it—I simply see rising potential in you!”

“I want to invest in you!”

He said it without hesitation. To him, investing in Lans was an exciting prospect—today’s small investment might one day yield countless riches.

Though he was now a banker with vast savings, he had his own headaches.

Because he wasn’t a local but an immigrant, a significant portion of the loans he issued were never repaid.

One man named Jimmy had borrowed thirty thousand from him in total—and still refused to return a single cent.

This man was the head of a gang in the New Harbor district of Jinh Gang City, wielding considerable influence there—and worse, he was a madman!

The Federal Investigation Bureau had been investigating him for murders and gang-related crimes for over two years, yet he still thrived in Jinh Gang ’s underworld.

Mr. Chobaf had no choice but to accept the loss of those thirty thousand.

He dared not speak of it to anyone—if people learned that even “the famed Mr. Chobaf” had been extorted by gangsters, they’d lose faith in him and his bank; a run on the bank would bankrupt him quickly.

It wasn’t just Jimmy—others had done the same, though their debts were smaller.

The only thing that brought him relief was that the federal government didn’t strictly regulate interest rates—he was, in fact, also a loan shark.

He recouped some of these losses elsewhere, but he remained deeply resentful.

He needed to build a larger network of connections and influence—he wanted to go further!

Lans was a promising candidate.

“How do you plan to invest in me, Mr. Chobaf?” Lans didn’t refuse outright—this gave Mr. Chobaf renewed hope.

“I know you’re in the early stages of accumulation. I can give you money—no repayment required—so you can quickly build the framework you want.”

“The faster you grow, the more benefit it brings us. Someday, when I need your help, you must assist me three times.”

After listening, Lans shook his head. “This isn’t investment—it’s speculation, Mr. Chobaf. Forgive me, I can’t agree.”

He was right. Investment and speculation looked similar on the surface, but their essences differed greatly.

Speculation carried greater risk—and higher expected returns. To justify his money, Mr. Chobaf’s demands would far exceed the value of what he offered.

“Won’t you at least hear what price I’m offering?” Mr. Chobaf, unwilling to give up, tried again.

Seeing Lans shake his head again, he named a price beyond his own limit: “I’ll give you ten thousand. All I ask is that you do two things for me—when you’re able.”

Lans still shook his head. “I believe in just a few years, I’ll be worth this—and possibly more.”

“You’re very confident, Lans. That’s precisely what I admire most about you—confident people are the most compelling.” He paused. “I’m willing to establish a friendly connection with you. If you ever need money, come to me.”

He pulled out a gold-embossed business card and handed it to Lans.

The front bore the imperial flower; the back displayed his name—Chobaf Schiller—and a phone number.

They shook hands again and parted. His assistant approached immediately. “Did you make a deal?”

Mr. Chobaf shook his head. “He turned me down. He’s confident. I gave him a card.”

The assistant found it unbelievable. “You’re Mr. Chobaf—who could refuse your request?”

Mr. Chobaf was clearly displeased. “Now there’s one.”

Back among the young people, someone asked Lans what Mr. Chobaf had wanted. As one of the few focal figures among imperial immigrants, Chobaf always drew attention.

“He gave me a business card…”

The young people gasped again. Though everyone knew Mr. Chobaf—and this gathering was rumored to be funded by him—there was food, some alcohol, not high quality, but at least there was something.

At least a third of those here came just to eat and fill their stomachs.

Hundreds were present, yet very few held Mr. Chobaf’s card. Rumors persisted that possessing the card meant gaining one wish.

After the gathering ended, Lans bid farewell to the young people. Officer Breeden was still waiting.

When he arrived at the diner, Officer Breeden’s car was already parked outside.

Clearly, he was taking this seriously—and that was precisely why Lans had acted as he did.

You can never outpace someone who’s pulling you forward.

The diner was nearly empty; only two old men sat at the far end drinking coffee. Lans walked over and sat across from Officer Breeden.

On the table lay a file folder, labeled with an address.

“The Whites. Mr. White is forty-two. Mrs. White is thirty-nine. Their son, Steven White, went missing twelve years ago—he was five years and seven months old.”

Officer Breeden opened the folder, pulled out the documents, and handed them to him.

He had clearly put effort into this—the Whites’ facial features bore a faint resemblance to Lans’s—about thirty percent.

As Lans read the file, he asked, “Didn’t they have another child?”

Officer Breeden smirked. “They did—more than one. Their second son also vanished. Their third child is a daughter, about to finish elementary school.”

Lans couldn’t help asking, “Is the security in Jinh Gang City this bad?”

“Most missing-child cases have nothing to do with security. Statistics show eighty percent result from children running away after quarrels with their families.”

“Of the remaining fifteen percent, fewer than five percent are actual kidnappings.”

“You know—in the Federation, if you have money, you can buy anything. Wealthy people won’t take unnecessary risks for problems money can solve.”

He said something—and yet said nothing at all.

“The Whites are living poorly. I believe their willingness to agree is the highest…”