Chapter 4

"Right now, the most important thing is to find a way to make that whore’s son drop the case, or Ethan will be stuck hiding in the shadows forever."

"If they catch him, it’ll be a nightmare!"

Lans had already been thinking about how to handle this—he’d seen clearly this month that the Federals couldn’t be trusted.

He was someone with no roots, so these fellow countrymen from the Empire might become a decisive force.

"Two options. First, we try to borrow some money to silence this guy and get him to drop the case."

"Second, if we can’t borrow money, we have to find a way to convince him."

Elvin listened and thought it impossible: "This isn’t even a real solution—where would we get the money, and how much could we even borrow?"

They’d only been here a month, strangers in a foreign land, carrying almost no cash.

Most people who made it here had their families pushed to the brink, draining every last penny from their households.

Many fishermen no longer fish—they now specialize in transporting people from shore to open sea, then onto smuggler boats.

The entire smuggling trip costs about fifteen hundred credits—a sum most ordinary families can’t afford.

Add to that the fact their families back in the Empire still need to survive and save for emergencies, so most who made it here carried little to no money.

When Lans got off the boat, he had less than five credits total; others were much the same.

The most anyone had was maybe a few dozen credits.

Elvin grew frustrated: "The problem is, where do we even get that kind of money?"

Lans told him to wait a moment, then returned to the bakery to speak with the fat boss about taking time off—

"My fellow countryman is in trouble. I need to check on him, so I won’t be here this afternoon."

The fat boss sat behind the counter, smoking a pipe; his eyes, squeezed small by fat, were black pits—only the pupils visible, like two buttons stuck on stale bread.

He sized Lans up. "Fine, you can take the day off—but I’m docking you one credit. Be back by five, or it’s two."

"If your absence causes us to sell less than yesterday, you’ll make up the loss—it’s your fault."

Lans met his gaze calmly, even smiled. "I understand, Boss."

The boss tapped his pipe against the counter’s edge, then pointed at Lans. "If you run or don’t come back, I’ll call the cops and say you stole from the shop. You get me?"

Lans remained humble, still smiling. "I think I do, Boss."

The fat boss sneered. "Then get out. I want to see you behind the counter by five."

"By the way, you owe me four credits. I’m charging interest. If you don’t pay by month’s end, it’ll be four dollars and sixty cents..."

Fifteen percent monthly interest. One hundred eighty percent annual. It was murder!

Sometimes, when people stand on the edge of a cliff, they feel the urge to jump—some resist that irrational impulse, but others step forward.

Lans fell silent for a moment, then nodded. "I’ll remember, Boss."

The boss found no more satisfaction in tormenting Lans—he waved him off irritably. "Go."

Lans took off his apron and left with Elvin. The others waited nearby—a dozen or so youths.

They’d been crouched in the alley’s shade; as soon as Lans arrived, they all stood, anxious and greeting him.

"I’ve got five credits. How much do we have altogether?"

A guy named Merlo pulled a faded handkerchief from his pocket—it bulged heavily.

Unfolding it, it was mostly coins—but surprisingly, two two-credit bills.

In this alien environment, facing crisis, their unity showed Lans “power”—gathering like a seed in dark soil, destined to break through someday.

"Add yours, we’ve got seventy-seven credits total."

The young men’s faces twisted at the number.

Inflation wasn’t severe yet, and the economy was rising—currency held strong purchasing power. Seventy-seven credits wasn’t small.

But it was still far from two hundred.

"Do you know where the nearest finance company is?"

After careful thought, Lans decided to borrow—high-interest loans.

High-interest loans were terrifying, but if everyone pooled money to repay, with fourteen people, even at fifteen percent monthly interest, each person would shoulder just one percent of the total—about one point five credits in interest each.

If they paid back principal and interest together, each person would need to pay only three credits per month—less than half a year to clear the debt.

He explained it to the group; they all agreed it was the best option, even if it meant tight finances.

After a month, they’d grown familiar with their jobs, with everything here.

They knew where to sleep under shelter, when and where to get free relief food.

They knew when and where to find old clothes, if luck was on their side.

As long as you stayed long enough in the Federation, there’d always be a way.

Besides, news and papers kept saying Congress might soon pass a bill related to black immigrants.

Then they could register with immigration and get their work permits.

Once they had those, every credit they earned would be theirs—and they might repay everything in no time.

Lans walked ahead, followed by a dozen eighteen- to nineteen-year-olds, entering a finance company.

The Federation had countless finance companies, especially in fast-growing cities like Jincheng.

Ninety-nine percent of Federals carried the Federation Dream—many had seen ordinary people just like them leap from the lower class to middle class, even to capitalists, by seizing an opportunity they themselves might’ve touched—and people were going mad!

Miracles were born daily. The media screamed about them, as if miracle and Federation were one and the same—these miracles fueled the Federation’s drive to start businesses.

But if you wanted to start a business and had no money, borrowing from a bank wasn’t easy.

Banks lowered risk by requiring collateral—real estate or assets—and would lend only sixty percent of the asset’s value.

Strict reviews and harsh conditions blocked many from starting out—but roadside finance companies didn’t care.

As long as you proved you had capacity—or something worth the loan—they’d lend you the money.

Some borrowed and never repaid—but those people ended up in oil drums, becoming harbor foundations.

If someone was willing to trade their life for a few hundred, thousand, or even ten thousand credits, the finance company could only accept the loss—and then kill you.

All they could do was absorb the loss—and make sure you were dead.

Of course, very few actually reached that point—survival instinct was humanity’s strongest desire, without exception.

So now, around the port, in every alley and street, finance companies were everywhere.

Lans picked one that looked bigger. The bouncer blocked them. "This isn’t a club. Looking for girls? Go across the street."

Facing so many youths, the bouncer wasn’t sure what they wanted. For safety and intimidation, he gripped his waist—his shirt lifted slightly, revealing a hidden holster and the glint of a pistol inside.

The metallic pistol sat snug in its holster. Some youths stepped back; others froze, speechless with tension.

Lans remained calm. No one would shoot him out of hatred.

Even if he was a black immigrant.

In murder cases, the law didn’t distinguish between black and non-black immigrants.

"We want to borrow some money."

The bouncer studied Lans, judged him more reliable. "You. And one other. Everyone else waits outside."

Lans glanced back. Most didn’t step back—but none stepped forward.

After three or five seconds, Elvin stepped out. "I’ll go with you."

Lans nodded. The bouncer moved aside. Lans and Elvin entered the company; the rest were ordered to wait outside.

The interior was luxurious but small.

Right inside the door was a reception desk. A pretty girl was filing her nails.

She glanced up briefly, then returned to her nails.

Lans walked up, tapped the counter. "I want to borrow some money."

"Go straight, turn left. Only one room." The girl didn’t look up.

Lans grimaced and led Elvin inside.

Elvin was nervous, so Lans didn’t speak. Sometimes distraction didn’t ease tension—it made it worse.

The hallway was short, lined with offices. The people inside didn’t look like workers—they looked like enforcers.

Every pair of eyes fixed on the two. Lans could feel Elvin clinging close—his tension rising.

These men were tattooed, muscular, terrifying. Elvin lowered his head. Lans felt nothing.

At the end, left turn. One door, labeled “Manager’s Office.” Lans knocked. A voice replied: "Come in."

He opened the door. A man who looked the part sat behind the desk—suit, tie.

He looked about thirty-two or thirty-three. He blinked, then gestured for them to sit.

"Drink?"

"Water, please."