Chapter 49

After Lans left, Mr. Chobaf’s assistant immediately approached, and the former handed him the wine glass.

The assistant looked at the glass and sensed Mr. Chobaf’s shifting mood, asking softly, “Didn’t you reach an agreement?”

He shook his head. “He thinks fifteen percent is too little.”

The assistant couldn’t help exclaiming, “Fifteen percent is too little?”

“If he knew the total debt was nearly two hundred thousand, would he still think this amount was small?”

Two hundred thousand in debt means fifteen percent is thirty thousand. Many people have never even held three hundred dollars in cash, let alone thirty thousand.

It was a fortune hard to refuse—at least, the assistant felt he couldn’t turn it down if he had the means.

Mr. Chobaf glanced sidelong at his assistant, his tone edged with irritation. “He wants ninety percent—and that’s only because I’m an Imperial.”

The assistant had no words left. This was sheer audacity!

Mr. Chobaf’s mood was poor. The bank faced many problems; politicians stoking conflict between natives and immigrants was pushing things further downhill.

Depositors were now facing income issues; many illegal immigrants had lost their jobs and needed to withdraw their savings.

Though no bank run had formed yet, the constant withdrawals made Mr. Chobaf feel sick.

Worse still, people kept coming to him for money.

Yes—for money, not loans. Though they signed contracts, the money they took was never repaid.

For example, Mr. Williams’s youngest son had already taken seventeen thousand five hundred dollars from him.

Mr. Williams was a veteran councilman of Jincheng, working here over twenty years, with immense prestige—especially among old Federation residents.

Even the mayor sometimes had less influence in this city than he did.

Mr. Chobaf met him at a capitalist networking event. They exchanged a few polite words, like any ordinary social encounter: exchanged business cards, exchanged pleasantries, then parted.

A perfectly ordinary social exchange. Yet the next day, Mr. Williams’s youngest son came asking for two thousand five hundred dollars.

Mr. Chobaf desperately wanted to expand his social ties in Jincheng. Two thousand five hundred was nothing, and the man was willing to sign papers—so he lent it.

Then five thousand. Then ten thousand.

When the brat came asking for ten thousand, Mr. Chobaf tried to refuse—but the son told him someone had spread rumors that his bank was laundering money, and it was he who stopped them.

If Mr. Chobaf didn’t want his bank and all accounts investigated, he’d better know exactly what he was doing.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He took ten stacks of ten-dollar bills from the safe, stuffed them into a paper bag, and handed them over.

He had to smile ingratiatingly at this young man thirty years his junior—and sincerely thank him—right after being extorted!

There were many like him here.

If only a few privileged people came demanding money, he could tolerate it. What he couldn’t bear was merchants using their names to secure loans—thousands, tens of thousands at a time.

They’d sign any contract, but never repay. Only lawsuits could help—and even if they won, collecting the money was nearly impossible.

The money lent to the privileged? He considered it lost in water, burned in fire—never expecting repayment.

But the money borrowed by merchants or ordinary people using those names—he still wanted back. About two hundred twenty thousand.

If Lans could recover it, he’d offer thirty-three thousand. But now Lans only wanted ten percent—twenty-two thousand—more stingy than he was!

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do.

Keeping it himself meant getting nothing back, plus huge legal fees—or just letting it vanish.

If he hired Kamir or another gang, they couldn’t guarantee recovery, and he’d still pay ten thousand or more in collection costs.

Even if he recovered the money, it’d be barely a few thousand—and some might be unrecoverable, possibly costing him ten thousand or more with nothing gained.

Lans’s proposal seemed the only viable option. After all… he’d still get twenty-two thousand.

Watching Mr. Chobaf stare irritably at the sky, the assistant’s mouth hung open.

“You… you’re not actually going to accept such harsh terms, are you?”

Mr. Chobaf gave a slight shake of his head. “You don’t understand.”

“I always suspected these debts were unrecoverable. What I’m doing now is just a final attempt.”

“What I truly want is to make them realize my money isn’t so easy to take.”

“But his price caught me off guard. I find it hard to accept.”

If he didn’t show these people his power, they’d keep coming for loans—and he couldn’t refuse them.

In truth, he was already wavering—just a little.

Accepting Lans’s offer would signal weakness to others. It was an agonizing choice.

Lans didn’t know Mr. Chobaf was wavering. He quickly spotted Mr. Burton in the crowd, standing at the edge of a small circle, looking eager to join but unable to.

“Mr. Burton.” He called out. Burton immediately came over.

“Good morning, Lans. Good to see you again. I heard you’ve been doing well?” He was effusive—always warm toward wealthy countrymen.

“Fine,” Lans said, shaking his hand. “I just spoke with Geral about hiring him, but he said he needs your approval?”

Mr. Burton nodded immediately. “He doesn’t have permanent residency in the Federation. He’s staying at our place, using our connection for a temporary permit.”

“If he leaves us, he might run into trouble. So…”

“What do you want him to do? He can’t leave yet, but you know Rob—my son. He can help you too. He’s a sharp young man. Everyone who knows him says he’s clever.”

Lans gave an excuse: “I’ve just started my business. I can only spare thirty-five dollars a month—and it’s heavy labor.”

The hope in Mr. Burton’s eyes faded quickly. “That’s a shame. Rob’s health is poor—he broke his tibia. The doctor said he can’t do heavy labor…”

“But at that pay, you can find plenty of illegal immigrants willing to do anything.”

“I just saw you talking with Mr. Chobaf. Your relationship with him is truly impressive, Lans.”

“Maybe next time you chat, you could bring me along. I have some personal insights on finance…”

After bidding farewell to the annoying, oblivious Burton, the morning gathering ended. The young people were intrigued by Lans’s new job offer—opportunities like this were rare.

Most Imperials simply found steady jobs, earned meager wages, and sent part home.

What they kept for themselves? Maybe a few dollars a month.

If Lans’s work suited them, they could earn a few extra dollars—or even ten or dozens—each month. For teenagers and young adults in their late teens and early twenties, this was irresistible—they were at an age of hormonal urges, and they needed money.

Sunday’s “Today’s Jincheng” continued highlighting the harms of alcohol. The state government was clearly determined to join the Prohibition League; the city was already shifting.

Drink prices in some bars had risen; people were discussing it.

If Jincheng truly enacted prohibition, it would be terrible for many. But many still believed Jincheng could never enforce it.

After all, it was one of the world’s largest ports—sailors from everywhere spent here, a vital part of the city’s income.

Even at Johnny’s bakery, people were talking about it.

The bakery had reopened. Johnny had been discharged. His insurance had hit its payout limit; further hospitalization would cost him out of pocket—and he had no money.

The Jincheng Police Department had arrested the home invaders based on the apprentice’s testimony. But of the thousand-plus dollars stolen, only a few dozen remained.

The investigating officer said the gang had been caught surrounded by strippers, endless alcohol, and fine cigars.

But Johnny felt something was off—and had no good way to act.

Back at the bakery, his shattered arms prevented him from baking. His daughter couldn’t endure prolonged heavy labor. The work fell to her boyfriend.

Though reluctant, Johnny taught him the recipe and technique.

The bakery had just reopened on Sunday—and immediately drew many customers.

People sympathized with Johnny’s plight and were warm-hearted—they loved his bread.

After the busy lunch rush, Johnny stared at his daughter with longing. She sighed, pulled painkillers from his waist pouch, and said, “You should use less. The doctor told you.”

Johnny’s temper suddenly flared. “Just put them in my mouth—not lecture me!”

His daughter sighed, slipped the pill into his mouth. Instantly, Johnny calmed. He even apologized for his outburst.

“Johnny, those pills are full of demons. You’re a different man when you take them,” his daughter complained.

At that moment, the bakery door opened. The bell above jingled. His daughter instinctively said, “We’re closed for now. Reopen at five.”

But the visitor didn’t leave. He stood at the door, watching them. “I’m not here for bread.”

A police officer.

Johnny suddenly had a bad feeling—it was the first week of September…