Chapter 73: Arthur Has Arrived

Jincheng, Bay Area, House of Power, Villa.

Federals have a preference for “heaviness,” especially among the upper class, who greatly admire that aristocratic style.

Everything must be gilded and splendid, exuding wealth, nobility, and weight.

Thus, most upper-class individuals’ studies give off this impression.

Massive bookshelves, broad and heavy desks, red or white high-backed chairs, accented with gold trim.

They lay down fine camel-hair carpets, place a globe in the corner, display some antiques, and perhaps a few animal specimens.

Everything proclaims nobility and luxury.

The room was no different; Senator Williams sat in his chair, smoking a pipe, while his son Arthur sat across from him.

Arthur was in his early twenties, with platinum-blonde hair, strikingly handsome—just like his mother.

Senator Williams’ eyes seemed half-closed; he was over sixty, an old man even by Federal standards.

Yet in this city, no one dared underestimate his influence or power.

Occasionally, the slits of his eyes revealed a glint too sharp to ignore; outside, Arthur was brazen, but before his father, he was as meek as a quail.

“The sober society is coming in a few days. Don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll personally send you to prison.”

Arthur nodded quickly, “I won’t leave the estate these days.”

Senator Williams glanced at him, trying to tell if he was telling the truth or just placating him.

Seeing his foolish son’s earnest expression, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. “I didn’t say do nothing—just don’t cause trouble.”

Arthur asked curiously, “Father, it’s just a sober society. Do we really need to be this tense?”

“Just a sober society?” Senator Williams blinked, then laughed aloud, his tone dripping with mockery.

He knew this son was not the best heir to his power, so he never intended for Arthur to inherit it—he had other sons.

Arthur was the product of his fourth marriage. Though he liked Arthur—he looked just like him—that was no reason to make a wrong decision.

In good spirits, he didn’t mind explaining: “The sober association originated from the Church. That alone ties it to many high-ranking Federal figures.”

“Not to mention the political struggles and social experiments behind it. Explaining this to you is pointless—your brain, stuffed with shit, couldn’t grasp what I’m saying.”

“Just know this: don’t cause trouble these days, or I’ll personally lock you up.”

Seeing Arthur’s pitiful, wounded expression, Senator Williams softened. “I heard you’ve been stockpiling liquor.”

Arthur jumped. He thought his father was about to hit him. “I’m just… storing it for a friend!”

Senator Williams snorted. “You lie just like you did as a child—never changed. Don’t lie to me, Arthur. I’m your father. You can’t fool me.”

“But you did well. Stockpile more. October twenty-fifth is Saint Harvest Day. On that day, the entire state joins the alcohol ban alliance, and the governor declares prohibition.”

Saint Harvest Day is also called “Harvest Day,” when people celebrate the autumn harvest and pray for next year’s bounty.

Declaring prohibition at this time carries special meaning: harvest season is peak distilling time. Announcing it then is a direct war against the industry and culture of alcohol.

The war has already been won before it began. Everyone gains mainstream social approval—this means another rise in influence, status, and power!

Seeing Arthur’s blank stare, Senator Williams sighed. “You’re hopelessly stupid, my dear.”

“So I hope you earn more money before I fall. That’s the only gift I can leave you!”

“Now, get out. Looking at you gives me a headache.”

Arthur slunk out of the room and went straight to his mother—a woman who looked barely thirty-six or thirty-seven.

She reclined half-lounging on the sofa, reading a magazine. She glanced at Arthur and gestured for him to sit across from her. “Didn’t your father beat you?”

“That’s rare.”

Arthur glanced at his mother’s ample chest, then looked away. He always tried to recall childhood memories, but couldn’t—impolite, yet irresistible.

“Father told me to stockpile more liquor.”

She set down the magazine. “So you came here to ask me for money?”

“I heard you’ve been making a lot of money using your father’s name.”

With his mother, he wasn’t afraid—he was almost cheeky.

He sat at her feet and massaged her calves. “I just stored forty-five thousand bottles. I’m almost out of cash.”

The woman, who had been half-asleep, opened her eyes wide. “You didn’t buy cheap liquor, did you?”

“Gold Label Napoleonic Whiskey.”

She studied him with hidden meaning. “That six-dollar-a-bottle stuff?”

Arthur corrected her proudly. “Now it’s nearly eight dollars. Plus some Derran gin.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re richer than I thought.”

Forty-five thousand bottles—that’s three hundred sixty thousand.

Sounds like not much. But if a person earns thirty or forty dollars a month, that sum equals a worker’s income for a thousand years—and he can’t even eat or drink it.

Sometimes the world is truly unfair. Everyone arrives naked, yet some pour in more effort and get nothing in return.

Meanwhile, those who never lift a finger are born with everything most people can never reach in a lifetime.

She thought a moment. “I have about… three hundred thousand. I’ll give you two hundred fifty thousand. But when you pay me back, it’ll be three hundred thousand.”

Arthur beamed. He understood why his father told him this—so he’d rush to stockpile liquor before Saint Harvest Day!

With this money, he’d borrow more—whatever he could scrape together. A hundred percent profit.

He leaned over and kissed her hard on the cheek. “Thank you so much, my good mother!”

She laughed and pushed him away. “Your spit’s all over my face. Go to the bank and wait for Marlon—he’ll handle the transfer.”

Marlon was her full-power attorney, responsible for transfers. In truth, her own account held only a few thousand.

The money she promised Arthur came from the Jincheng Aicheng Charity Foundation—a private charity fund she ran.

Arthur left immediately. Though he loved his mother, the twenty-five thousand—and more wealth—mattered far more.

He might feel guilty, but he’d make it up to her in his dreams.

In the branch manager’s office at Botong Bank, Marlon was chatting with the bank president when Arthur burst in.

Marlon disliked Arthur but showed no sign. He presented the authorization letter and transferred the foundation’s funds into Arthur’s account.

Arthur didn’t like Marlon either—Marlon was too talented. Idiots never want to play with the smart ones, because then they realize how truly stupid they are.

After signing the simple documents, Arthur left. He thought it over and immediately set his sights on Jo Bafu.

He’d extorted Jo Bafu before. Sure, it sounded excessive—but among this city’s immigrant capitalists, how many hadn’t been extorted by him?

Sometimes he even thought: I’m extorting you because I’m giving you face. Not everyone gets extorted by me!

When his car—the only one of its kind in all of Jincheng, outrageously flashy—pulled up beneath Jo Bafu’s bank, the assistant burst into Jo Bafu’s office.

He stood by the door, gripping the handle, face pale. “Arthur is here.”