Chapter 82: Tailor, Union, and Three Questions

“Mr. Lans, your figure is perfectly proportioned—I guarantee the clothes I make will look stunning!”

An elderly tailor from the Empire was measuring Lans, and with more money in hand this time, he planned to make two sets of clothes for everyone.

The weather was about to turn cold; after every rain, there was always one day when the chilling essence of autumn could be felt.

Moreover, uniform attire greatly promoted the development of “corporate culture”—capitalists had already proven that brainwashing didn’t require formal lessons.

The tailor was also an Imperial citizen; his neighbor had previously immigrated to the Federation, reportedly earning over a hundred credits per month.

When he returned to the Empire, he told people in exaggerated tones that in the Federation, you could pick up money just by looking down.

This was a land where opportunities and wealth lay everywhere—even a fool could achieve the Federation Dream if willing to sell a little labor.

Some believed him half-heartedly, others fully; the tailor was among those who believed completely.

He had known his neighbor for over thirty years and didn’t think he’d lie; with the Empire’s situation deteriorating sharply, he sold everything and brought his family to the Federation despite fierce opposition.

Then he saw the place his neighbor described as paved with gold and money—and found himself struggling to afford a single meal.

The neighbor who claimed to earn over a hundred credits monthly was actually washing dishes at a restaurant, making only twenty-two credits a month with one free lunch—take it or leave it.

The tailor, now completely cut off from the Empire, lived with his daughter, son-in-law, and young grandson crammed into a dilapidated little house.

The only saving grace was his tailoring skill—he exchanged clothing repairs for survival, charging very little, but still had some customers.

Originally, Elwin had suggested hiring a Federation tailor, but Lans refused.

Federation tailors made clothes that were…unbearably awful; they infused their designs with the Federation’s signature laziness and casualness, resulting in loose, sloppy fits that looked unrefined.

Imperial tailors, by contrast, captured their most disciplined side—tight-fitting, tailored, exuding sharpness and intensity.

“I heard you once made clothes for nobles in the Empire?”

The tailor, standing on a low stool with reading glasses, paused mid-measurement, then smiled, “Yes, a minor noble. You’ve heard of that too?”

“I heard rumors. I’m curious—why don’t you open your own shop?”

“Though Federation people look down on us, they still envy noble attire.”

“If you can advertise that you worked for royalty or nobility, the upper class will flock to you immediately.”

His son-in-law helped him down from the stool, jotting down Lans’s shoulder measurement as he spoke: “No matter what you want to do, you need money first. I’ve been here a while—life here is truly terrible.”

“You and your friends have kept us fed this month, but next month we’ll be back to struggling. I can’t even leave the Imperial district—how can I tell anyone I once served nobles?”

Lans nodded slightly. “If your craftsmanship is truly good, I plan to fund you.”

The tailor froze, a glimmer of hope flashing in his cloudy eyes. “You… you’re serious?”

“You’ll support me in opening a tailoring shop?”

Lans put on his original clothes again. “In the city center!”

"Of course, your work must be excellent—this isn’t a small sum."

The tailor and his son-in-law were overwhelmed with gratitude, thanking Lans profusely.

They had once been middle-class in the Empire; they never imagined that here, they wouldn’t just fail to find gold and money—they could barely afford food!

Who would hire an unknown tailor from the Empire to make expensive garments?

Only custom work could truly bring in big money.

The poor mostly bought cheap secondhand clothes—though ill-fitting, at least they were affordable.

Those needing custom garments were rare; his monthly income was barely ten or so credits. These past two months, clashes between natives and illegal immigrants had left his son-in-law unemployed.

Lans’s order saved them—in every possible way!

Now he was offering to fund a shop—the tailor’s eyes welled up. “You’re a kind, good man, Mr. Lans—the Lord will bless you!”

"I hope He doesn’t get sick from blessing me," Lans laughed, shaking the tailor’s hand as the man and his son-in-law stared in stunned silence. "Anyway—thirty-seven people, two suits and two trench coats each, all with sword-style collars—make them as good as you can. We’ll have many more opportunities together!"

He turned to the eager crowd, gesturing for them to line up properly.

Getting new clothes was a joy for both Federation and Imperial people alike.

Since there were only two of them, measurements would be slow—but since they’d been invited to the company, their speed didn’t matter.

Lans and Elwin sat down nearby; Elwin brought up something unprompted.

“I heard something—might be troublesome.”

Lans looked at him. “What?”

“The Union is unhappy about our large-scale use of other people’s work cards—they claim we’re disrupting the labor market.”

The Union was no ordinary thing in the Federation—even if it wasn’t really a “thing.”

Many workers registered with local Unions for strong protection against exploitation and oppression.

At this time, Unions were powerful and healthy—still free of arrogance, pride, and corruption.

The slogan “Workers of the World Unite!” originated in the Federation!

If the Union deemed us disruptive, it would be a devastating blow to our thriving agency business.

Lans thought for a moment. “How many work cards do we have now?”

The agency’s manager, Sean, rushed over. “Mr. Lans, as of today, we’ve registered 3,132 work cards.”

Sean was a brilliant young Imperial student who’d passed university entrance exams but couldn’t afford to attend, so he returned home to become a schoolteacher.

Then the war broke out; to keep him from being sent to the front, his family sent him to the Federation.

He wasn’t the type to hurt others—he’d spent his life studying—so Lans had him temporarily manage the agency, with future plans in mind.

“That’s a huge number!” Lans affirmed his work, then told Elwin, “Find out who’s upset with us. Arrange a meeting—I’ll handle it.”

He turned to Sean. “Sean, our growth will accelerate—we need a reliable lawyer. I’m sending you back to university—to study law.”

Sean was startled, then overjoyed; being a lawyer was deeply respected in both the Federation and the Empire, carrying high social status.

It also gave him a sense of purpose.

Lately he’d been wondering—everyone else was contributing meaningfully, but he felt he’d done nothing substantial; his current job could be done by anyone who’d finished primary school.

This sudden opportunity gave him direction—but also confusion. “Lans, I haven’t studied in a long time—I don’t know if I can keep up.”

Lans checked his watch. “I’ll hire private tutors—they’ll handle your academic and personal challenges.”

“Lans, I don’t know how to thank you—I’ll become a great lawyer!”

Lans patted his arm. “But don’t quit your current job yet—I need to find a replacement first.”

As he spoke, Hiram pushed open the back door and knocked lightly. Lans stood up. “Get back to work,” he told Sean, then glanced at Elwin, who followed him out the back.

It was a small courtyard—typical of Federation buildings, where gaps between structures were sometimes enclosed by developers as “backyards” for marketing.

But some developers ignored these spaces—no fences, no features at all.

This one was about two hundred square meters; a car sat in the center, Laun leaned against it smoking, the warehouse door open.

Lans nodded to him, then stepped inside the warehouse.

Light shifted from bright to dim—after a few seconds, he saw Jason hanging upside down.

His face was bloody; Hiram had punched him hard in the mouth, knocking out several teeth.

Seeing Lans, Jason began pleading again. “Mr. Lans, I’m sorry! I’ll give you all the money—I’ll vanish from Jincheng and never return!”

Lans pulled out a cigarette; Hiram instantly lit it with a match—leaving Elwin, who’d just reached for his own matchbox, momentarily stunned.

Lans grinned and punched Hiram lightly on the arm.

Lans scratched his eyebrow. “You still don’t understand your mistake, Jason. Your distress isn’t about what you did—it’s regret you got caught.”

“If you truly knew you were wrong, you wouldn’t waste my time with meaningless promises.”

“Now—three questions.”

“First: where is the rest of the money hidden?”

“Second: how many people know you suddenly have money?”

“Third: have you told anyone how you got it?”

“Answer these first. Then we’ll consider your problems.”

I have no saved drafts—all written fresh—and the other side still needs a bit, so here’s the third update today.

As for extra updates [doge]