Chapter 948: Burning and Opportunity

An old security guard at the factory gate stared at the flames staining the sky above the warehouse, his small eyes filled with terror.

He was a longtime employee of Jinbiao Liquor, having worked as a security guard at this factory since his early twenties.

Over the years, he had witnessed two major fires, each causing catastrophic losses.

The worst part was the alcohol stored in the warehouse.

Precisely because of those two previous fires, the company moved the warehouse far away from the production area to prevent any future disaster.

His mind flashed back to the last fire—a scene like hell on earth.

The scars on his body were from that time.

At this moment, unlike the younger workers, the middle-aged man ran toward the warehouse—his first thought was to flee.

The farther, the better; far away from this place.

No one noticed that in the darkness, the old security guard at the gate, who always boasted, “The factory’s honor is my life,” ran out without looking back.

In fact, it wasn’t just him—many veteran employees, upon hearing the warehouse was on fire, thought first not of fighting the flames, but of running as far as possible.

No one knew where the fire started; by the time they noticed, the warehouse was already engulfed.

Accompanied by the sound of shattering containers, the warehouse erupted repeatedly with booming explosions.

Many tried dousing the flames with hoses, but it seemed to have little effect—then suddenly, the warehouse roof was blown clean into the sky by a massive explosion.

The shockwave from the blast felt like a wall slamming into everyone around the warehouse, and then they witnessed something unbelievable.

Flames flowed like rivers along the ground, pouring out from the warehouse; people screamed and scattered in panic, as more explosions sent down showers of fire.

At 12:15 a.m., Mr. Richard suddenly sat up, gasping for breath, his eyes gleaming brightly in the dark.

He glanced at the glow-in-the-dark alarm clock on his nightstand—he called it a novelty people had discovered, one rapidly becoming a trend.

Glow-in-the-dark watches, glow-in-the-dark ornaments, glow-in-the-dark baseboards, glow-in-the-dark paint—people believed these luminescent materials and their radiation brought health benefits.

Academic reports had proven that radiation from these materials could kill harmful cells.

Some foods infused with glow-in-the-dark substances had begun limited sales, but people could only read about them in trendy magazines, since “glow-in-the-dark steak” and “glow-in-the-dark milk” were sold only to the wealthy.

“Couldn’t afford” meant you had the right to buy, but not enough money.

Many poor people didn’t even have the right to buy, let alone afford it—they didn’t know the price or where to find it, but they knew someone could eat and drink it.

The Opera Emperor even mentioned in an interview that before performing, he drank a glass of glow-in-the-dark milk to replenish energy.

Mr. Richard qualified to buy, but he felt uneasy about ingesting radioactive food—he only used these materials in interior design and finishes.

Seeing it was only 12:16, he rubbed his cheeks, picked up the glass on his nightstand, and drank a sip of water.

He’d had a damned nightmare: the Lans family had been driven out of Denuozhou, defeated by him, and their business in Likalai State now faced challenges.

Lans lost everything, became a homeless dog, vanished without a trace.

Then one day, as he stepped out of his car, Lans appeared before him and pulled the trigger.

In the dream, there was no pain—only fear. Lans’s submachine gun seemed to have infinite bullets, shredding him into pieces.

Both body and soul were torn apart—so he woke up in terror.

Fortunately, it was only a dream.

Swallowing the water eased his nerves slightly.

Psychologists say nighttime dreams extend daytime experiences—this indirectly proved their assault on the Lans family was lethal.

Thinking of this, he picked up the phone and dialed an internal number.

Someone was on night duty downstairs in the villa—his bodyguard.

The call was answered instantly, his familiar voice coming through: “Sir?”

“Hmm, nothing. I just wanted to ask—anything strange happen tonight?”

The bodyguard grinned. “Perfectly quiet, sir. I can even hear rats breeding.”

It was a small joke—Mr. Richard chuckled twice. “Hope you didn’t disturb them.”

He paused. “Alright, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Understood. Good night, sir.”

After hanging up, Mr. Richard lay back down. As he drifted toward sleep, a shrill phone ring jolted him—he glanced once at the vivid dream beyond, then snapped awake.

A chill settled in his chest—no one called after midnight unless it was urgent.

“This is Richard.”

“Mr. President, disaster! The warehouse is on fire—and the production building too!”

A sudden explosion in the receiver made Mr. Richard’s hair stand on end—he bolted upright, all sleep gone. “Don’t you dare be joking!”

He knew it wasn’t a joke—but he hoped the voice on the other end would tell him it was.

The receiver was silent except for heavy breathing and faint screams.

He cursed: “Fuck!”

“How did it catch fire? Did you call the fire department?”

“Called. They said they need time to assemble.”

“Those fucking bastards!”

“I’m on my way. Notify the board.”

He threw on a shirt, still in his pajama pants, and marched downstairs.

Two bodyguards sat chatting on the sofa; they stood instantly upon seeing him.

Mr. Richard nodded slightly. “I’m going to the factory. Come with me.”

Neither refused. One went to get the car; the other ventured cautiously: “What happened?”

These bodyguards were trusted to protect him closely—they trusted each other, so Mr. Richard didn’t hide anything—he told them about the fire.

The bodyguard didn’t know what happened in the last fire—he thought it was just a fire, and fire trucks would fix it.

He didn’t understand the terrifying consequences of storing high-proof alcohol together.

Or the barrels of liquor in the production area, or the fermenting alcohol.

Alcohol’s boiling point is low—just over seventy degrees. Once the liquor reaches that temperature, alcohol begins evaporating rapidly.

Once vaporized alcohol is ignited by an open flame, it ignites instantly, causing explosions that set off even more alcohol.

The last fire turned the entire factory into a sea of flames.

Just thinking of it sent a chill down Mr. Richard’s spine.

It wasn’t just about burning and explosions—if more lives were lost, they might be driven out of this city.

The sky above the distillery was already red. Distant sirens of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances wailed nonstop; the once-dead city seemed to stir awake.

When Mr. Richard arrived at the distillery gate, his vision went black.

The entire production building burned fiercely, explosions echoing constantly, buildings collapsing—

After some genius invented prefabricated steel frames, Federals became obsessed with this miraculous construction method.

Like assembling LEGO blocks, workers fitted steel frames according to blueprints, welded them in place, and a building rose overnight—“Federal Speed” meant the astonishing pace of steel-frame construction.

It had many advantages, but one fatal flaw: it couldn’t withstand high heat.

Once exposed to high temperatures, steel softened; with enough weight, it collapsed faster and easier than concrete frames.

Watching the factory collapse, flames flowing like floods, Mr. Richard slipped into tinnitus.

He stared blankly at the burning building, at the firefighters powerless beside him—everything seemed doomed.

Firefighters had arrived early, but seeing the scene, they didn’t try to extinguish the fire—only to prevent its spread.

Pouring water on the buildings did little—it only made the flames flow more freely. Best to let them burn out.

All night, people counted casualties. Since the fire started at night in the warehouse, losses were relatively light.

Aside from a few missing, no one died directly from burns—they all died from “failure to rescue,” not from being burned.

Over a hundred were injured; when the warehouse exploded, burning, scalding alcohol sprayed out, striking many firefighters.

The hot alcohol ignited them instantly—this was the main cause of injury.

Because the warehouse explosion came so suddenly, the production area had enough time to evacuate—this fire caused the fewest casualties of the three.

But…

Dawn broke. Some people woke up feeling strange, especially those living near the distillery—they smelled a stronger, richer scent of alcohol, as if the whole world reeked of liquor.

This wasn’t a huge city; news spread fast: the distillery burned again!

Before work, crowds gathered outside the distillery, staring at the charred ruins left after a night of fire—emotions turned complex.

Ninety-five percent viewed it with a mix of pity and satisfaction.

For them, the distillery burned again—sad, yes, but satisfying.

Because they made too much money!

Everyone else was poor, yet you alone were rich—that was unnatural.

Now they were one of us.

The mayor arrived in the morning—he’d known since midnight but delayed coming for other reasons.

By morning, board members, shareholders, the mayor, government officials, worker representatives, union members—all surrounded him, talking at once. With tinnitus, Mr. Richard closed his eyes and collapsed.

When he woke, over an hour had passed. He lay in a hospital bed; the entire hospital buzzed with activity.

His bodyguard saw him awake, called for the company secretary and doctors, then stepped to his side.

“How’s the situation?” he asked.

The secretary walked in and shook his head. “Terrible.”

Perhaps the secretary felt “terrible” was too weak—he added: “Worse than expected.”

“They found the bodies of the missing in the ruins—all charred.”

The families of the deceased are demanding compensation from the company for losses beyond the funeral benefits.

The injured have already been admitted to the hospital, but none have received treatment…

Mr. Richard couldn’t help asking, “Why?”

“Because the insurance company refuses to immediately pay their work injury insurance claims—they say they must first investigate whether the fire was an accident and whether the injured workers were at their designated workstations when injured…”

Upon hearing this, Mr. Richard fell silent; clearly, the insurance company had no intention of paying.

According to the current insurance compensation rules, they can offer each person roughly four hundred to six hundred dollars.

Statistics show over two million to three hundred people suffered varying degrees of injury—they’ll need to pay roughly one hundred fifty thousand dollars in compensation alone, not to mention the factory’s insurance, bringing the total payout to over four hundred thousand!

Four hundred thousand—what does that even mean?

Not only will they have to give back every penny they made from Jinbiao Liquor, they’ll have to add a huge sum on top.

So the insurance company has outright denied the claims—they’ll investigate first, and only consider compensation if it meets the policy terms.

Mr. Richard had already guessed: those injured while fighting the fire would not be on the insurance company’s compensation list, because they weren’t injured at work—they were injured during personal actions unrelated to their job.

Then there’s the fire itself—if they find evidence of arson or other intentional causes, they’ll almost certainly deny compensation—or rather, they’ll definitely deny it.

Getting compensation from the insurance company won’t be easy; besides going to court, there’s no other way.

Mr. Richard rubbed his temples, “What else?”

“Some customers are demanding breach-of-contract penalties and canceling their orders. The board is under immense pressure. And I heard…”

The secretary hesitated slightly, “They believe your drastic price cuts caused an overload of orders, potentially exposing us to astronomical breach-of-contract penalties.”

Mr. Richard laughed bitterly, “Fine, very fine. Is there anything else even worse?”

The secretary pressed his lips together, “The bank is pressuring us to repay our loan. Also, the Guofang Force called to ask whether we can complete and ship their second-quarter order by month’s end.”

“There’s one more thing—I’m not sure whether I should tell you, or if it’s even useful.”

Mr. Richard lay back on the hospital bed, “If you’re not sure whether it’s useful, that means it is!”

“Go on.”

The secretary lowered his voice, “Jinshi Liquor has announced that, starting today, their Copper Lion Whiskey will increase to twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents per bottle.”

There were other things the secretary hadn’t mentioned—for instance, many citizens were holding signs and protesting outside the factory and company gates.

They demanded Jinbiao Liquor leave the city, convinced that one day, Jinbiao Liquor would drag the entire city into flames.

They wouldn’t tolerate this bomb continuing to exist in their city!

But at this moment, Mr. Richard’s attention was fixed on the secretary’s final words: the Lans family’s liquor was raising prices.

Almost instinctively, Mr. Richard connected this to the Lans family—but he had no concrete evidence, so he remained silent.

The Lans family reacted so quickly, as if they’d known the answer in advance.

News of the fire at Jinbiao Liquor, with its inventory and production workshops reduced to ashes, spread rapidly—in this age, anything tied to money spreads fast.

Even Nanya’an Prefecture (west of Denuozhou) had heard the news; Christopher had heard it too.

Their liquor sales remained strong, bringing the family substantial profits, and this made him more than just a mascot, a waste, in Leonardo’s eyes.

Leonardo granted him greater authority, giving Christopher more motivation.

He immediately summoned his subordinates to discuss the matter.

“Jinbiao Liquor won’t recover production anytime soon—this leaves a vacuum in the market. I believe this is a perfect opportunity to enter Denuozhou!”

His subordinates asked, “But if we do this, we’ll be directly confronting the Lans family. Do we even have the strength to stand against them?”

Hearing that name again—Lans—Christopher still felt a prickling on his scalp; he scratched his head, “We sell brandy; they sell whiskey. Two entirely different, non-overlapping markets…”

Meeting his subordinates’ looks of disbelief—as if he were an idiot—Christopher smiled awkwardly, “If you don’t try, how do you know you’re not their match?”

(End of Chapter)