Chapter 966: The Charm of Statistics and No One Going Hungry

In another room, Roger and members of the Imperial Commerce Guild were also discussing this transaction.

“At over thirty dollars a ton, isn’t that too high?” someone expressed slight concern over Roger’s price.

Currently, the international grain price for wheat is only about thirty-one to thirty-two dollars a ton.

Grain differs from other goods: while its consumption is enormous, so is its stockpile, and there are many alternatives.

If wheat is too expensive to afford, eat rice—rice is also a staple food on the Southern Continent.

If rice is too expensive, eat high-starch foods, like potatoes.

People always find ways to fill their stomachs, because filling their stomachs doesn’t require choosing only wheat.

If grain prices rise too high and the stock sits unsold, it becomes a serious problem.

But Roger shook his head. “You don’t need to worry too much about this.”

“The Federal Government will give us some subsidies. Second, if we can’t sell the grain, we can ferment it into alcohol, and have Chairman Lans sell it for us.”

Previously, Lans had reached a series of agreements with Imperial Commerce Guild members: they secretly established small distilleries, produced the liquor, and handed it to Lans for sale, splitting profits proportionally.

One ton of wheat can produce slightly less than three federal barrels of high-proof liquor—about five hundred and a few liters of fifty-degree alcohol.

When bottled, this yields roughly sixty copper-label bottles.

At the current wholesale price of over thirty dollars, these bottles can sell for two thousand dollars.

Of course, there are many additional costs: labor, for instance—three to four workers are needed to complete the entire process per ton of grain.

Distillery workers earn slightly more than regular laborers; their wages alone amount to over two hundred dollars per ton.

Another major cost is oak barrels: a single federal-standard oak barrel costs about fifty dollars, so two and a half barrels total one hundred twenty-five dollars.

These barrels can only be used three times, making the cost per use about forty dollars.

To distinguish his whiskey from others on the market, Lans adds spices and blends in some tech products—additional expenses.

There are also other miscellaneous losses: R&D, storage, management, transportation, and sales costs.

For a bottle sold at thirty dollars, costs already consume more than half.

But to say it’s unprofitable? Obviously not.

With grain costing thirty dollars and production adding eight or nine hundred dollars, after processing it becomes over two thousand dollars—profit is still extremely substantial!

So even if they bought extra grain and couldn’t sell it, Roger wasn’t worried at all—whether directly handing it to Lans or distilling it themselves and giving it to Lans for sale, the few-dollar cost would be completely drowned out by massive profits!

Hearing Roger’s confidence, the others said nothing more.

They raised the cost issue only to confirm the final destination of this grain and their own role in it.

Soon, someone knocked on the door; the person outside pushed in. “The President has finished his discussion. Gentlemen, please follow me to the hall.”

Roger and the others rose, adjusted their attire, and went outside together.

They soon sat again on opposite sides of the negotiation table; Diego’s eyes gleamed with greed—he said nothing.

As President, he wasn’t suited to be the first to probe; if the other side rejected his offer or slashed it harshly, he’d lose face, and the negotiation would likely collapse.

Thus, important figures typically appear only when talks are nearly concluded, stepping in as final arbiters to seal the deal.

The first to speak was the Minister of Commerce, formerly the superior of Ambassador Cassia.

He understood commerce somewhat, but wasn’t skilled in it.

La Pa had no strong commercial atmosphere; the Ministry of Commerce was more like a prop and a joke.

If most major enterprises in this country had ties to the ruling elite, the Ministry of Commerce could only be a facade.

The Minister of Commerce cleared his throat. “After our discussion, we believe wheat still has significant potential for price appreciation on the international market.”

“Roger, as Chairman, just said this is a once-in-centuries opportunity—why couldn’t it break forty dollars a ton?”

“I believe it’s very likely!”

“If you offer forty dollars a ton, we can sell you more grain!”

“That way, you get what you want, and we won’t suffer too much.”

Roger hadn’t been idle these past years; the Imperial Commerce Guild’s several brilliant victories had made him a recognized figure in financial circles, frequently attending business events.

He was learning, growing. The Imperial Commerce Guild didn’t rely solely on Lans’s remote control—they conducted their own deals, with wins and losses.

These experiences gave Roger more than just surface knowledge—he had real insight into commercial negotiations.

He immediately rejected the offer.

“Too high, Mr. President. We can’t accept that price. My maximum is thirty-six dollars a ton.”

Diego and his officials showed no expression. Then the Minister of Agriculture chimed in: “Chairman Roger, from my perspective, I oppose this deal.”

“Selling too much grain will leave our people without enough wheat to fill their stomachs. Selling too cheaply, we can’t answer to our people.”

“If you meet our price, we’ll allocate part of the proceeds to improve people’s living conditions and environment.”

“That’s essentially you doing good.”

The two ministers took turns, but Roger held firm at thirty-six dollars—no lower.

When he noticed Diego growing impatient, he suddenly said: “Forty dollars isn’t impossible—but not for five hundred thousand tons.”

Diego frowned slightly. “You think five hundred thousand tons is too much?”

Then he relaxed. Five hundred thousand tons meant twenty million—he didn’t believe Lans, a gang boss, or this Imperial Commerce Guild, could afford that much.

But the next second, Roger’s words left his mind blank: “Not too much. Too little.”

“One million tons—I’ll give you thirty-eight dollars.”

“One point five million tons—I’ll give you forty dollars.”

“If you agree, I’ll sign with you right now!”

The room fell utterly silent.

Diego glanced at the Minister of Commerce, winked; the minister shook his head, equally bewildered.

The Minister of Agriculture murmured: “Do you even have that much money?”

He was confused, incredulous—were Federal guilds really this wealthy?

Moving tens of millions, even billions at a time—where did they get such sums?

One million tons meant thirty-eight million; one point five million meant sixty million—this was Federal Sol, not worthless La Pa Pala!

Roger remained calm. “What you need to know isn’t whether we can pay—but whether you’ll agree.”

Diego turned to the Minister of Agriculture; his mind wasn’t sharp, especially with numbers—he couldn’t calculate the exact amount.

His fingers beneath the table curled as he counted.

Units, tens, hundreds, thousands, millions…

So many zeros!

His breathing grew slightly rapid. He didn’t know the exact figure, but it was certainly a lot.

Frankly, the price was lethally attractive—but they wanted too much!

Selling another five hundred thousand tons would leave them with over one million tons; civilians held tens of millions more.

Though insufficient for everyone, it wouldn’t cause major problems.

But if they sold their own one million tons, they’d be left with only five or six hundred thousand.

Combined with civilian stocks, total wheat wouldn’t exceed one point two million tons.

Diego and his ministers hadn’t considered selling all their grain—only testing the market with one million tons at thirty-eight dollars.

Roger watched their eyes darting back and forth—he knew they’d start deliberating. He stood up. “My friends and I will step outside for a cigarette.”

Diego and his officials didn’t object. Once Roger and his group left the hall and closed the door, Diego asked:

“If we sell them one million tons, will we still have enough grain for our people?”

“Can anyone calculate this properly?”

These masters couldn’t calculate it, so a specialized official—graduated from Jiede National University—was quickly summoned.

After his calculation, he produced a number:

“Mr. President, Ministers, if we divide our remaining grain equally, each person gets about one hundred kilograms of wheat.”

“One hundred kilograms?” Diego’s small eyes widened. Everyone else reacted the same. “That much?”

He couldn’t believe it—how could people still claim hunger if everyone got this much wheat?

These damn peasants!

Still, he didn’t immediately agree. He turned to the Minister of Agriculture: “What are we planting next?”

The Minister of Agriculture, though part of the ruling elite, had attended university and studied crops—he answered swiftly: “Potatoes, carrots.”

“Few eat carrots; potatoes are the main crop.”

“Potatoes will be harvested in February or March next year, then we can begin spring planting again.”

Hearing this, Diego already had his answer: “Potatoes yield a lot, I remember.”

The Minister of Agriculture nodded. “Three to four times.”

He immediately realized what he’d implied.

“Look—from now until next February or March is four or five months—over a hundred days.”

“Just now our…,” he didn’t know the man’s name, so he just glanced at him, “our friend told us our remaining grain gives each person one hundred kilograms.”

“If we sell another five hundred thousand tons, and divide the rest equally, each person still gets fifty kilograms.”

“Fifty kilograms!” Diego emphasized. “Over a hundred days—each person gets half a kilo of wheat daily. I think… it’s acceptable.”

He paused, then gasped for breath—his obesity made breathing difficult.

Other ministers whispered among themselves. Some wanted to speak, but stayed silent.

One point five million tons of grain—at sixty million—unprecedented, super-sale!

In past years, each faction barely scraped together over a million—often not even fully theirs, needing further division.

But now, just on grain alone, they could swallow sixty million Federal Sol in one go…

Even those who knew they shouldn’t do this now found themselves speechless.

The Federals were too insane, giving too much—they seemed to be debating, but in truth, they had already decided.

Whoever opposes them becomes an enemy of these ministers.

Sixty million!

Soon, Roger returned to the room, sat in his chair, and smiled at them. “Gentlemen, have you reached a conclusion?”

Diego nodded. “Forty credits per ton. One and a half million tons!”

Roger’s smile could no longer be contained. He stood and extended his hand. “A pleasure doing business, Mr. President.”

Diego pushed himself up by the armrests, his face also lit with a smile. He gripped Roger’s hand and shook it twice. “A pleasure doing business!”

“However, Mr. Roger, I do not wish you to publicly disclose our transaction.”

Roger was not surprised. He nodded in agreement. “No problem. No one besides us will know we’ve shipped out this grain.”

“Then… I must return to prepare the money.”

Diego released his hand. “When the money is ready, let me know. The grain can be loaded onto the ship at any time.”

After leaving the Presidential Palace, Roger immediately returned to the hotel and told Lans about it.

Lans called the bank, and soon the funds began to move—this was an interest-free loan.

He could afford the sum, but much of his money was in cash.

This was a perfect opportunity to use the La Pa operation to launder some of it.

Those banknotes were being packed into crates, and would be shipped alongside the cargo vessel to La Pa Port. Once power reaches a certain level, laundering or not laundering becomes merely a formality.

One and a half million tons of grain trade was no small matter, but both sides kept it secret; the public could only see large trucks constantly shuttling between the port and docks.

Sometimes, when trucks passed, they spilled some wheat kernels, sparking frenzied scrambles by children.

Though the kernels were few, what they could grab might be only a handful—but ground into flour, it could make a small loaf of bread.

So whenever a transport truck appeared on the street, a crowd of children would chase after it, sacks slung over their backs—a recent sight in La Pa.

People knew they were likely transporting grain, but no one knew exactly how much had been moved; not a whisper reached the market.

That night, two truck drivers arrived at Lans’s hotel and, after multiple checks, entered his room.

Lans was curious—both drivers were from the Federation.

La Pa had its own truck drivers, but Lans did not trust their driving skills.

Hiring them would cost little, but if they damaged even one truck, the financial loss wouldn’t be the only problem—they’d also delay shipments.

So all these drivers were from the Federation, each earning about eighty credits per month.

Currently, technical jobs in the Federation had seen widespread pay increases, and overseas assignments carried additional subsidies, making their wages extremely high.

Lans valued these men greatly.

“What’s the matter?”

The two drivers nudged each other, then the older one stepped forward. “Mr. Lans, I’d like to report an issue.”

“Some people dig holes along the road from the warehouse to the port at night. Our grain trucks bounce violently every time they pass.”

“You know, a bumpy truck always shakes out some wheat—we usually load them full.”

“Then people rush out to snatch the spilled wheat.”

“We fixed the holes twice already, but they were soon destroyed again. The local police haven’t done anything about it.”

Lans frowned. “What did the police say?”

“They came to inspect, said they’d handle it, but nothing’s happened since.”

Lans’s frown eased. “Understood. I’ll deal with it quickly. Your feedback is important.”

He turned to Ma Duoer. “Write down their names. Give them an extra month’s salary as a bonus this month.”

Ma Duoer went over and recorded their personal details. The two drivers left, overjoyed.

Lans called the local police station and spoke to their chief.

“Mr. Lans, I’ve already sent officers to inspect the situation you mentioned.”

“We didn’t catch anyone on the scene. And our manpower in Zhuolan is limited—we can’t keep deploying police just to fix your roads.”

“If you catch the culprits yourselves, then call us again. That way, we can act more efficiently.”

Lans listened, said nothing, and hung up. Clearly, the police chief was brushing him off.

This reflected the Presidential Palace’s attitude: though they’d made the deal, Diego disliked Federals entering here, entering his country. This was his kingdom—not theirs.