Chapter 970: Bank Run and Thought

In Zolan’s hotel, Lans sat on the sofa holding a glass of whiskey.

Alcohol is not banned here, so they could enjoy these delicious alcoholic beverages anytime, anywhere.

The liquid in the glass looked beautiful and tasted excellent—it was whiskey that had undergone aging, following the proper whiskey production process.

Most spirits, including the whiskey Lans himself produced within the Federation, lacked aging and did not follow the proper process.

Previously, Jinbiao Brewery would age their whiskey for about one to two years.

Had it not been for the prohibition, Lans would have aged his whiskey according to industry standards.

But because of the prohibition, the market demanded vast quantities of alcohol, and there was no time to wait for it to age in cellars before being sold.

So much so that even the basic two- to three-year aging was unattainable—his whiskey didn’t even reach two or three months of aging!

However, the distillery was now making efforts, storing a portion of each day’s production in long-term aging cellars.

The whiskey in these cellars was mostly intended for a minimum of two years of aging, so its quality was excellent.

Due to the frantic trade, there was simply not enough time for the whiskey to fully mature in oak barrels, so its flavor was slightly lacking.

To compensate for these shortcomings, Lans used technology—thickeners, flavor enhancers, and added spices and essences—to adjust the mouthfeel and taste.

Of course, he did have aged whiskey—the Silver Label and Gold Label—but their aging periods were still short.

Unlike the whiskey in his hand, which cost about two thousand Pala, equivalent to just over thirty Federation Sol.

Its flavor was distinctly “mature”—the long aging had made it “smooth,” no longer harsh, and its taste evolved clearly and promptly upon ingestion; it was an excellent whiskey, of very high quality.

Of course, in Lapa, only the ruling elite could afford to spend two thousand to buy a bottle.

Here, all luxury was prepared for the ruling elite, as perfectly as possible.

Roger sat beside Lans, also holding a glass; he had been enjoying himself lately.

Local officials treated him as a VIP, constantly trying to corrupt him through methods they deemed effective.

He swore it wasn’t due to weak willpower—it was simply that their corruption was too intense.

He had done something wrong to his wife, but… the feeling wasn’t bad.

From those young girls, he felt something he once had, had lost, and desperately wanted to reclaim—

Youth.

He had thought this trip would be dangerous, but now it seemed not dangerous at all.

Swirling his glass, he took a small sip. “Lans, I don’t quite understand something.”

Lans pulled himself from his thoughts and turned to Roger, signaling him to continue.

“What’s the point of gradually buying up these grains?”

“They still have many grain warehouses—I’ve heard there are mountains of grain piled inside, and many farms also have large reserves.”

“Why don’t we buy directly from them?”

“Wouldn’t that be faster and yield more than buying bit by bit from the people?”

Lans set down his glass. “The purpose of buying grain from those stores and grocery shops is to create a sense of tension.”

“People don’t actually know how much grain has disappeared, but they observe.”

“When grain arrives at stores and is sold out immediately, they begin to worry whether there will be enough.”

“People are like this—remember Mr. Joba?”

Upon hearing such a familiar name, Roger momentarily drifted off.

Mr. Joba was unquestionably the most powerful man among the Empire’s immigrants in Jincheng years ago!

As an Empire immigrant, he had achieved the Federation dream here, amassed countless wealth, and was the envy of everyone!

Several years had passed since then; hearing that familiar name again gave him a sense of temporal disorientation.

It felt as if it had all happened yesterday, yet upon deeper thought, so much time had passed.

After a few seconds, he broke free from that mental whirlpool, sighed, and nodded. “Yes, I remember—Mr. Joba and his bank.”

Now Lans’s company occupied the former site of Mr. Joba’s bank; Roger didn’t believe for a second that Lans had nothing to do with Mr. Joba’s downfall.

But capital works this way—he had been in the Federation for many years and was long accustomed to its capital environment.

When capital conflicts erupt, even between fellow countrymen, or father and son, it’s a bloody, merciless fight!

So Mr. Joba’s downfall only made him feel a slight regret—he had no sense that Mr. Joba shouldn’t have fallen, nor any disapproval of Lans’s actions.

In this world, wealth keeps growing, but to gain more than what labor can provide, one must resort to plunder.

Just as the wealth he now possessed was acquired through plunder, others had suffered ruin—directly or indirectly—because of his plunder.

This was the Federation. This was capital.

Lans didn’t know how much had passed through Roger’s mind in such a short time; he smiled. “Actually, what crushed Mr. Joba was a bank run.”

“Without the bank run, he might have held on longer—even had a chance to recover.”

“But the bank run ended it all.”

“People fear—they fear being the last one left. If Lapa were a bank, grain is the people’s savings for life and survival, and now it’s already growing scarce.”

“We only need to push a little harder, and a run on grain will begin.”

“People will realize there isn’t enough grain, can’t buy more, and will hoard every edible thing they can find.”

“Even if they can’t possibly consume it all.”

“Look!” Lans spread his hands. “If a person needs only one unit of grain per day to be full—”

“With ten units of grain, two people could each eat enough to last five days.”

“But because of the run, one person grabs all ten units, while the other gets none—meaning he must starve for at least five days.”

“Hunger is unbearable. Will that man, desperate to fill his stomach, do something insane?”

Lans lifted his glass again, took a sip. “Keep buying. Raise prices slightly at intervals.”

“Not only must we buy—we must make the people of Lapa hoard on their own, triggering a run.”

“Even if the remaining grain is enough for everyone, under a run, prices will skyrocket, and every household will stockpile far beyond their daily needs.”

“Soon, people here will begin to go hungry.”

Listening to Lans, Roger was breaking into a cold sweat.

A bank run meant the bank couldn’t pay out—it collapsed.

What would happen if the state couldn’t provide food to its people?

Massive unrest!

The Empire had experienced this—he vaguely remembered what happened then.

Angry crowds stormed noble castles, slaughtering everything in their path…

After a brief silence in the room, Lans asked, “Have the people invited to the symposium been confirmed?”

During their film promotion, Lans and Federation officials had selected certain individuals.

These people had the potential to become the first “awakeners,” but they still needed polishing.

Every undertaking needs someone to be the first to step forward, to break the stalemate.

These people are the ice-breaking chisels, the seeds pushing through soil.

During this time, Diego had also been observing these foreigners; he sat in his chair, constantly shifting his posture.

Anyone observant would notice that the chairs and sofas in the presidential palace were all padded, with thick cushions.

Because Diego’s weight was so great, maintaining any single sitting position for long made him extremely uncomfortable.

Many assume obese people have plenty of buttock fat and shouldn’t suffer such discomfort—but that’s not true.

More fat can actually make one more sensitive to pressure, and Diego’s pressure was constant; his body, under immense weight, had long developed various discomforts.

The doctors he brought from the Federation had made health recommendations—stop drinking juice, increase exercise—but he rejected them all.

He hadn’t yet grasped the severity of these issues; he thought he was just fat.

“Has our money been deposited?” His eyes glowed with greed—of the sixty million, two million were his, the rest split among others.

Two million—once, it would have taken him fifteen to twenty years to earn that much.

Yet this year, he achieved it instantly, filling Diego with an indescribable sense of satisfaction.

It was a curious thing, really.

Diego’s Federation account, including this two million, now held roughly fifty to sixty million—but he rarely made large purchases in the Federation.

In Lapa, his spending was modest: a few large bottles of juice daily, some tasty food—none of it cost much.

He had no real need to sell grain just to inflate a meaningless number, yet all who chased ultimate wealth couldn’t resist the allure of bigger digits.

He might not spend thirty or fifty thousand in a whole year, but if an opportunity arose, he’d still push the number higher.

The Minister of Finance nodded. “I confirmed by phone—the funds in our Federation bank account have been deposited.”

Diego was satisfied; he patted his belly. “I don’t like Federation people, but when it comes to business, they’re swift and efficient.”

The Minister cleared his throat, making Diego frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Diego, we’ve deposited too much money in the Federation—collectively, we’ve over two hundred million.”

“I think it’s unsafe.”

“If the Federation government freezes our accounts, we won’t be able to withdraw a single cent.”

The Minister had a point. Diego considered for a moment. “You’re right—so where should we move part of the money?”

The question left the Minister speechless.

The Federation was currently the most stable economy and financial system in the world.

Other nations were either poor and backward or ravaged by war.

The Empire was still peaceful, with no chaos—but we’re far from it, and we have no ties to the Emperor.

Depositing so much money into an Empire bank felt too risky to Diego.

Actually, the National Bank of the Jide Republic would be a decent choice—it has a good reputation and is very stable—but Diego dared not deposit his money there.

Who knows if these people might find a way to take his money?

He didn’t trust those people in the Jide Republic; he always felt they weren’t good folks.

For a moment, no one in the room could think of a better place than the Federation to store their funds.

“What if we split our accounts and evenly distribute the money across different accounts?”

“That way, even if a few accounts are affected, we only lose part of our money.”

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket—it’s not exactly deep knowledge.

This was the new idea the Minister of Finance came up with; though it only added hassle with no real benefit, Diego and the others still agreed with his suggestion.

It certainly sounded safer than keeping everything in one account, but they never stopped to think.

Once the Federation decides to freeze their wealth, even if they split their money across a hundred accounts, it will freeze all hundred—leaving them nothing!

After finishing this topic, he asked, “Have our grain shipments been loaded and sent off?”

The Minister of Agriculture nodded. “All of it was shipped out yesterday.”

“I had someone check—it seems these cargo ships didn’t deliver the grain to Tanfeit, but went straight to the Federation.”

Diego waved his hand, cutting him off. “Once the goods are sold, we don’t care if they eat them themselves or resell them—it’s none of our business anymore.”

The Minister of Agriculture wanted to say more, but chose to stay silent.

Diego glanced at him twice, then paused. “What have the Federation people been up to lately?”

Another official quickly answered, “They’re busy screening free movies everywhere and holding seminars, salons, and such.”

“I heard the Federation plans to launch a newspaper here.”

Diego looked like he wanted to frown, but he was too fat—his eyebrows twitched, but didn’t wrinkle together. “Don’t we already have a newspaper?”

La Pa currently publishes only one newspaper, because its illiteracy rate remains extremely high—seventy percent of the population is illiterate and can’t buy newspapers to read.

Those who aren’t illiterate, like school students, likely won’t buy it either, and certainly can’t afford to buy newspapers daily—so the single newspaper has almost no sales.

Originally covering all of La Pa, its sales and market have gradually shrunk over the years; now it’s only available near Zhuolan.

The official in charge of this seemed to wear a smirk of amusement. “Who knows?”

“Maybe they’re just not used to sharing a newspaper with us.”

Diego thought for a moment, then laughed and shook his head. “I wonder who they plan to sell it to.”

In his view, with such a high illiteracy rate, newspapers and magazines simply couldn’t have much of a market.

If not for the backing of the ruling elite, the sole newspaper would have collapsed long ago.

Since the Federation isn’t afraid to spend money, let them spend it.

During this time, some people brought him magazines and books distributed by the Federation locally; after flipping through them, Diego found nothing suspicious—they mainly introduced the Federation’s social structure, human culture, and tourist attractions.

None of the content was radical; everything was calm and focused on presenting the Federation.

Rather than suspecting the Federation of hiding something in their cultural outreach, Diego was more concerned about taxes.

“I’ve been thinking about this: the Federation has built factories in our country, producing goods at extremely low costs, then shipping them to the Federation to sell at higher prices and earn more profit.”

“What have we gained from this entire process?”

“Take alcohol, for example—their production cost here might be just a few coins, but after transport to the Federation, they sell it for three or four times the price. This is clearly exploitation of our cheap labor.”

“We need to take some measures.”

He shifted his weight again, settling onto the other side of his seat. “Taxes!”

Tax reform was a major issue; Diego wanted to change the tax standards, believing more foreigners would come to La Pa seeking opportunities.

They might, like Lans, build factories here, produce goods, and take all the profits back to the Federation, leaving us nothing.

So Diego wanted to reform the tax code—for example, requiring workers employed in foreign-owned factories to pay an extra fee; he hadn’t yet decided what to call it.

Today he gathered everyone here to discuss this: they needed to find a way to squeeze more money out of the Federation people and those working for them.

La Pa was too poor—so poor that even though they were already rich, they’d still pounce and bite at any chance.

After a full day, Pedro finally arrived in Zhuolan.

This was his fifth visit to Zhuolan; each time he came to the city, he felt different emotions.

At first, he thought Zhuolan was the most magnificent city in the world—until he visited the Jide Republic.

Then he thought the Jide Republic was the most prosperous place on earth, and Zhuolan was merely average.

Until he saw the Federation in the movies.

The towering skyscrapers in the films were firmly etched in his mind; he couldn’t imagine how buildings two or three hundred meters tall were even built.

Would standing on top feel the same as standing on a mountain?

The more he marveled at those skyscrapers, the more he felt Zhuolan’s decay and backwardness.

Sitting on a swaying ox cart, he pondered one question.

Where had all the money of the people of La Pa gone?