Chapter 987: The Corpse Has the Value of a Corpse, and a Pie in the Sky

Mr. Richard’s wife had not shared dinner with him for quite some time.

Men are always like this.

When they gain power and wealth, they inevitably lose their families.

When you focus on one thing, it’s hard to attend to others—career and family both demand immense time, and balance is difficult.

Someone like Mr. Richard, managing a massive company in trouble, must handle countless tasks daily: meetings, networking, and everything else.

Tonight, he came home to share dinner with her instead of attending some VIP’s “New Year’s Eve party,” then returning the next day reeking of women’s perfume.

To Mr. Richard’s wife, this was already deeply, deeply moving.

She had prepared many delicious dishes; their daughter was also home today, besides him.

“We haven’t spent a key holiday together as a family in a long time.”

She pressed close to the table, knife in one hand, fork in the other, her face beaming with joy—as if, in this moment, she had become the happiest person alive.

Perhaps his exhaustion melted under his wife’s warm smile; Mr. Richard smiled too, making a hollow promise.

“From now on, we’ll spend every important day together!”

He knew full well this promise would never come true—that’s why he uttered it without hesitation.

He couldn’t keep it, but a short-term “kind lie” was easy enough.

Let’s just enjoy this wonderful night first!

“Really?” His wife was on the verge of tears, happiness overwhelming her; she rose from her seat, walked to Mr. Richard’s side, and hugged his shoulders. “I’m so moved!”

Mr. Richard’s guilt deepened; he felt awkward. He looked at his daughter, gave her a helpless expression, then set down his knife and fork and embraced his wife, murmuring, “Everything will be fine.”

Their embrace lasted about ten seconds before his wife released him and returned to her seat; the family began to enjoy their New Year’s dinner in harmony.

Just before eight, they had nearly finished eating; the dinner atmosphere was perfect.

Mr. Richard brought out all his business wit and humor, making his wife and daughter laugh repeatedly.

For a husband and a father, this was undoubtedly the greatest reward.

Perhaps seeing her father in good spirits, Mr. Richard’s daughter gathered courage and said, “I’m dating someone.”

Mr. Richard froze. He glanced at his wife—she seemed to have known already—then turned back to his daughter. “Don’t tell me I’m the last to find out!”

His daughter was nervous but nodded. “You’re always busy, and we rarely see each other or sit down to talk.”

“I tried telling you a few times, but you told me to tell Mom.”

Mr. Richard vaguely remembered. He slapped his forehead. “My God, what did I miss?!”

He looked at his daughter. “Alright, tell me about this boy—I need to confirm he’s worthy of you.”

These words eased her tension; she began praising her boyfriend.

At that moment, the doorbell rang suddenly. Mr. Richard checked his watch—it was eight.

His smile widened. Seeing his wife rise, he stood up himself. “I’ll get it. Probably my documents—you know, I’ve been swamped!”

He gave the mother and daughter a reassuring look, then hurried to the door.

He had ordered a large bouquet—ninety-nine roses—with a necklace resting atop them.

He wanted to give his wife a romantic, sweet New Year’s Eve she’d remember forever.

The doorbell rang again, insistently. He strode forward, calling out, “Coming, coming—don’t rush, brother!”

Without hesitation, he yanked the door open—and saw a man in a thin cotton jacket standing outside.

He wore a baseball cap; the porch light cast down, its brim shadowing his face, leaving only a dark, indistinct outline.

His gaze fell on the man’s hands—both hung naturally at his sides, clad in lambskin gloves—

He knew they were lambskin because he owned a similar pair.

Lambskin is thin, sometimes lined with a layer of fleece, sometimes not—maximizing hand fit. Expert leatherworkers can make gloves feel like a second skin.

In the man’s right hand, Mr. Richard saw a pistol.

He froze. Instantly, a chill exploded inside him!

He couldn’t even open his mouth to speak!

The next second, the man at the door raised his pistol. Survival instinct overrode his brain’s control—he dropped low and turned to run.

But his speed was nothing compared to a bullet’s.

The gunshot was quiet—a small-caliber pistol with a suppressor; beyond a few meters, no sound remained.

Of course, this also limited the gun’s effective range to just fifteen meters.

Fifteen meters is inadequate in open combat—but inside a room, it’s more than enough.

Three bullets struck Mr. Richard: two in the head, one in the back.

He collapsed with a thud—but didn’t die immediately.

His brain was severely damaged, yet fragments of thought and awareness remained. His face showed no expression. He tried to open his mouth, to scream—but couldn’t.

Inside the room, the mother and daughter heard the heavy thud from the hallway. Mr. Richard’s wife instinctively asked, “Darling, what happened?”

“Do you need help?”

As she spoke, she rose and walked toward the door.

In his final moments, Mr. Richard’s eyes filled with tears.

Since adulthood, he had never cried.

Sometimes he thought: even if his parents, his wife, or his child died in an accident, he wouldn’t cry.

He believed himself naturally cold. He was good at acting—sometimes pretending to be warm, emotional.

But deep down, he knew he was indifferent.

He’d always believed this—until this moment.

Maybe he truly cried. Maybe his brain was damaged, and his tear ducts contracted uncontrollably.

Either way, his eyes were full of tears.

His mouth hung open, his facial muscles twisted, his consciousness dimming, blurry. He watched the shadow draw closer—saw a pair of slippers enter his vision.

It’s over.

No scream—only a thud. His wife collapsed before him. Then he saw black leather shoes step into the room, followed by more gunshots.

About twenty seconds later, the gunman stepped out of the dining room. He noticed Mr. Richard’s still-twitching eyes.

He walked over, stepped on Mr. Richard’s neck, and emptied the entire magazine into his head…

Blood on the floor slowly spread inward, eventually mingling Mr. Richard’s blood with his wife’s.

The next morning, company staff couldn’t reach Mr. Richard. With so much going on, they called him.

The phone went unanswered. The board grew suspicious and reported it to the police.

Police arrived quickly at Mr. Richard’s home and found his and his family’s bodies inside.

The case shocked the entire city’s upper class—Mr. Richard was one of them. His death made others wary and alert.

During the investigation, police received an unverified tip.

The company claimed Mr. Richard had transferred a large sum of funds before his murder—now the money was gone. Whether he actually moved it didn’t matter to the board members; they were just exploiting the rumor.

Who killed Mr. Richard?

The board and major shareholders had suspicions—only a few people were likely suspects.

The insurance company, Lans White, and the injured workers from the factory fire who received no compensation.

Only these groups held deep grudges against Mr. Richard and had motive to kill him.

But the small-caliber pistol ruled out ordinary workers—they rarely had access to such weapons; it required either money or connections.

Still, the board didn’t fully rule it out—what if one of those workers had military training?

Still, their main focus remained on the insurance company and the White family.

They had no desire to avenge Mr. Richard.

They were capitalists. Capitalists act only for profit—if there’s no gain, they won’t act.

They joined the investigation only to find out who pulled the trigger.

Mr. Richard’s death halted all Jinguang Winery’s operations, including the lawsuit against the insurance company.

Though the new CEO would continue pursuing it, they’d eased off for now—perhaps they’d develop new ideas.

After all, it was the New Year—time for a fresh start.

Federal citizens celebrated the first day of the year in cheer—but in Lapa, people kept collapsing from hunger.

They didn’t starve to death outright—they ate inedible things or were attacked by predators in the jungle.

So desperate were they that they ventured into the jungle for food, disturbing its predators and toxic flora and fauna.

Someone ate a mushroom and closed their eyes, returning to God’s embrace.

Someone touched a beautiful frog and collapsed in the jungle from cardiac arrest.

Someone stepped on a snake, which gave him a dose of poison worth its weight in gold.

Every day, people died searching for food. Public anger toward the Lapa government had reached its limit!

Under these conditions, Diego delivered a public broadcast speech—audible across all of Lapa and surrounding regions.

To ensure maximum awareness, they announced the time and date three days in advance.

At 2 p.m. on January 1st, Diego appeared outside the Presidential Palace as the high-power radio station activated.

“Citizens of Lapa, I am your president, Diego…”

He followed with a string of names and two pronunciations Lans couldn’t identify.

Locals said these were native-language names, with no accurate translation in the common tongue.

By announcing his full name and native pronunciations in this setting, Diego was asserting his legitimacy and authority.

This is like an ancient emperor who, when not in his castle but out in the world, would emphasize his surname—Imperial Clan!

Diego did exactly that, stressing these points to gain at least no strong opposition from the people.

After all, he and his family had ruled Lapa for a long time and still had a certain foundation of rule.

Among the ruled, there are always some who have grown addicted to kneeling—they enjoy being ruled, exploited, and oppressed; without several great mountains on their backs, they feel as if they cannot live.

There will always be those who willingly make excuses for his brutal rule; thus, ruling is an art, requiring the ruler to possess political skill and intelligence beyond the ordinary.

But it’s not always like that!

There are always people who can rule a group of equally dim-witted individuals without needing any brains at all.

“I am deeply pained by recent events in Zolan. What wonderful people we have!”

“They were misled and deceived by certain individuals, ending up standing against us, against the people, and paying a heavy price.”

“I believe most people are kind, and I believe we can overcome this crisis.”

“We have recently completed the first round of consultations with the President’s Cabinet of the Jede Republic on food supplies.”

“We will receive no less than three hundred fifty thousand tons of food aid—enough to carry us through until winter ends…”

Actually, it’s five hundred thousand tons, but he didn’t say it outright—not because he and his ministers wanted to embezzle fifteen thousand tons, but because this portion would be temporarily kept secret.

If the need arises in certain environments or places, they would release it—essentially as a final reserve.

But how could three hundred fifty thousand tons of food possibly sustain so many people until spring?

That is no longer Diego’s or the Cabinet’s problem—it is the people’s own problem.

At one pound per person per day, it simply wouldn’t last until spring.

But what if a person only needed one pound per week?

Wheat can be mixed with more water; food doesn’t have to be choking—it can be a thin porridge.

Add other things, like coarse plant fibers that are hard to digest, and it can still stretch further.

He also spoke of ideas to create more job opportunities, telling the people that the Lapa government was negotiating with the Lianbangzheng Prefecture on local resource development.

Once the negotiations are settled, at least several hundred thousand new jobs will be created—high-paying ones.

There are also opportunities to work in the Lianbangzheng Prefecture.

Because large numbers of young people have been conscripted into the military, sent to the front lines or waiting for deployment at military bases, a massive shortage of young labor has emerged.

Some jobs are fine for older men, but others—especially heavy physical labor—are best left to the young.

They need such workers; Lans can guarantee at least fifty to one hundred thousand people will be recruited to work in the Lianbangzheng Prefecture.

Behind two hundred thousand jobs lie four or five hundred thousand families, reaching and transforming the lives of at least three to four million people.

Diego’s Cabinet has discussed this issue: at least one-third of Lapa’s population will move from “extremely poor” to “poor,” and a small portion will become wealthier than poor.

Thus, Lapa’s regime effectively “co-opts” these new beneficiaries, turning them into staunch supporters of the Lapa government.

They are wealthier and more active than others; thus, they become the best protectors of power.

Lans listened as Diego kept describing a bright future on the radio—he was certain Diego was reading from a script, and that script wasn’t written by him.

He lacks that level of skill; if he had it, Lapa wouldn’t be in such a terrible state today.

Lans slowly withdrew his attention from the radio and glanced at Gomes standing in the corner. “Can you confirm the route and schedule of this train?”

Gomes bowed his head, “Of course I can, Mr. Lans!”

“Diego suspects me somewhat, but he can’t find anyone else suitable, so he assigned me to receive the first batch of food.”

Lans smiled slightly. “Do a good job, Gomes.”

“I know you want to touch the power of this country—but it will never belong to you, and never can. So don’t even think about it.”

“Do your assigned work well, and I’ll give you the chance to go to the Lianbangzheng Prefecture—as a Lianbang citizen.”

“Isn’t it better to be a wealthy man in the Lianbangzheng Prefecture than a bullied president in Lapa?”

Gomes showed no sign of displeasure. “That’s exactly what I think, Mr. Lans.”

“Then what about the food on this train?”

Lans handed him a map. “Draw the railway line, and write down the time.”

“Think carefully before you put pen to paper—you only get one chance!”

“Don’t waste it!”