Chapter 998: Apology and an Advanced Work System

Andy looked at Albert, his lips trembling slightly, “I…”

He opened his mouth but didn’t know what else to say.

He couldn’t go back.

Coming here was the result of him and his father having “burned out” everything—just like Sidney, who burned himself out for his secretary, his true blood son.

He used up every favor he had to secure Owen a relatively high starting position: State Assembly Representative.

With this starting level, whether he continued as a Representative or ran for mayor of some district, it wouldn’t be hard.

Andy’s father was also an old politician, though not of high rank, but he had connections with senior officials.

He exhausted all his personal networks to get Andy placed in this unofficial international human rights investigation agency, even sending him to Lapan.

The effort he put into this behind the scenes wasn’t minor—it was a lifetime’s accumulation.

So Andy couldn’t leave here; this was also one of the reasons he constantly emphasized obeying Congress’s decisions—he wanted to perform well.

But precisely because the attitude he used to express his intentions was inappropriate, everything turned into a mess.

Albert was a typical politician; he stared at Andy for a moment, “To Lans, you’re just a minor player.”

He clearly knew more: “What you need to do now is gain Lans’s forgiveness and make him know you’ve recognized your mistake.”

Andy nodded; the overwhelming panic vanished from his chest. He looked at Albert with gratitude, “I’ll go apologize to him soon.”

Albert nodded; he’d only given a hint—if Andy kept acting foolishly, he wouldn’t spare him any face.

“Do what Lans asked you to do quickly. Show your attitude.”

“I’m not sure why you wanted to come to Lapan. This isn’t an easy job—it demands more adaptability.”

“You’re lacking in this area. So your best move now is to see yourself as a tool—don’t think, don’t question, just execute. Don’t do anything beyond your role.”

With that, Albert stood up. “That’s all.”

“I need to get back to work.”

Soon, Lans saw Andy again. Andy’s attitude had improved greatly—he bowed his head, humbly apologizing for his recklessness.

Lans knew this was Albert’s doing, but he had no intention of digging deeper.

After all, he only needed a tool. And supporting Lapan’s anti-government factions would never directly involve him.

On one hand, Congress needed complete, precise control over this matter—otherwise, they wouldn’t have sent a special delegation just for this. They could’ve just assigned it to Lans directly.

Assigning a dedicated team means they need records—they must ensure they can trace every transaction, even the exact content of conversations.

Lans couldn’t be that meticulous.

Second, Lans himself wasn’t eager to get involved in such matters. Funding organizations to overthrow a nation’s government was despised in every country.

Even in the Federation, if this got exposed, people would spit on those who planned it and those who carried it out.

He didn’t want to become the “shadow mastermind” or the “executioner.” He was an invisible man—his influence operated in nearly every link, yet left no trace. That was perfect.

So Lans forgave him, and Andy soon left.

These items would take three days to transfer from the Federation; by the time they reached Pedro’s hands, it might be a week later.

Later, Rogerov came to see Lans on his own.

During this time, Rogerov had been busy building the factory. For seventy percent of his life, he’d been the one exploited and oppressed.

Now that he’d turned into a wealthy man, he naturally became the one exploiting and oppressing others.

Though he had rich experience of being exploited, transitioning into the role of an exploiter might still take time.

“There’s a bit of trouble at the factory.”

Lans handed him a cigarette. “What trouble?”

“Is it someone deliberately causing you trouble, or are the officials giving you trouble?”

In Lans’s view, factory troubles came down to only these two kinds.

Some locals, envious of their factory, banded together to harass it—a situation common not just in Lapan but even in the Federation.

They’d claim the factory’s toxic air made them gasp for breath, their families gasp, even their dogs gasp—and demand compensation.

Even if the factory was a non-polluting handcraft workshop, they’d say the same.

All they wanted was compensation or extra job opportunities.

The other scenario: officials reaching out greedily. The industries that Lans and the Imperial Chamber of Commerce invested in were funded with real gold and silver.

The value generated by these cheap laborers was substantial, and some officials might eye it, create trouble, then find ways to take equity.

This was also common.

The Federation had its own prototypes—this was one reason why capital and politics were so deeply entangled.

On one hand, investing in politics gave capital higher returns; on the other, it increased political risk resilience.

Rogerov and his group hadn’t yet formally contacted the local management or ruling elite, so someone might be pressuring him to allow those people to take equity.

But his guess was wrong—none of these were the problem.

The problem was the ordinary workers!

“Some workers… their work attitude is terrible. They’re always looking for ways to slack off.”

“At first, only a few did it, but soon more and more followed—this behavior spreads like an infection.”

“I thought these workers, having landed a high-income job, would work extremely hard.”

“But after a short period of novelty, their productivity dropped sharply.”

“When I told them to speed up, they deliberately damaged raw materials, forcing me to slow production.”

“I’m not sure what to do now—whether I should fire them?”

“Locals make up too large a portion of the workforce. I’m worried they might riot, so I haven’t acted yet. I want to hear your thoughts.”

Saying he wanted Lans’s opinion was really just a cry for help.

“Is this one factory, or a general phenomenon?”

Rogerov replied, “The cigar factory is currently the worst. Other factories are starting to show the same signs—it’s hard to manage.”

“We can’t keep watching every single worker. The moment we stop paying attention, they instantly slack off.”

Lans had built a cigar factory here because the special climate of Yalan Continent made it a natural paradise for plants!

This region had many of the world’s top plant-producing areas, widespread and sizable.

Lapan had a large area ideal for tobacco cultivation, and tobacco was already being grown there.

Lans bought vast tracts of land, removed the ordinary tobacco, and transplanted top-tier tobacco from elsewhere.

The first harvest won’t happen until after July.

But a brand can’t rely solely on top-grade tobacco—not everyone can afford cigars costing several or even dozens of units.

So Lans was also buying tobacco from local farmers to make cigars.

Tobacco and alcohol were inseparable, and tobacco profits were enormous—a single cigar’s cost might be just a few cents.

But once packaged well, with a good story, placed in a beautifully crafted box far more expensive than its cost, and displayed prominently on shelves, its price could multiply hundreds or even thousands of times!

A cigar costing two or three cents could easily sell for ten or more units under the label “premium.” Selling it for over a hundred units wouldn’t be impossible.

The world always had enough ultra-rich individuals willing to spend unimaginable sums on personal luxury.

This was a realm—a level ordinary people could never reach.

It wasn’t that their awareness was lacking; they simply didn’t have the money.

The Federation had its own premium tobacco regions, sizable too, but these were tightly controlled by the Federation’s tobacco conglomerates—outsiders couldn’t break in.

Lapan had the perfect soil, environment, and all necessary conditions for top-grade tobacco growth—so Lans had this idea.

The cost of trial and error was low.

First, produce some low-end cigars to train workers’ skills and test market response.

Lans had strong confidence in cigar sales—because Gold Label Whiskey sold well, they could be bundled together and marketed with clever tactics; opening the market was just a matter of time.

The plan was solid, but the workers didn’t seem cooperative—at least, their slacking was not among the many “possible” issues he’d anticipated.

This was an unforgivable problem—not because he disliked the workers, but because they were paid to do their jobs properly!

He tapped his fingers on the desk. “Then change the ‘deal’—switch to piece-rate pay.”

“What’s our daily production target per worker?”

Rogerov answered immediately: “Our plan is one hundred cigars per person, but they only manage thirty to forty.”

“Set the rule: anyone who produces exactly one hundred cigars daily gets forty cents (Federation Sol).”

“If they don’t reach one hundred, the count carries over to the next day.”

“If they accumulate one hundred over two days, pay forty cents. If not, keep carrying over.”

“If they fail to meet the monthly quota, fire them.”

Hearing Lans’s changes, Rogerov asked softly, “What if they riot?”

Lans glanced at him. “The whips given to overseers aren’t for decoration—make them swing them. Also, I’ll have factory security assist you.”

Rogerov nodded and agreed.

Piece-rate pay existed in the Federation, but its scope was limited due to unions.

Some unions viewed piece-rate pay as a crueler form of labor exploitation, so most permanent factory workers didn’t participate—only temporary workers did.

For example, orchard pickers—they had to harvest ripe fruit quickly and in bulk.

An orchard might have only one harvest per year and didn’t need many pickers otherwise, so these workers were temporary.

Orchards paid piece-rate based on fruit type—smaller, harder-to-pick fruits paid more.

For instance, two cents per pound.

For larger, easier-to-pick fruits, they might pay one cent for two or three pounds—or even by count.

Permanent workers rarely had such payment systems.

In Lans’s factory, the workers on the assembly line moved with excruciating slowness, each step taking an unnaturally long time.

Several workers occasionally exchanged winks and grins, their faces beaming.

This was indeed a good job, with wages high enough, and they had genuinely tried at first.

But after a few days of serious work, they simply couldn’t muster the effort anymore.

The main issue was that highly repetitive work made people weary—not physically, but mentally.

After making a few cigars, they couldn’t help doing something else, or pausing to stare blankly, then resuming work.

If they sat there zoning out or doing other things, the foremen would fix their eyes on them.

To avoid trouble yet avoid endlessly repeating the same simple motions, some began deliberately slowing their pace.

At first, one worker could produce eight to ten cigars per hour; now, each could manage only three or four—output had clearly halved, or worse!

The foremen had spoken to them about it; they claimed they were now focusing on making better cigars, not just rushing through them—this seemed reasonable enough.

Roger also came twice; when he arrived, the workers worked harder, but the moment he left, their speed dropped again—there was nothing anyone could do.

As the end of the shift neared, the workers’ cigar-making speed slowed even further.

When the foreman looked over, they worked; the moment his gaze shifted away, they began chatting.

Few felt they would lose their jobs for slacking off—this was also partly due to their strong internal solidarity.

“I heard conditions outside Zolan are terrible; people are starving to death in many places.”

One worker, continuously rolling tobacco in his hands, chatted with the others.

His words drew attention and discussion: “Why don’t people go into the jungle to find food?”

“I’ve always heard the jungle is full of resources, teeming with wild animals—I refuse to believe they’ve all been caught.”

“And there are fish in the rivers and seas—why don’t they eat fish?”

These questions became the center of discussion—as if those who could eat well always harbored this same confusion—

Were those who starved, those who died of hunger, truly starving because they had no food?

Or were they just too lazy, preferring to starve rather than lift a finger?

People quickly resumed debating, as if chatting had become part of their work.

When the end-of-shift bell rang, the workers stood up with satisfied smiles; some emitted strange sounds while stretching.

Others yawned while wiping moisture from the corners of their eyes.

This job was perfect in every way—high pay, not tiring, no exposure to wind or rain—except for one thing: it made you unbearably sleepy.

The workers began packing their desks, sorting different tobacco leaves into separate piles, stuffing them tightly into special pouches before leaving.

As for the cigars already made, someone would come later to collect them from the racks.

The workers left in groups; when they reached the factory gate, they found a crowd gathered before the notice board.

Watching spectacle was an innate human habit; more and more people gathered, and soon, thanks to the gossip of busybodies, everyone knew what had happened.

The factory was changing its pay calculation system.

Until now, wages had been paid on a monthly basis.

Starting tomorrow, the factory would adopt piece-rate pay—the announcement of one hundred cigars per day caused many workers’ faces to pale!

Most workers now took seven or eight minutes per cigar; the nimble-minded and dexterous could make one in six, even five minutes.

Even so, one could produce at most seven or eight per hour—after ten straight hours, only seventy or eighty cigars.

To reach one hundred, one would need at least twelve hours of nonstop labor!

Just thinking about it was unbearable.

Immediately, some workers shouted, “This is unfair!” demanding an explanation from the factory.

The local manager stood before the notice board and shouted: “This is the company’s decision!”

Each worker must produce at least two thousand five hundred cigars per month; below that, dismissal.

Anger surged—what they thought was a retirement job had suddenly turned into “hell mode.” How could they possibly accept this?

(End of Chapter)