Chapter 996: You

Li Xuewu never imagined he would see Guliaisha at the international hotel’s reception dinner.

Guliaisha had spotted him early, even prepared herself to meet him since the day she entered the rolling mill.

She still remembered their last parting was their second meeting.

In the car, Guliaisha asked for his workplace and phone number, and gave him her own contact details.

But after that night, he vanished as if he’d disappeared—she never received a single call from him.

Of course, out of instinctive pride and reserve, she never called Li Xuewu either.

This stalemate broke after a month, when she couldn’t bear it anymore and called the rolling mill.

But whenever she asked for Li Xuewu, the other side always cautiously inquired about her identity.

And when she revealed who she was, they always refused, claiming the line was unreachable.

She didn’t know what had happened—whether Li Xuewu’s name was fake, taboo, or if her own information was flagged.

Since then, she lost the courage to contact Li Xuewu again, and no longer trusted the factory to help her find him.

On one hand, the Great Learning Movement had begun, affecting all universities in Beijing, including the Nationalities University.

On the other, she feared Li Xuewu might be in trouble or facing some difficulty.

As fate would have it, the chance to meet Li Xuewu again arose.

The rolling mill’s cultural propaganda team was expanding and needed to recruit some on-campus art students.

When she suddenly saw the name “Hongxing Rolling Mill,” she couldn’t resist signing up.

With solid dance training and excellent grades, she was immediately chosen by the art instructor the mill had brought in.

In fact, many people had applied to join the rolling mill’s cultural propaganda team—far more than expected.

Why?

No need to explain here—those who know, know.

Students in other majors still had future plans, but art students were utterly lost.

Current art troupes were undergoing reform and merger; many units had stopped hiring and were even pushing staff out.

Without recruitment quotas, these art students faced the predicament of being stranded at school.

Then suddenly, a Beijing-based unit came recruiting—and upon inquiry, it turned out to be a key steel enterprise. How could it not be tempting?

Professional alignment and Beijing hukou—this was like a pie falling from the sky for students from outside the city.

This batch, the rolling mill recruited over a hundred art students from Beijing’s art schools; Guliaisha was one of them.

She joined at the end of October, underwent over a month of closed training, and only completed all her adjustments by December.

The dance troupe of the cultural propaganda team was the largest, divided into three small squads and one main squad based on dance styles, suitable for both individual performances and large-scale choreography.

After joining the rolling mill, Guliaisha had wanted to find Li Xuewu, but the cultural propaganda team’s management was extremely strict.

Its semi-military, semi-closed management system left her with neither opportunity nor connections to seek him out.

In a factory of tens of thousands, cadres could easily find out who was who by asking around.

But for someone like Guliaisha—a new employee, especially from the cultural propaganda team—it was likely she couldn’t even enter the administrative area.

Especially since she only knew Li Xuewu worked in the Security Department, not which specific office.

So about him, Guliaisha kept everything buried deep inside, waiting for a chance encounter.

Unexpectedly, after searching for him a thousand times among the crowd, she suddenly turned—and there he was, in the dim lantern light.

Was his claim of working in Security true—or false?

If true, how could Security personnel sit at the core of factory leadership?

If false, why lie about his workplace to deceive her?

Now she didn’t even know if he was real or not.

The music ended, the performers left the stage, and the audience burst into enthusiastic applause; the translators echoed admiration.

Foreigners especially loved these ethnic artistic elements; Li Xuewu was asked about the dance just performed.

If they’d asked about the Type 56 rifle squad’s specifics, or economic development or management topics, he could have spun a long tale.

But asking about art? That hit his complete knowledge blind spot.

His only understanding of art came from… the kind of understanding and support found on the bed…

So when the foreign businessman showed keen interest in this field, Li Xuewu began earnestly making things up.

Even the translator seated behind him couldn’t help pressing his lips tightly, afraid he’d laugh out loud.

Yet these foreigners actually bought his act, listening with serious, careful attention.

What was clearly a celebration by laborers after resisting invaders, he twisted into a story about harvesting grapes to celebrate a bountiful yield, praising the brilliance and correctness of organizational leadership.

Truly, on stage: dancing and singing; off stage: pure fabrication—each played their own part, each spoke their own truth.

The foreigners couldn’t tell what was being celebrated on stage, but it looked lively enough.

Hearing Li Xuewu’s explanation, so orderly and plausible, they actually believed him.

As for why the performers’ eyes had been so warm and unrestrained, Li Xuewu could only tell them the rolling mill had a powerful, professional artistic team dedicated to serving its workers’ cultural needs.

Don’t ask. Ask and you’ll get: professional.

Could he say the girl was looking at him?

Of course not. Deputy Director Li was a proper man!

French businessman Chantal, sitting nearby, heard the conversation and joined in with a smile.

Hailing from Paris, the city of romance, she naturally possessed an aesthetic sense for art and could even interpret the dance’s meaning from a professional standpoint.

Wasn’t this undermining Deputy Director Li’s performance? Who cared what was on stage tonight? Everyone here was a businessman!

If Huang Gan and others were just chatting nonsense, he wouldn’t mind—but facing a weakness during an official foreign affairs event was truly frustrating.

Fortunately, the next act began quickly, giving the art-blind Deputy Director Li a chance to catch his breath.

He’d already decided in his mind: after this, he’d find a proper art teacher to fill this gap.

Of course, he’d need a male teacher—if it were a female teacher, he feared she might “supplement” him with other content.

Deputy Director Li was always a gentleman—he’d never actively ask anyone to do anything.

As for those close ladies, they were the ones who took the initiative—none of his business.

The dinner lasted an hour and a half, featuring three dances, interspersed with songs and instrumental performances.

Lights came up; the performers emerged for their curtain call, met with enthusiastic applause from the entire audience.

Though the number of performers wasn’t large, the applause was fervent.

From the foreigners’ expressions, it was clear they greatly enjoyed and appreciated tonight’s welcome dinner.

Guided by the Foreign Affairs Office, everyone exited through a side door; some foreign businessmen still turned to gaze back at the stage.

Italian businessman Nagesh walked beside Li Xuewu, nodding repeatedly, praising China’s ethnic art as uniquely gifted and deeply rooted in culture.

Li Xuewu felt the intense gaze from the stage, but he didn’t turn around—maintaining his smile, he continued escorting the foreign guests out.

They walked all the way to the lobby, exchanged pleasantries and handshakes, and saw the foreign guests ascend the stairs.

Then, under the farewell of International Hotel’s deputy general manager Zhang Song and others, the rolling mill’s leadership team exited and boarded their vehicles.

From meeting to departure, the rolling mill’s leadership, led by Li Huai, never mentioned any business cooperation with the foreign guests—only wished them a smooth and pleasant journey in Beijing.

Today was merely a meeting, a friendship gathering—simple, yet full of hope.

But today was destined to disappoint someone—she waited, but the person she waited for never returned.

January 11, Sunday.

Perhaps Li Xuewu came home too late last night; Gu Ning had waited up for him and hadn’t slept.

So she woke up late this morning; Qin Jingru said it was because she was heavy-bodied and woke often at night, lacking sleep.

Actually, Gu Ning slept well—despite her physical discomfort, she lived at home, preferred quiet, and had a calm disposition.

Only when Li Xuewu came home late did she feel worried and miss him; she usually waited until he returned before resting.

Li Xuewu also strictly followed their agreement: unless there was an emergency, he always came home before ten.

Especially in winter nights—unless the factory had a reception event, he’d be home right after work.

Even when visiting his mother at the Sihe Academy, he only saw her in the morning when dropping off Li Shu.

They lived close, and the Sihe Academy had back rooms where people looked out for each other—so long as he knew everyone at home was fine, that was enough.

Qin Jingru was always punctual; Han Jiankun came to collect the car, so she had to arrive early to prepare breakfast and tidy the house.

Compared to summer, winter required extra care for the stove fire and more complicated morning meals.

Today, as soon as Han Jiankun arrived, they both got busy.

Sundays were always busy; Li Xuewu was usually out all day.

A few days ago, he’d mentioned a friend from Gangcheng was coming today—with a child.

Li Xuewu’s eldest daughter-in-law had given birth; today they’d bring the baby home from the hospital. Li Shun and Li’s third son had returned from the mountains, and the whole family would gather.

Gu Ning couldn’t move easily, so the elders had to look after the young.

So today would be hectic—Li Xuewu was busy, and they were even busier.

After Han Jiankun finished cleaning the car, he and Li Xuewu had breakfast together, then drove to the train station to pick up the guest.

Meanwhile, Gu Ning had just woken up; Qin Jingru helped her prepare breakfast and tidied the house—though only one person worked, she moved with the energy of ten.

Just after nine in the morning, the command car pulled up to the door; with a shout of “Uncle, I’m here!” the Haiyun Cang No. 1 burst into life.

“Hahaha~”

Seeing his long-missed uncle standing in the courtyard entrance, Fu Zhidong, backpack on his back, sprinted into the yard.

Nothing here had changed since he left—only the grassy season had turned to bitter winter.

What remained unchanged was his uncle still smiling, welcoming him—and his mother.

“Isn’t the train at eight?”

“It’s late~”

Zhou Ya smiled slightly and explained why she was late.

After watching the station driver carry her suitcase inside, she exchanged a few more pleasantries with Li Xuewu, who invited her in.

Fu Zhidong had rushed into the house early and locked eyes with Li Shu, who was swinging a toy at a distant flowerpot.

“Li Shu, this is your brother.”

Li Xuewu walked in smiling and introduced her: “Do you remember when I came to see you in spring?”

“I don’t remember~”

Fu Zhidong, however, was quite sensible; seeing Li Shu was shy, he looked up and replied to Li Xuewu.

Qin Jingru came out of the dining room, greeted Zhou Ya with a smile—they’d met before.

After helping them find slippers and hang up their coats, Gu Ning also stepped out of the dining room.

“Xiao Ning~”

Zhou Ya, seeing Gu Ning’s smile, was moved and gently hugged her.

Gu Ning was slightly surprised by her emotion but still patted her back understandingly.

She didn’t usually like close physical contact, but Zhou Ya was within her acceptable limits.

Though they’d met through Li Xuewu, living together for so long—in Gangcheng and now in Jingcheng—had forged a friendship.

After greeting her aunt, Fu Zhidong smiled and called out, “Auntie.”

Gu Ning smiled back and asked about breakfast.

“I ate already—on the train.”

Fu Zhidong answered his aunt’s question first, then glanced around the room, taking in the changes.

It was different from his last visit: many new plants had been added, and a large fish tank now stood by the door.

Especially back then, little Li Shu hadn’t been this mischievous.

While everyone was greeting and chatting, no one noticed Li Shu swinging her toy car and aiming it at the flowerpot.

You wouldn’t believe it—the little demon had a real talent for throwing grenades; the tin toy car landed perfectly and squarely inside the flowerpot beside the piano.

Qin Jingru glared at her, marched over, and pulled the car out of the pot along with all the other toys she’d thrown in.

This wasn’t the first time Li Shu had played this game; the dents on the toys and the dying plants in the pot made it clear—the “grenades” packed a punch.

Li Shu wasn’t fazed by Qin Jingru’s threatening stare; she raised her wooden doll and glared sideways, ready to hurl it at the other flowerpot.

“You dare!”

Qin Jingru widened her eyes and pointed toward Li Xuewu by the door: “Daddy’s going to get mad!”

“Li Shu~”

After speaking with Gu Ning, Zhou Ya walked over to the sofa, knelt down, and smiled at the little girl: “Do you still remember your auntie?”

“...”

Li Shu stared at the woman with utter disbelief. How old are you, to ask such a low-EQ question?

If I remember you, what am I supposed to say? I’m only one and a half—I can’t chat with you about ten yuan’s worth of nonsense.

What if I don’t remember you?

If I act like a stranger, won’t you be embarrassed?

You’re my guest, after all—even if I don’t remember you, I’d still have to say I do, just to be polite.

How awkward is that for me!

Li Shu glanced at her dad, silently asking: Dad, do we know her?

Li Xuewu sighed and looked at his daughter: “Don’t you remember when I used to carry you around as a baby?”

“Auntie~”

Zhou Ya chuckled, teased her a little, took the wooden doll from her hand, and picked her up.

Seeing someone willing to play with her, Li Shu finally smiled, lifting her tiny hand to pat Zhou Ya’s cheek.

Zhou Ya’s smile grew warmer at Li Shu’s response.

At Gu Ning’s invitation, she sat on the sofa with Li Shu in her arms, sighing: “This kid’s growing so fast—last time I held her, she was light. Now she must be over twenty pounds, maybe even thirty?”

“We haven’t weighed her since winter started.”

Li Xuewu explained, then went to the tea cabinet to brew tea.

Qin Jingru and Han Jiankun carried Zhou Ya and Fu Zhidong’s suitcases upstairs to the guest room.

“My mom probably knows—we used the big scale at the Sihe Academy to weigh her.”

“I just felt she’s gotten heavier.”

Zhou Ya teased Li Shu: “Have you gotten fat?”

“Oh~”

Li Shu poked her tiny belly with her index finger and declared seriously: “All fat here.”

Zhou Ya laughed and rubbed her belly: “All fat, huh~”

“Hehe~”

Li Shu was a social butterfly—she loved crowds; the more people, the happier she was.

Fu Zhidong, five years old, was acting like a proper big brother, sitting beside his mother, carefully studying his uncle’s little girl.

Li Shu was equally curious about him, staring wide-eyed at him.

“Here, play with this~”

Fu Zhidong handed her his toy pistol, signaling that she could play with it.

Li Shu glanced at it, didn’t take it—she thought the wooden toy was beneath her; it didn’t make a satisfying clatter when thrown, unlike the tin car.

Last time, she’d pestered her dad to remove the bullets from the pistol so she could throw them—the clatter against the floor was perfect: ding-ding-dong.

Throwing them at cabinets, walls, or flowerpots? Even better—crisp, loud, satisfying.

Seeing his beloved toy ignored, Fu Zhidong felt a small pang of disappointment.

But then Li Shu grabbed a tin car and handed it to him.

The adults all smiled at the scene—children’s friendly exchanges always warmed their hearts.

“Thank you, little sister~”

Fu Zhidong happily took the tin car, examining it closely—why was the body so dented and bumpy?

Had Uncle gotten it secondhand from someone else’s kid?

He swore on the lamp: every toy had entered the house perfectly intact.

But sadly, no toy had ever left Li Shu’s hands without damage.

Though battered, the toy was from his little sister—he was delighted, spinning the wheels in his palm and gesturing for her to play along.

Zhou Ya chuckled and set Li Shu down, letting the children play while she resumed talking with Gu Ning.

The adults exchanged fond memories; the children made new discoveries.

Fu Zhidong knelt on the floor, pressing the car to teach Li Shu how to drive.

Li Shu stared at him like he was an idiot.

Why was she giving him a toy just so he could crawl it across the floor, making “vroom-vroom” noises?

Ugh—so stupid.

Li Shu shuffled over clumsily, squatted down, and snatched the tin car from his hands.

Just as Fu Zhidong thought she’d finally understood and would join him in play—

Li Shu stood up with effort, swaying slightly but eyes determined; she gave him a look of mild contempt, swung her arm, and with a sharp “Ya!”, hurled the car straight at the flowerpot in front of the tea cabinet.

Ding!

Another crisp crash—the tin car struck the porcelain pot and tumbled into the flowers.

Ignoring the glare from her aunt, who’d just come downstairs, Li Shu turned and flashed a triumphant look at the boy beside her.

Meaning: When it comes to playing, you’re just a little brother!

Fu Zhidong was stunned—he’d never imagined a toy car could be played this way.

Was this some kind of car crash simulation?

Not just Fu Zhidong—everyone else talking was also stunned.

Zhou Ya thought the kids were having a tantrum and Li Shu was throwing a fit.

Then Li Shu wobbled over, pulled another tin car from under the coffee table, and held it out to Fu Zhidong.

Fu Zhidong looked at his little sister—he thought he understood her gaze: Here, learn from me—throw it!

Li Xuewu covered his face in disbelief. His daughter was still in diapers, yet already showed terrifying violent tendencies.

Future soldier or future bandit—no in-between.

A doll should be a girl’s favorite toy; a wooden pistol should be Fu Zhidong’s cherished treasure.

But look at Li Shu—anything she gets, she throws to hear the crash.

Li Xuewu seriously doubted whether his own ashes would one day be thrown by his daughter…

Zhou Ya’s trip to Jingcheng was twofold: to visit Gu Ning, and to handle recruitment for several projects in Gangcheng.

This task had always been handled by Zhou Changli, but since she took over personnel last fall, procedures had to be formalized.

Zhou Changli still worked in personnel, but with this round’s larger hiring quotas, she’d come to Jingcheng to coordinate with Yu Li.

She’d originally planned to accompany Li Xuewu to the club this morning, but Gu Ning asked her to stay and chat, and Li Xuewu urged her not to rush her work.

So he left Zhou Yamei at home to keep Gu Ning company, while Li Xuewu went alone to the club.

By coincidence, at the club’s entrance, he ran into Zhou Changli and Zhao Laosi standing in front of the guardhouse chatting.

Li Xuewu stopped the car, glanced at the two, and chuckled: “It’s freezing out—why aren’t you inside instead of drinking the northwest wind?”

“We were just waiting for you~”

Zhou Changli suddenly seemed to have found his voice—he’d never dared joke with Li Xuewu like this before.

Especially since his impression of Li Xuewu had been so deep; he’d once even been afraid to meet Li Xuewu’s gaze.

Whether it was from his trials in Gangcheng or from hanging around Lao Biao, he’d weathered some storms and grown.

Now looking at him, there was truly the air of a young man coming into his own.

Li Xuewu got out, handed the car to Zhao Laosi, told him to drive it to the greenhouse, and stood by the door chatting casually with Zhou Changli.

He’d naturally come on the same train as Zhou Yamei, but Han Jiankun had picked up Zhou Yamei and her son, while Zhao Laosi had picked up Zhou Changli.

He asked about his work in Gangcheng, asked if Lao Biao and the others were well—just a few brief words.

Li Xuewu had Lao Biao and Yu Li reporting on work matters; for anything else, the Investigation Department kept watch.

Asking him these questions was simply to understand his situation in Gangcheng—he wouldn’t give him room to speculate.

Sometimes, leaders blab without restraint, asking random questions, saying random things, making subordinates misinterpret—thinking the leader distrusts local officials, and word gets back, possibly causing big trouble.

By the time Zhao Laosi returned after parking the car, Li Xuewu had already gone inside the courtyard.

“Is Gangcheng cold, or is Beijing colder?”

“Huh?”

Zhou Changli had been staring blankly toward the courtyard; only now, with Zhao Laosi’s question, did he snap back.

“Oh, oh—Beijing can’t compare to Gangcheng’s cold~”

He smiled and said: “Haven’t you heard? Once you pass Shanhai Pass, you wear a sweater over a vest—that line, it’s at least three degrees colder.”

“Especially in Gangcheng.”

Zhou Changli took a drag from the cigarette Li Xuewu had given him and sighed: “Standing guard at the dock, at night you can hear the ice in the river cracking and groaning.”

“That’s colder than Beijing.”

Zhao Laosi grinned and said: “Even at its coldest, Beijing’s never below minus twenty.”

He looked again at Zhou Changli and asked: “Was it tough in Gangcheng?”

“It’s bearable. Just the way it is.”

Zhou Changli lowered his head, smoked, then lifted his eyes toward Zhao Laosi and asked tentatively: “So? Are you thinking of heading to the Northeast with me?”

“Me? Nah.”

Zhao Laosi tucked his arms into his sleeves and smiled: “I don’t have your wanderlust—I’ve got to stay home, tend the land, and look after my old mom.”

“Fuck~”

Zhou Changli shot him a glance and said: “Your mom’s only in her forties—why are you talking about supporting her in her old age?”

He looked him over again and asked: “Do you send money home now?”

“No.”

Zhao Laosi spoke plainly—there was no point hiding it.

Even though he knew Zhou Changli was now earning a salary, he didn’t envy him.

Everyone has their own way of living, their own path.

Zhou Changli’s future lay in Gangcheng; his own future lay in the club.

You could call him narrow-minded, call him lacking ambition—but once he’d settled on a path, he believed that as long as he lived, he’d eventually amount to something.

Zhou Changli couldn’t stand this attitude of his, reached over, ruffled his hair, glanced around, and whispered: “You know how much Blackie makes every month?”

“Thirty!”

Before Zhao Laosi could answer, Zhou Changli held up three fingers in front of him, exasperated: “Thirty yuan! By the end of the year, he’s already bragging to his dad he’s going to marry Liu Dainao’s daughter!”

Zhao Laosi knew exactly who Liu Dainao was.

A destitute family in the alley, so poor even the coins didn’t rattle—five daughters, nearly bankrupt trying for a son.

But everyone’s fate is different—you can’t argue with it.

Five daughters, each more beautiful than the last, each more sensible than the next.

Liu Dainao and his wife were nearly fifty, yet still wanted to try one last time—they believed the Liu family shouldn’t end without a son.

So for any matchmaker who came calling, he set a fixed bride price for his daughters.

To marry one of Liu Dainao’s daughters, the bride price was three hundred yuan—no bargaining.

You’d say he was selling his daughters?

But who could blame him? His daughters were beautiful, hardworking, and each one was exceptionally sensible.

Zhao Laosi and Blackie, the neighborhood troublemakers, dreamed of marrying Liu Daya.

But their own families weren’t rich either—they weren’t completely broke, but three hundred yuan for a bride? Still a stretch.

“You know how bold Blackie’s gotten now?”

Zhou Changli poked Zhao Laosi’s chest: “He told his dad to go tell Liu Dainao—he’ll pay six hundred!”

“...”

Zhao Laosi rolled his eyes, glanced at Zhou Changli, and said: “He doesn’t fear getting shot for trying to marry twin sisters?”

“Who cares how many he marries?!”

Zhou Changli glared: “What I mean is—he’s got the means to do it! Do you get it?!”

“Sailors make good money!”

He flicked away his cigarette butt and pleaded earnestly: “Even that worthless guy makes thirty yuan salary plus thirty yuan allowance—what’s stopping you?”

“I know you care about me.”

Zhao Laosi shrugged, glanced around, and nodded toward the courtyard: “But I’m used to life here—it’s fine. Yu Jie hasn’t said she’ll stop paying wages.”

“You’re an idiot?”

Zhou Changli glared: “Even if she pays you, she’s not going to give you sixty or eighty!”

He glanced warily toward the deep courtyard, wary someone might overhear.

He didn’t want to badmouth this place, but the truth was, becoming a sailor meant not just a salary, but extra allowances on long voyages.

Those country bumpkins who boarded the ships had never seen the outside world—sixty yuan a month was worth their lives.

No matter how harsh the conditions or how dangerous the voyage, they all thought sixty yuan was worth it.

“No—stability matters more.”

Zhao Laosi waved his hand, firmly refusing his brother’s offer: “If I stay here, my younger brother can go to the frontier. If I stay here, my third brother can leave.”

“Your fifth brother went to the frontier?”

Only now did Zhou Changli notice Zhao Laowu was missing—though Zhao Laoliu was here.

Their family’s numbering system was confusing—even Zhou Changli, upon returning suddenly, was baffled.

Zhao Laosi was actually the eldest in his family; Laowu and Laoliu were his biological younger brothers.

The family had only these three brothers—the three older ones were from uncles’ branches.

But big-family ranking rules applied, so Zhao Laosi’s branch only had numbers four, five, six—no one, two, or three.

Zhao Laosi nodded: “He left before the New Year, with Ding Wanqiu, Xiao Jianjun, and Da Chun.”

“I didn’t hear about it.”

Zhou Changli frowned at Zhao Laosi: “I’ve heard of Xiao Jianjun—he’s got some ability. Da Chun showed up in Gangcheng—he’s sworn brothers with Da Qiangzi, not bad, but...”

Here he hesitated, looked at Zhao Laosi, and asked: “Why let your fifth brother go to the frontier?”

“Did I have a choice?”

Zhao Laosi wasn’t afraid of being overheard—that’s why they were talking outside.

He understood why Zhou Changli mentioned Xiao Jianjun and Da Chun, but deliberately left out Ding Wanqiu.

That old bastard was the original owner of this courtyard—he’d once run a Five Elements syndicate; if he hadn’t been cunning, he wouldn’t be alive today.

“Old but tough”—that’s him.

Others might not know, but Zhou Changli knew exactly what Ding Wanqiu had done in Jicheng.

If not for those deeds, Li Xuewu might never have transferred him to the frontier.

A man who killed, who used brutal methods to kill—naturally couldn’t be left in a place needing stability.

Zhao Laosi’s question revealed his helplessness—this helplessness he could only voice to Zhou Changli; to anyone else, he wouldn’t dare utter a word.

“Do you think they’re feeding us here, letting us grow fat, for nothing?”

He looked at Zhou Changli: “It’s so that when needed, we’re trusted—ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice.”

“Train soldiers for a thousand days, use them for one.”

Zhao Laosi sighed: “A thousand days of training, so that distance reveals a horse’s strength, and time reveals a man’s heart.”

In plain terms, Li Xuewu didn’t trust them—he kept them close to observe.

Zhao Laosi knew clearly: once his brother Zhao Laowu was sent to the frontier, he himself would never be transferred out.

If he dared leave, Zhao Laowu would be recalled.

Without leverage, would anyone dare use someone a thousand miles away?

Look at the other three—none of them are free; their collars are on, their reins held by Li Xuewu’s hand.

He himself was the collar and rein holding his brother—his younger brother Laoliu would be the same; the three brothers: one in Beijing, two in the provinces.

If you asked Zhao Laosi whether he resented this arrangement, he could only say: you eat their food, you follow their orders.

What you see as multiple schemes within this compound, in Zhao Laosi’s view, is actually the club’s shortcut to success.

People like Zhou Changli are all reckless, cruel, and ruthless.

Gaining Li Xuewu’s trust is absolutely impossible.

But Li Xuewu needs these people to do things outside, so he can’t deny them advantages—he must have someone watching them.

Who will watch them?

Of course, someone trustworthy—like his simple younger brother, Old Five, or the security guards who eat here, drink this water, and may even find a partner here someday.

Just one person is enough. Sent to any project, they can openly and tightly monitor everything.

Just look at the weekly work reports his younger brother sends back—you’ll understand the purpose.

You think someone might betray him?

Human hearts change naturally, but even if you bundled together every scheming mind in this compound, they still couldn’t match Li Xuewu’s cunning.

You think you’re playing him?

Maybe he’s been planning to play you all along.

As for why the club pays no salary, only provides food, drink, and clothing:

When you add it up, these benefits far exceed a salary—why is that?

Because Li Xuewu is cultivating feelings with them; once money and profit enter the equation, everything becomes priced—and sincerity vanishes.

Only after growing accustomed to the camaraderie and warmth here, then going out to earn wages, will they realize the difference and constantly remember how good it was here.

Simple, yet happy.

You say it’s nonsense—but think about when in your life you formed your most genuine friendships.

Even universities, with more social exposure, aren’t as memorable as those wild, foolish, joyful days in middle school.

Even if you meet again and the person before you has become worldly and changed, the beauty in your memory remains unchanged.

Nostalgia is a terrifying thing—and Li Xuewu is cultivating it in them.

Otherwise, why are there so many girls here? Yu Li has never restricted them from finding partners or having fun outside work.

In Zhao Laosi’s view, if someone marries a server here, he will surely earn some trust in Li Xuewu’s eyes.

The result? In the coming period, at the right moment, that man will surely be entrusted by Li Xuewu with an important assignment abroad.

If that person also has some ability, he might even become the one in charge.

Of course, after marriage, the server still works at the club—yet as they grow older, with so many supervisors, there’s always room for promotion and development.

Look at how boastful Zhou Changli was when he said Blackie made money as a sailor—someday, when Blackie meets his younger brother, he might have to call him “leader.”

Realistic?

Maybe. But as always: everyone has their own way of living, everyone their own path.

Zhao Laosi doesn’t envy Zhou Changli—he firmly believes that in the club, as long as you don’t die, you’ll eventually rise.

If today’s most luxurious spots—Laomo, Xinqiao Hotel, and Dongfeng’s second floor—are the veterans’ strongholds, then Kao Rou Ji, Tongheju, and Shaguoju are the rebels’ private domains.

Though it was the dead of winter, though all things lay dormant, as the situation quietly shifted, a different scent seemed to hang in the air of Beijing’s youth.

After enduring the bloody, perilous August of last year and suffering brutal repression, the rebels had, after months of recuperation, begun to revive.

On the second weekend of January, tired of the cold outdoors and too hungry from running around, the rebels of the Four-Nine City gathered to idle and chatter—and all received word that day:

The former king of Dongcheng’s Drum Tower, the rebel scoundrel Zhou Changli, had returned.

Previously calling him “scoundrel” was a nickname, earned through fights and infamy.

Now you can’t call him “scoundrel”—you must call him “Sea King.”

Everyone heard this kid found the right path; his earlier returns showed nothing, but this time, it was clear—he’d truly become formidable.

He’s now managing sailors—doesn’t that make him the Sea King?

The rebel circle had already spread the word: Zhou Changli had returned intending to recruit more people from their circle to go to sea.

To put it plainly: last time he recruited so many from Beijing and still wasn’t satisfied—now he’s back again, and it’s clear he’s got big plans.

Those recruited weren’t sold off—they often send letters back, and those with brothers in the circle all admit: they’re working, and they’re truly earning money.

Before, everyone just played together—who cared about the future or money?

Now it’s different: no job assignments, no classes, everyone just muddling through, their former arrogance long gone.

Word came that Zhou Changli would host a dinner at Shaguoju tonight for several senior figures in the circle, aiming to get them to spread the word.

Isn’t this throwing money around? How could anyone afford such extravagance—actual gold and silver feasts at Shaguoju, treating everyone to food, drink, and entertainment?

Though they all muttered that Zhou Changli had gone out to make money and had become arrogant, no longer as decent as before,

Look at these senior figures—none of them refused his invitation.

Even if you didn’t care about Zhou Changli’s face, you had to care about the money’s face.

Do senior figures not eat?

Nothing spreads faster than gossip; the circle is so small—once you start asking about going to sea through Zhou Changli’s channel, everyone understands.

And indeed, some people had already brought money back.

Blackie’s story wasn’t just something Zhou Changli told Zhao Laosi—Blackie himself was never a quiet man.

Everyone heard: Blackie’s father, Old Black, had gone to Liu Dainao’s house to propose.

What else could it be? Of course, he was asking for Liu ErYa.

As Blackie said, if he married both ErYa and SanYa, his father would beat him to death.