Chapter Sixty-Two: Many Friends, Few Enemies

Lin Jiayin hurried through her morning routine, washed up, and made breakfast—everything just as usual. The only difference today was, pressed for time, she didn’t prepare her customary millet porridge, but instead cooked noodles. Noodles accompanied by a few dishes of pickles made up their breakfast.

Chen Huajiang ate with remarkable patience. In the past, he had despised such meals. Disheartened by life, he once saw everything about Lin Jiayin in a negative light—accusing her of laziness or deliberate indifference.

“There’s a chip in the jar in the kitchen where we keep the chives. Huajiang, see if you can find an empty jar somewhere,” she said as she ate the noodles, recalling how the lid wouldn’t close tightly on the pickles just now. “I’ll keep an eye out at the factory,” he replied, “If I come across an empty jar, I’ll bring one home—preferably one about palm-sized.”

Chen Huajiang felt a little speechless, but he nodded slightly, muttering “Alright.”

The obsession with collecting jars and bottles in those days would later be ridiculed mercilessly on the internet. Unless one had lived through that era, it was hard to imagine what jars and bottles meant. Every household owned dozens, large and small—the big ones for pickling vegetables, the small ones for storing them. Green beans, chives, radishes, cabbages, chili peppers, cilantro—all kinds of pickles were neatly arranged in these containers. Jars and bottles were placed everywhere, sometimes even occupying the corridors.

This situation persisted until after the year 2000, when the “vegetable basket” project took hold and things improved fundamentally. As the country developed rapidly and the economy flourished, young people in many cities no longer made pickles—nor did they need to. Whether at restaurants or ordering takeout, one could buy fresh vegetables at the market all year round. Meanwhile, in a neighboring country that couldn’t manage their own vegetable supply, the entire population still ate kimchi and even tried to claim the history of kimchi for themselves—a laughable notion.

“I’ll do it. You’d better hurry and take our daughter to school, there’s not much time left,” said Chen Huajiang when Lin Jiayin tried to wash the dishes after breakfast. He collected the dishes and went into the kitchen himself.

Lin Jiayin paused, smiled, helped Fangfang tidy her clothes and backpack, and then left.

Later that morning, Chen Huajiang took Ermao to find Black Tiger, telling him about the negotiation with Wolfdog scheduled for the afternoon. The meeting would take place at the “Great Fortune Tea Stand” outside Second High School. Tea stands were all the rage in those days—a simple stall with some tea and water was enough to run a business.

Tea cost five cents per cup, with unlimited hot water for walk-in customers. For groups of friends, they could order a large pot for twenty cents—enough to while away the time together.

“Brother Chen, honestly, why do you insist on provoking Wolfdog? That guy’s crazy,” Black Tiger said, frowning as he sipped from his gray-brown teacup.

“He crossed the line,” Chen Huajiang replied with a smile.

He knew Black Tiger wanted to bargain. In those days, some street bosses valued loyalty, some loved to show off their strength, and some—like Black Tiger—had a bit of both, but cared most about making money.

Chen Huajiang’s words made Black Tiger’s hand freeze in midair, at a loss for how to continue.

“I just need you to back me up, Brother Tiger. Eight times out of ten, they won’t dare to start a fight—even if Wolfdog is a madman,” Chen Huajiang said, pouring more tea for Black Tiger and smiling. “Because if a fight does break out, it’ll be ten against one.”

“Nonsense, ten against one? You really dare say that,” Black Tiger retorted. “Wolfdog is ruthless, and he has many men. He’s the king of the North Gate—even if his power isn’t quite as great as mine, it’s not much less.”

“If you could really get ten to one odds, why would you need me? Without my support, Wolfdog wouldn’t dare touch you,” Black Tiger scoffed, clearly not believing Chen Huajiang’s bravado.

He ran through the local power structure in his mind: in Nanming City, only he and Wolfdog held true power. Unless Chen Huajiang could rally all the secondary forces—like the Niu brothers at the South Gate or Li Dajun at the West Gate—it was impossible to outnumber Wolfdog’s men ten to one.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Brother Tiger, and I wouldn’t lie to you. If I’m deceiving you, you can just walk away,” Chen Huajiang said, smiling as he offered Black Tiger a pack of Zhonghua cigarettes adorned with a Star Emblem.

Black Tiger’s eyes lit up immediately. These were special Zhonghua cigarettes, unavailable on the market—the Star Emblem meant they were for military supply, making them even rarer.

He was a true connoisseur who loved all kinds of cigarettes, but especially these special ones. He snatched the pack at once, tore open the wrapper, and with a deft flick, popped one cigarette into his mouth.

Chen Huajiang struck a match with a grin and lit Black Tiger’s cigarette, confident that the deal was nearly sealed.

“Alright, but let’s talk business, even among brothers,” Black Tiger said. “Technically, since you pay me protection money, I’m supposed to watch your back. But we both know your brother-in-law started this mess by messing with a madman. Stole the guy’s woman, too—not exactly the moral high ground. Three hundred, not a penny less. If they have more men, it’s five hundred. I can’t guarantee peace, but I’ll guarantee your safety.”

Black Tiger exhaled smoke and shook his head slightly, clearly doubting Chen Huajiang could rally enough men to overwhelm Wolfdog.

“Deal!” said Chen Huajiang, grinning and reaching out his hand.

Black Tiger exhaled a plume of smoke and shook hands with him.

They agreed to meet at Longshou Mountain at four in the afternoon, and then Chen Huajiang left with Ermao and the others.

“Brother Chen, how are we going to get that many people? Wolfdog’s the king of the North Gate—he’s got even more men than Black Tiger,” Ermao said, his doubts finally spilling out now that Black Tiger was gone.

“It’s all relative, Ermao. It’s hard to make our side bigger, but it’s not so hard to make the enemy’s side smaller,” Chen Huajiang replied, lighting a cigarette and smiling.

He’d already planned this out yesterday; otherwise, he wouldn’t have deliberately arranged to confront Wolfdog.

He had the mind of an entrepreneur. In business, it’s hard to make your own company leap ahead, but it’s much easier to drag your competitor down a notch with a cunning move.

In his previous life, restaurant companies constantly poached chefs and managers from each other—so much so that headhunting firms considered restaurants their biggest clients, second only to the internet industry. In food service, talent was always on the move—today you poach my people, tomorrow I poach yours, and whole teams would jump ship at once.

A classic example: two hotpot chains, one called Sea Base and the other Little Sheep. Overnight, Sea Base poached the managers and chefs from eighteen Little Sheep outlets, leaving their rival unable to operate normally for a week. In the end, the gap between them grew wider and wider until Little Sheep collapsed and withdrew from the market altogether.