Shengze Town.
Everprosper Textile Factory.
Sun Zhixu watched as the last box of military uniforms was loaded onto the container truck, finally letting out a sigh of relief.
The flame-retardant coating meets the standards, and its abrasion resistance index exceeds the United States military standard by 12%.
Old Master Tao, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, walked over and said, "Young Factory Manager Sun, all the goods have been loaded."
Sun Zhixu didn't move.
"Sign it."
Tao glanced at him but didn't urge him.
Everyone in the factory knows that this batch of goods is the first large order since the factory was acquired.
From prototyping to production, Sun Zhixu stayed in the workshop the whole time, and for three days he even slept on the cutting table.
As the container truck drove out of the factory gate, all the workers in the workshop gathered around.
I don't know who started clapping, but then everyone joined in.
Someone whistled, someone shouted "It's done!" Tao stubbed out his cigarette and grinned.
Sun Zhixu looked at the group of old workers who had worked with his father for more than ten years, and his nose tingled with emotion.
A few months ago, the factory couldn't even pay wages. The old man was lying in the hospital, and he sat in the empty workshop, calling the last supplier to ask for an extension.
The machines are all running now.
He turned around, his voice a little hoarse. "Extra food tonight. My treat."
Pentagon.
Logistics Bureau warehouse.
Jensen tore open the seal on a box of military uniforms, casually pulled out a set, touched it, and found it felt nice.
He had someone set a fire, threw the military uniform in, and took it out after it burned for thirty seconds.
There was only a faint scorch mark on the surface.
"That's enough. Send this whole batch to the Tri-Base." He tossed the uniforms back into the crate. "Put them on the test subjects."
The adjutant hesitated for a moment. "General, according to the contract, this batch should be distributed to..."
"I signed the contract," Jensen interrupted him. "I said it would be delivered wherever I said it would."
The adjutant shut up.
Jensen picked up the pen and signed the application form for the additional order.
50,000 sets, unit price unchanged, rebate unchanged.
To him, it was just a uniform prepared for the Super Soldier project, nothing special.
TriUnion Biotech North American Research Center
The third basement level houses the experimental training ground.
Hudson stood in the observation room, watching the test on the field through the bulletproof glass.
Twelve test subjects, dressed in newly delivered military uniforms, are undergoing a weighted cross-country test.
Each person carries a 40-kilogram weight and runs on a treadmill at a speed of 12 kilometers per hour.
I've been running for forty minutes.
Hudson called the technical director over, "Where did these uniforms come from?"
"Sent from the Pentagon. Specially approved by General Jensen."
What about the fabric specifications?
The technical supervisor pulled out a tablet. "The flame retardancy index is 12 percent higher than military standards, and the abrasion resistance index is 15 percent higher. The infrared suppression effect is a whole level lower than the standard, and the breathability far exceeds any currently serving combat uniform."
Hudson was silent for a few seconds.
"Accelerate the test subject to fifteen kilometers per hour."
The treadmill speed has been increased.
The twelve test subjects ran for another twenty minutes, and not one of them stopped.
Hudson noticed a detail: these experimental subjects injected with the Progenitor Factor had much higher body temperatures than normal people, and they felt unbearably stuffy after running in ordinary combat suits for ten minutes.
But this time, not a single person opened their collar to let in some fresh air.
However, nobody cared about such a small detail.
Peterson Air Force Base.
Warrant Officer Charlie Mike's combat boot sole fell off.
It's not that it's worn through; the entire rubber sole has detached from the shoe upper.
He sat in the rest area of the shooting range, holding the broken boot in his hand, and cursed for three minutes.
These boots were issued by the company, worn for less than four months, and cost $220.
A logistics soldier walked past him, glanced at him, and laughed, "Another pair ruined."
What does "again" mean?
"This is the third pair this week." The logistics sergeant shrugged. "These are officially issued boots; the soles are glued on. When they get in the desert sun, the glue melts, and the soles fall off."
Warrant Officer Mike slammed his boots on the ground. "What am I supposed to do? Go on the mission barefoot?"
The logistics sergeant looked around and lowered his voice. "I'll give you a link, it's on Amazon, not a public distribution channel, but the stuff is really good."
What brand?
"DYB, never heard of it? I haven't either."
"But I bought a pair and tried them on. After wearing them for two months, there are still no obvious wear marks on the sole."
Warrant Officer Mike pulled out his phone and tapped the link. Tactical boots, steel toe, puncture-resistant, breathable fabric. Eighty dollars. He checked the price three times, then double-checked if it was secondhand. No. Brand new. Free shipping.
"Is this price acceptable?"
"You'll know once you buy a pair."
Warrant Officer Mike placed an order and bought two sets of combat uniforms, one for himself and one to send to his old comrade in Afghanistan.
Two days later, the goods arrived.
He opened the package and took out the boots.
The moment you hold it, you know this thing is different. The rubber sole is molded from a single piece, not glued on.
The joint between the upper and the sole is stitched with double rows of thread.
He put them on, stomped his feet on the ground a couple of times, and felt a good grip from the steel toe cap, but it wasn't too tight.
He ran five kilometers in those boots without experiencing any discomfort.
A few days later, Mike dropped the link into the base's tactical equipment discussion group.
"Brothers, if your boots break in the future, buy them here."
Afghanistan.
Thompson's combat uniform trousers ripped in the crotch again.
This is the fourth pair of pants he's worn out in three months.
He sat on the edge of his dormitory bed, holding up his open-crotch pants, his expression blank.
A teammate poked his head in from the doorway. "Old Tom, your crotch's ripped again."
"Shut up."
I have something good here.
A teammate handed him the phone; the screen showed an Amazon product page.
DYB tactical combat uniform, including top, pants, and tactical belt, $120.
Thompson looked at it for five seconds. "It's fake, right?"
"This is the outfit I'm wearing."
"Okay, I'll give it a try."
One week later.
The mailroom at Bagram Air Base was flooded with packages.
The sergeant major in the mailroom stood expressionless in front of a mountain of Amazon parcels.
All the packages had the same sender address, and they were all from a brand called DYB Outdoor Products.
He picked one up and weighed it in his hand.
He picked up another one and weighed it in his hand.
How much of this shipment is there?
The corporal next to him flipped through the registration form. "370 items arrived today."
"420 items yesterday, and a little over 300 the day before."
"It adds up to over a thousand."
"It's still rising."
The sergeant threw the package back, took out his phone, opened Amazon, and searched for DYB.
Then he quietly placed an order.
Two sets of combat uniforms. A pair of boots. A tactical belt.
Meanwhile, the quartermaster department.
Sergeant First Class Rodríguez sat behind the counter, legs crossed, flipping through an outdated sports magazine.
His counter was filled with military-issued combat uniforms, each costing $1,200.
Boots, $220 a pair.
Tactical belts, $60 each.
Not a single person came to buy anything all morning.
He put down the magazine and called out to a passing corporal, "Hey, your pants are ripped, aren't you going to get a new pair?"
The corporal glanced down at his worn-out trouser knees. "No, I bought new ones on Amazon."
"How much?"
"120."
Rodríguez's face twitched.
Rodríguez sat behind the counter in silence for a long while.
Then he took out his phone, opened Amazon, and searched for DYB.
He stared at the screen for a long time, then placed the order.
I bought two sets.
Shengze Town.
Everprosper Textile Factory.
Sun Zhixu stared at the computer screen, watching the order notifications that kept refreshing.
It doesn't jump one page at a time; it flips through page by page.
He refreshed the page once, and got three hundred more orders.
Refresh the page again, and you'll get another 500 orders.
Tao pushed the door open and came in. "Factory Manager Sun, we're running low on fabric stock, we need to replenish it."
"See for yourself."
Tao leaned closer to the screen and took a look.
Then I took off my reading glasses, wiped them, and put them back on.
"How much is this?"
"170,000 units," Sun Zhixu's voice floated over, "Booked until next March."
Tao remained silent for a full five seconds.
"I'll go and notify the production line to work the night shift."
He walked to the door, then turned back.
"Director Sun, does this mean... we don't have to go bankrupt?"
Sun Zhixu did not answer.
He picked up the phone and dialed Fu Haoran's number.
His voice was still trembling when the call connected.
"Mr. Fu, we've received a flood of orders."
It took Fu Haoran a while to react.
He initially acquired the clothing factory solely to produce clothes for soldiers in the Warhammer World; he had no intention of selling them to others.
It's important to know that the fabric of these clothes was processed directly from Promethium by Hive City.
"Alright, that's good. Take on the trial order to expand production capacity and manpower. You'll handle that."
Fu Haoran hung up the phone in a daze, unable to understand how something like this could become so popular.
The Pentagon, Building E, third floor.
Conference room of the Department of Defense Logistics Bureau.
At the end of the long table sat Major General Bradley, Deputy Director of Logistics; to his left was Colonel Howard, Director of Procurement; and to his right was the Legal Advisor.
Each of the three men had a report laid out in front of them, the cover of which bore the DYB logo.
Bradley slammed the report on the table.
"Can someone explain this to me?"
He turned to the first page and poked his finger at the data column.
"At the Bagram Air Base in United States military, the US military's mailroom has received 17,000 Amazon packages in the past two weeks, all from the same company."
"Combat uniforms, tactical boots, gloves, vests—the price is one-tenth of what the standard issue price is."
He glanced at the people present.
"At the quartermaster's counter, four sets of publicly issued combat uniforms, two pairs of boots, and 0 tactical belts were sold in the last two weeks."
He turned to the next page of the report.
"And DYB's company sold 37,000 sets on Amazon in just two weeks!"
"Our soldiers, wearing gear they bought privately online, are running around on the battlefield."
Bradley looked up.
" Howard, you're in charge of purchasing, tell me. What's the background of this company?"
Colonel Howard opened the folder in front of him, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"General, DYB outdoor products, is registered in Yellowstone National Park, on the border of Texas and California, and the actual controller is Fu Haoran."
"The source of this batch of equipment is an order we placed ourselves."
The meeting room fell silent for a few seconds.
Four months ago, General Jensen signed an order for a batch of special operations uniforms.
"Ten thousand sets, at a unit price of US$2,800, the supplier is DYB. Article 47, Paragraph 3 of the contract states that Party B has the right to sell the civilian version of the same product on the open market."
Bradley didn't say anything.
Howard, forcing himself to continue, read, "After the contract is signed, DYB will list the civilian version on Amazon."
" Jensen signed it," Bradley lowered his voice, "$2,800 a set, he signed a contract for 10,000 sets. Then the company turned around and listed the consumer version for $120."
"Yes."
"Our soldiers voted with their feet, refusing to buy the government-issued junk and instead purchasing the $120 civilian version."
"Yes."
Bradley turned to the report and found the joint complaint from the military supply suppliers.
The wording is strong, with seven or eight places in bold.
Three suppliers jointly filed a complaint accusing DYB of malicious dumping and endangering national security, demanding an immediate ban.
He looked up.
"What kind of garbage did they produce? Their combat uniforms ripped open after three months, their boots fell apart after four months, and a set costing $1200 is of worse quality than a standard size 120!"
"Now that someone is selling cheap and good products, are they getting anxious? Are they going to file a joint complaint?"
Neither Howard nor his legal counsel dared to respond.
Bradley turned to the last page of the report and stared at the cost estimate for a long time.
"Bring Fu Haoran over here."
Howard was taken aback. "Where are you calling?"
" Pentagon, Congressional Military Committee." Bradley closed the report. "Doesn't he have a contract? Doesn't he have Jensen's signature? Make him explain in person, within three days. I want to see this man."
After the meeting, Howard caught up with Bradley in the hallway.
"General, there's one more thing."
Bradley didn't stop.
" Fu Haoran's file has been retrieved; he's a member of the National Guard."
"His official organization is attached to the 102nd Independent Division of the Washington National Guard, with the rank of Major General."
Bradley stopped in his tracks.
National Guard?
"Yes."
Bradley stood in the hallway, silent for a long while.
"So he wasn't just a businessman, he was one of our own officers. Jensen gave him the order, and there was a backdoor in the contract."
"He listed the civilian version on Amazon for one-tenth the price of the publicly issued version. Our soldiers rushed to buy it, suppliers filed a joint complaint, and Congress is watching this matter closely."
Howard didn't dare to reply.
Bradley turned around.
"The inquiry letter will still be sent, but the wording will be changed. Instead of a summons, it will be an invitation to cooperate with the investigation."
"If he comes, we'll talk; if he doesn't come..."
"What should I do? Do I need to teach you?"
The door to Fu Haoran's office was pushed open, and Jimmy strode in.
"Boss, you'd better take a look at the official letter from the Pentagon."
Fu Haoran took the tablet; on the screen was a formally worded letter.
From: Major General Bradley, Deputy Director of the Department of Defense Logistics Bureau.
The message invited him to travel to Washington within three days to assist the Congressional Military Committee in conducting a supplier qualification review.
The document bears the seals of both the Logistics Bureau and the Military Commission.
Jimmy stood to the side, speaking rapidly, "Boss, I've checked. This isn't a normal interrogation."
"Three military supply suppliers have jointly filed a complaint, accusing us of malicious dumping."
"The pressure went directly to Congress. Bradley, as the second-in-command of the Logistics Department, personally signed the letter, indicating that this matter had reached the highest levels of government."
Fu Haoran didn't say anything and put the tablet down.
Jimmy swallowed hard and continued, "I've reviewed the contract again. Article 47, Section 3 of the order Jensen signed does indeed authorize us to sell the civilian version, which is completely legal."
"But if the military wants to cause trouble, they can do so by focusing on supply chain security."
Fu Haoran realized that this inquiry, ostensibly about contract compliance, was actually a trap.
Fu Haoran nodded.
"Since they invited us, let's give them face," Fu Haoran said nonchalantly, tapping his fingertips lightly on the table. But he knew in his heart that this was definitely not a qualification review; it was clearly pressure from the military supply supplier, a test from Congress, and Jensen sabotaging him behind the scenes.
"It's just a business trip, what big deal could happen?"
Fu Haoran was unaware that he had unintentionally planted a flag.
Almost simultaneously, in the Appalachian Mountains outside Washington, a strange spacetime rift suddenly tore open, and several burning "meteorites" roared down, crashing into the dense forest and stirring up clouds of dust.
The largest of the "meteorites" was not a celestial body, but an alien spaceship covered in scratches and entirely black. A crack appeared in the cabin, and several egg-shaped objects gleaming with an eerie light rolled out through the crack and silently disappeared into the soil.