Time is Money

Director Kevin shot up from his chair, coffee splashing over his hand.

Ignoring the burn, he hurried forward, voice trembling: "Senator Robert! What brings you..."

Senator Robert didn't look at him. He walked to the sofa, sat down, and gestured at Fu Haoran: "Kevin, Mr. Fu is a partner of some friends of mine."

"He has a project that needs your review."

The Lobbying Vice Chairman tossed over a document: "The association has evaluated it. This project can resolve the species infestation in five swing states across the Midwest and create at least five hundred jobs."

"It would be... very helpful for the midterm elections."

The lawyer slid a letter of introduction across the desk: "This is a joint guarantee from Mr. Jobs and several investors. Mr. Kevin may take a look."

Kevin stared at the three heavyweights before him, then glanced at the Chinese man watching the show, and admitted to himself he didn't understand this at all.

This wasn't coming to do business.

This was coming to give orders.

He forced the most sycophantic smile: "Convenient! Absolutely convenient! Mr. Fu's project benefits the nation and the people!"

"Name any conditions, and we'll finish all the paperwork today!"

Half an hour later, Fu Haoran walked out of the building holding the signed memorandum.

The terms were absurdly generous: exclusive federal purchasing qualification, a hundred dollars per ton processing subsidy, full reimbursement for fuel and ammunition, and exemption from inspection for end products.

He'd barely spoken the entire time.

"Who says the Eagle Nation doesn't pull strings or understand human connections? It's just that their threshold is so high you can't even see it." Fu Haoran shook his head with a smile.

Just as he got into the car, his worldview freshly overturned, his phone buzzed.

A message from a member of the Jobs Salon: "Mr. Fu, as per your request, the Golden State Food Processing Plant—the largest and most automated in California's Central Valley—has completed legal transfer."

"Three main production lines have been debugged and are ready to start for you at any time."

Fu Haoran replied with "Received" and locked the screen.

No pleasantries at all.

Fu Haoran didn't need their friendship. He only needed their fear of death and their will to live.

As for those rampant creatures no one had any faith in—to others, they were liabilities and trouble.

But to a man who owned a Hive World, they were strategic resources.

Perfect, high-quality raw materials for canned goods.

You say these ingredients have too many bacteria and high heavy metal content?

Please, the people of the Warhammer World have long been immune to that. What's a little "trace elements" to them?

The roar of propellers tore through the stillness of Montana.

A low-profile Bombardier Global 8000 business jet touched down directly on the barely usable old runway in Graystone Town.

The cabin door opened, and Fu Haoran stepped down the gangway, followed by three people: a sharp-looking Jewish lawyer, a stoic former Navy SEAL-type security chief, and an OL-dressed female assistant.

The town's gaze instantly focused.

Mayor Bob rubbed his hands together as he approached, face piled with smiles: "Welcome, welcome! Mr. Fu, right? Long journey! Our Graystone Town may be small, but the folks are simple, the scenery..."

"How do I get to John Dutton's ranch?" Fu Haoran cut him off, his eyes sweeping over the cowboys leaning against their pickups with unfriendly stares.

Bob's smile stiffened: "Old John's stubborn. Doesn't really welcome outsiders. How about I arrange some rest for you first, and we talk slowly?"

"No need." Fu Haoran walked toward the black Escalade waiting nearby. "Lead the way."

The dust kicked up by the convoy sprayed the mayor's face.

The gathered townsfolk murmured among themselves:

"Another land buyer, and an Asian guy at that."

"Flying in to show off? Old Dutton'll greet him with a shotgun."

"Bet fifty bucks he'll come back crying in ten minutes."

Grayrock Ranch.

On the farmhouse porch, John "Old Stone" Dutton leaned against the doorframe.

He was the master of this land, his family having worked it for over a hundred years.

He wore a faded denim shirt, his thick-knuckled hand gripping an old cowboy hat, his gaze cutting like a knife across the approaching convoy.

The car stopped. Fu Haoran got out.

Old Stone fixed his eyes on the Asian face, spat out the cigarette butt from his lips, his voice rough as sandpaper:

"Kid, turn around and head back. This ain't the place for you. I'd die before I sell the land along Yellowstone's edge—especially to some Asian who can't even hunt a wild boar."

The lawyer frowned and stepped forward, but Fu Haoran raised a hand to stop him.

He walked to the weathered wooden table on the porch, pulled a blank checkbook and a Montblanc pen from the lawyer's bag, and tossed them casually onto the surface.

"Grayrock Ranch, including all attached woodlands, five miles of river access, the slaughterhouse, and the buildings." Fu Haoran's voice was flat. "You fill in the price. Sign the contract now, transfer immediately."

Old Stone stared at the checkbook, let out a cold laugh, then grabbed the pen and scribbled a number on the check in a few strokes.

"I won't ask for much. Give me 320 million." He stared at Fu Haoran, his eyes challenging. "Kid, don't toy with me on this. That's the number—take it or leave it."

The lawyer was displeased: "Mr. Dutton, that price exceeds market valuation by three hundred percent! This is malicious..."

Fu Haoran raised a hand to stop the lawyer from speaking.

"Time is money. This price is fair enough."

Fu Haoran turned to his female assistant. "Lola, the contract."

The lawyer wanted to argue further, but Fu Haoran had already picked up his fountain pen and signed his name on the prepared contract.

Old John froze, and even when the lawyer urged him to sign, he still looked like he was sleepwalking.

The female assistant tapped a few times on her tablet, and Old John's phone vibrated.

He pulled it out, stared at the bank notification, and his face twisted with extreme conflict.

News spread quickly, and the neighboring farm owners who had come erupted into chaos.

The bald redneck Hank rubbed his hands together and glared at Fu Haoran, cursing: "Crazy! 320 million for this piece of shit land? This Asian guy's a rich fool with more money than brains!"

The tall, skinny guy beside him slapped his thigh: "Fuck, why can't luck like that fall on me!"

"Even if he buys it, he'll never make it work in the end, and then he'll pack up and leave!"

Fu Haoran ignored the chatter.

The lawyer still wouldn't give up, pleading: "Mr. Fu, from a professional standpoint, I still urge you to reconsider. The species infestation here is absolutely among the worst in all of America. The cost of management far exceeds the purchase price!"

"Professional agencies have calculated it would take at least ten years to..."

Fu Haoran waved his hand, staring at the capacity assessment report just handed to him by his assistant.

[Annual Estimated Capacity]

Asian Carp: Controllable river sections, annual catch approximately 8,000 tons, net fish meat after processing 6,000 tons.

Wild Boar: Stable recovery of approximately 40,000 heads, average meat yield 100 kg per head, net meat 4,000 tons.

Other Species (Coyote, Animal Offal): Incidental recovery, estimated net meat 5,000 tons.

Total Annual Meat Raw Materials: Approximately 15,000 tons.

Fu Haoran closed the report.

15,000 tons—that number far exceeded the limits of an ordinary farm.

But Fu Haoran knew clearly that this estimate was based on a crazy premise: he would deploy equipment and hire labor without regard to cost.

Premium Canned Food could reduce the demand for Corpse Starch from 4 billion tons down to 100 million tons, but for Fu Haoran at present, that was still an unattainable figure.

"Not enough. Looks like I need to speed up my plan—build the Vertical Farm, multiply production tenfold, just to barely fill the hole in the Upper Hive."

While Fu Haoran was still plotting his industrial chain, he had no idea that a few kilometers away, on a high ridge, a telescope lens was reflecting cold light.

Meanwhile, on an encrypted channel.

"Target has arrived at Montana Base. Activity is frequent. Final phase of the recovery operation is ready to commence."