Jiang Hai sat quietly in his seat, scanning the note before him. Several numbers immediately drew his attention.
John Malone had written the maximum amount—30%. Dufaman and Luke Shawn wrote "as much as possible," while the South Koreans also requested 30%. Others, like Paul Caspi, had written 20%, a few dozen, and so on. The numbers varied, but none were less than 10%.
When all of these figures were added up—even excluding Dufaman and Luke Shawn's requests—the total reached an impossible 300%.
Clearly, such a division couldn't work. Jiang Hai needed to protect his friends' interests. After a brief glance at the paper, he declared the meeting over and told everyone he would visit them individually after they returned to their rooms.
Though a few were nervous after hearing his words, none dared object. They left, glancing back at him every few steps. Jiang Hai, watching them go, couldn't help but smile faintly.
He had a backup plan, of course. The 25 tons per mu he'd claimed—totaling 3.3 million tons—was only based on average grasslands. What they didn't know was that Jiang Hai's grassland continued growing as long as it wasn't buried in snow.
Even if it snowed, he could still mow it, though he hadn't decided whether to do so yet.
Spring and summer alone produced 25 tons. But what about autumn? Jiang Hai didn't mow in winter, but autumn was different. Adding the autumn yield would increase production by another quarter—essentially half again as much.
Besides, when Jiang Hai said "25 tons," did anyone truly think it meant only 25 tons? Was his spiritual energy that insignificant?
By his own estimate, he could sell at least 4.7 million tons of grass. The rest would remain as his reserve.
He began his distribution by addressing the 30% requests from John Malone and the South Koreans first.
After all, one was the largest landowner in the United States—a man Jiang Hai couldn't afford to offend—and maintaining good relations would benefit him in the future. The other, though somewhat arrogant, represented a developed country, and Jiang Hai had no desire to quarrel with them unnecessarily.
Of course, if they'd been less shameless, he might have gone easier on them.
With John Malone, Jiang Hai signed a contract for one million tons at $600 per ton. With the South Koreans, 900,000 tons at the same rate. That amount of grass could feed roughly 600,000 head of cattle of Du Famen's quality—worth about $36 billion in total value.
Du Famen, being Jiang Hai's oldest friend, naturally received favorable treatment—1.2 million tons at $600 per ton. That was enough to sustain his high-end ranch for a year, though it still couldn't match the quality of Jiang Hai's own cattle.
Luke Shawn received 1.1 million tons—enough to keep him happy and, more importantly, to outdo John Malone.
These four groups alone accounted for 4.2 million tons of forage. The remaining 500,000 tons were divided among the other factions—some receiving 30,000 to 40,000 tons, others 100,000. In the end, all seventeen factions got a share of the pie.
Soon after, Jiang Hai had drafted seventeen contracts and set out to meet them one by one.
He first visited Du Famen and Luke Shawn. Both looked a little uneasy at first, considering the scale of their requests. But once they saw the figures on the contracts, their expressions relaxed into smiles. Though Jiang Hai had hinted at the numbers earlier, seeing them in writing brought real relief.
After signing, Jiang Hai reminded them to keep everything confidential. Both men understood well—money is best earned quietly; too much attention only invites trouble.
Next, Jiang Hai visited John Malone's son. Their meeting was cordial. Although John Malone's main business was television, he understood that real estate was his foundation, and his son—who managed their estates—was particularly interested in Jiang Hai's grass. They exchanged phone numbers and chatted briefly before parting.
After leaving the Malone suite, Jiang Hai didn't go straight to the South Korean delegation. Instead, he stopped by several smaller groups. Some felt their allotted amounts were too little, but in the end, they accepted—after all, something was better than nothing. Their estates hadn't used Jiang Hai's grass before, and now they had the chance to test it. They were satisfied enough, especially since the contracts lasted five years, with renewal options afterward.
Once all other contracts were signed, Jiang Hai and Moses Adams finally went to the South Korean representatives' room.
"Oh, Mr. Jiang, please come in!" The door was opened by the deputy representative, who immediately bowed upon seeing them. Nationality aside, to South Koreans, the wealthy were always worth bowing to.
He had attended the earlier meeting and knew Jiang Hai had just earned over two billion dollars from selling grass. Two billion dollars—nearly 2.4 trillion won. The number alone made his head spin. He could barely imagine such wealth.
Jiang Hai, unaccustomed to such formality, simply nodded and followed him inside. The representative was already waiting, smiling politely, though his expression carried a faint trace of arrogance. Jiang Hai found it amusing—didn't these people realize they were the ones asking for favors?
"Hello, Mr. Jiang. I've heard a great deal about you," the man said in slightly awkward Chinese. Jiang Hai understood him well enough. After a brief handshake, Jiang Hai sat casually on the sofa, saying nothing.
"Ah, Mr. Jiang, I didn't expect you so soon," the representative continued, pouring tea with deliberate grace. The tea ceremony was clearly meant to impress.
China, Korea, and Japan all loved tea, though each had its own traditions. Japan's tea ceremony dated back to the Tang Dynasty, while Korea's stemmed from the Song Dynasty—similar to modern Chinese tea rituals, but less refined.
Jiang Hai, being from Northeast China, didn't hold any illusions about his region's tea quality. The best teas came from the Central Plains, not the North. From a single sniff, he knew this Korean's brew was mediocre at best. Still, he didn't point it out.
Instead, while the man prepared the tea, Jiang Hai placed the contract on the table.
"This is the quota we've allocated for your side," he said calmly. "Please have a look."
The representative seemed unimpressed at first. He took a sip of tea before lazily picking up the contract.
"If you're not interested," Jiang Hai said evenly, "someone else might be."
The man smiled faintly, crossing his legs. "No, Mr. Jiang, this contract is both important and unimportant to me. Important, because it's an order from above. Unimportant, because it's only an order from above. Do you understand? I'm not a cattle rancher."
Jiang Hai couldn't help but laugh. This was exactly the problem with dealing with government officials—they were often detached from the actual business. When he dealt with people like Du Famen or Luke Shawn, they personally managed their ranches and knew the value of his grass. But these bureaucrats? To them, it was just another political task.
"Forget it," Jiang Hai said impatiently. "Just sign it. If it weren't for Cheryl's sake, you wouldn't even get 100,000 tons."
"Haha, Mr. Jiang, you're too impatient," the representative replied smoothly. "Even though this matter doesn't concern me directly, I understand how valuable your grass is to China. In fact, several important figures there have expressed interest in inviting you to visit. If you ever have time, they'll gladly host you."
He smiled, then signed the contract and pressed the official seal of the South Korean department.
With that done, Jiang Hai saw no reason to stay. He collected the contract and left without another word.
As for the so-called invitation to South Korea, he forgot about it the moment he stepped out. To be honest, he had little fondness for that country and no intention of visiting unless absolutely necessary.
Back in his room, Jiang Hai finally let out a long breath. Everything was settled.
Now, at last, he could return home in time for the Mid-Autumn Festival—without anyone causing trouble.