The clatter of coins echoed louder than it should have. Alexander sat cross-legged on the cement floor of the apartment, staring at the collection of dull, worn Hong Kong dollars spread out before him. His mother had entrusted him with the job of counting yesterday's leftover money from the tailor shop, a task usually given to his older brother.
To her, it was busywork. To him, it was the foundation of empire.
He ran his fingers slowly across the edges of the coins and folded notes. Inflation in 1978 was rising; he remembered that clearly. He knew that an ordinary family's few hundred dollars could vanish in value within months. As a man in 2025, he had lost wealth to crashes and currency slides. This time, he would teach himself how to protect even the humblest collection of coins.
He picked up a $10 bill, blue and stiff. The British coat of arms glared back at him. This was colonial money, made to serve a system he did not control. His mind drifted. What would this ten dollars become in ten years if I placed it right? What would happen if stacked into real estate, stocks, gold…
He smiled faintly. To every other child, this was just a bill. To him, it was an arrow pointing into the future.
"Ah Lek, don't just stare at the money!" his mother snapped as she set down bowls of rice porridge. "Your brother is late. You two will be late for school."
Alexander obediently gathered the bills and coins into a tin box. "Ma," he said carefully, eyes on the table, "Papa should save more each week. Not just for new cloth. Maybe… maybe buy land."
His mother gave him a puzzled look. "Land? You silly boy, land is for rich people, not for a tailor's family."
He lowered his gaze, shoulders hunched. A boy must not look too certain. "I just heard someone say, on the street. Land goes up."
His mother chuckled, ruffling his hair. "You overhear far too much for a twelve-year-old."
But Alexander had seen her pause. Even a dismissed suggestion could plant the seed he needed.
Kowloon's morning streets were alive. Hawkers shouted prices; the metallic screech of a tram floated from across the harbor; shopfront radios blared scratchy Cantonese pop songs. His older brother, Ming, kicked a pebble along the cracked pavement while Alexander walked beside him, glancing at faces, signs, shops, always watching.
He noted the price of vegetables at stalls, the queues outside the bakery, the British banker striding briskly with a leather briefcase. Details mattered—small changes in prices hinted at inflation, queues hinted at demand, British briefcases hinted at the power structures controlling Hong Kong.
"Why are you staring at every stall?" Ming muttered. "You look crazy."
Alexander forced a grin. "I'm just bored."
But in truth, he was conditioning his younger eyes to see markets everywhere. Even a cabbage could be a signal, if one knew how to look.
After school, instead of running off to play football like the other boys, Alexander followed Ming to a local pawn shop. His brother had borrowed money weeks ago to impress a classmate with a fancy fountain pen and now needed to pay interest.
The wooden pawn shop door creaked open to reveal bamboo shelves stacked with clocks, radios, jade bracelets, and cameras. The air smelled of mildew and desperation.
The pawnbroker, an elderly man with clouded glasses, barely lifted his head. Before Ming could speak, Alexander stepped forward.
"How much if we just pay interest?" Alexander asked carefully.
The pawnbroker peered down at him, amused. "Little boy, you know about interest?"
"I know it keeps the loan alive," Alexander replied, voice steady.
Ming pulled him back. "Stop talking nonsense!"
But Alexander had already absorbed the lesson. Here was a microcosm of finance: poor families trading possessions for survival, the broker living off fees, the cycle of debt feeding wealth. He smelled opportunity in the dust of that shop. One day, he would not walk in as a desperate creditor. He would own the pawnbroker.
That night, in the dim glow of a cheap lamp, Alexander opened his secret notebook. On the first page from yesterday's vow, he began sketching again.
Pawn shops = steady profits in poor times.
Property = future kingmaker of HK.
Keep eyes down. Act like a child. Build slowly.
He paused, tapping the pen against his lips. He was still so limited—he could not sign contracts, own property, or make large trades. But he could guide his parents, whisper suggestions, test small bets like buying gold or rare goods, and record everything in this book until the day came when he could act openly.
At the bottom of the page, he wrote:
Every empire begins with one copper coin.
The tailors' shop that sustained his family was quiet now; his father had fallen asleep in the back room, the steady rise and fall of his snores audible through the thin partition. Alexander listened to the harbor's distant horns, every sound a reminder that time was moving, history was forming itself, and he was the only one who knew the pattern.
He closed his eyes and whispered into the stillness.
"Tomorrow, I begin."