The tinny clang of the school bell rang out like an alarm clock for caged sparrows, and within seconds the classroom dissolved into a blur of shouting boys and hurried feet. Schoolbags slammed shut, wooden chairs scraped across the floor, and a sudden river of uniforms poured through double doors into the open courtyard.
Alexander walked more slowly than the others, holding his satchel close to his chest. Inside, nestled beneath worn schoolbooks, lay his carefully chosen "inventory": three packs of Wrigley's gum and one roll of foreign hard candy wrapped in gaudy red foil. To the untrained eye, it was children's sweets. To him, it was his first portfolio.
Yesterday's experiment had been a spark. One pack of gum flipped into more than six times its cost. More importantly, it revealed—like the lifting of a curtain—that even children could mirror the greed and hunger of adults. Today he would test scale.
The courtyard buzzed. Some boys unwrapped rice balls or cheap buns bought from roadside hawkers. Others crowded around pitchers of herbal tea; a few murmured about trading stamps or pencils.
He slipped toward the banyan tree near the far edge of the yard. It was the unofficial marketplace of the school, the spot where teachers pretended not to notice the noisy barter of children, so long as fists didn't fly.
Alexander unwrapped a stick of gum, its scent sharp and foreign. He chewed slowly, deliberately, and made sure he stood in full view of the others—cool, unconcerned.
"Eh, Ah Lek's eating gum again."
"Must be rich, every day got candies."
"He selling or not?"
A small crowd formed. He pretended not to hear at first. In markets, delay built desire.
"How much?" one boy finally demanded.
Alexander looked him over as if measuring creditworthiness. "Two dollars a stick today."
Shock rippled across their faces. "Two dollars?! Yesterday you sold cheaper!"
"Yes," Alexander said evenly, "but today there are fewer packs. If you don't want, no problem. I'll just keep chewing." He blew a tiny bubble, let it pop softly.
Scarcity did its work. Coins appeared quickly as boys scrambled to buy before the pack ran out. Hand after hand exchanged coins for foil-wrapped sticks. Within minutes everything was gone.
Then he unveiled the hard candy. "This one is even rarer. Five pieces only." He waited as the whispers thickened. "One dollar each."
Despite groans, everyone still paid. The red foil itself seemed to glitter like treasure. Children who had no intention of chewing it tucked it into their pockets just to show off.
By the end of the break, Alexander's pockets sagged with nearly twenty dollars. His heart pounded—not from fear of being caught, but from exhilaration. In another life, he had moved sums in the millions, billions even. And yet this, this trade in gum and candy, gave him the same rush. Because he knew what it meant: proof of concept.
But markets always attracted rivals.
That afternoon, as the bell dismissed them, a taller boy shouldered into his path. Chan Fai—fifteen, broad, son of a dock worker. His thick eyebrows furrowed as he pulled from his pocket a crumpled pack of gum.
"You trying to be clever, Wong Ah Lek?" Fai sneered. "My cousin works unloading cargo. Foreign ships bring boxes of gum by the hundreds. He can sell to me for cheap. You sell for two dollars? I sell for one. Then we see who buys."
A hush fell around them. Boys crowded in, sniffing the blood of competition.
Alexander's pulse quickened. He studied Fai calmly, forcing his childish face into a mask of composure.
"And when your cousin doesn't bring it?" Alex asked, voice low. "Ships don't always dock. Supply stops. Then what? You sell cheap, but tomorrow—nothing."
Fai blinked, uncertain, but covered it with a snort. "Nonsense. Always ships."
Alexander stepped closer. "Listen. If you sell cheap, you earn less. You fight me here, maybe trouble comes. Teachers complain, parents scold. Why not smarter? Bring your cousin's gum to me. I'll sell. You don't need to work. We split profits. Better for both."
Fai's brow creased. He was no strategist—only a bully. But the word "profits" warmed his greed. After an awkward pause, he jabbed a finger at Alexander. "Half-half! Or I'll punch you."
"Half-half," Alexander agreed smoothly, shaking his hand.
A few boys groaned, hoping for a cheaper price war. But Alexander knew the truth: alliances crushed rivals. With one deal, he controlled distribution and killed competition before it bled him dry. Fai thought he had won, but he had really become Alexander's first supplier.
Walking home with the coins tucked safely in his shoes, Alexander replayed everything in his head. Lessons glowed like lanterns:
People would always pay more for scarcity.
Rivals could be made into partners with the right carrot.
Even in the smallest market, the one who controlled flow controlled profit.
He thought of Li Ka-shing, who decades later would tell interviewers about his humble beginnings, how he flipped plastics into an empire. The tycoon had once struck deals with dock workers, buying scraps, recycling, reinvesting. Alexander's path wasn't so different—just on a smaller stage.
But soon he'd scale higher.
That evening, steam curled from bowls of noodle soup as the family gathered, chopsticks clinking. His father's face looked heavier than usual.
"Another customer argued for discount," he muttered. "Said neighbor tailor sells cheaper."
Alexander held his chopsticks loosely, as though thinking idly. Then he said, "Papa… why not sell three shirts together, give free hemming? Customers pay more overall, but they think they got gift. My classmate does the same—buys three buns cheaper than one. Shop sells faster."
His father froze, eyes fixed on him. Then he barked a laugh, more out of defense than amusement. "This boy thinks he's a little boss!"
But Alexander noticed his father did not dismiss the idea outright. It lingered in the man's silence. His mother smirked slightly, shaking her head as if to say, He talks too much, this son of ours.
Seed planted. Always planting.
Later in his cramped room, Alexander flipped open his notebook. He listed the day's results carefully:
Test #2: Expanded candy trade. Profit ×5 from yesterday.
Risk: Rival emerged—converted to ally. Distribution secured (temporarily).
Family lesson: Father stubborn, but listens to numbers. Must create visible proof before pushing further.
At the bottom he underlined a new law:
Control supply → control trust → control future.
He stared at the page, breathing slow, almost reverent. This was no longer a child's diary. It was a blueprint.
The city outside pulsed with neon. From his thin window, Alexander saw the faint reflection of signs glowing in Mong Kok's narrow streets: pawn shops, noodle stalls, mahjong parlors. Distant ferry whistles carried across the harbor like sighs of history.
Hong Kong lived and breathed commerce at every level, from hawkers with pushcarts to bankers in Central. And now, he was playing too.
He whispered to himself, soft but fierce:
"All empires begin with small coins. Today it was gum. Tomorrow, property. Tomorrow, factories. Tomorrow, nations."
He lay back onto the pillow, eyes burning not with exhaustion but anticipation.
In 1978, the world thought him a child. In truth, he was laying the foundation of a dynasty