The Kowloon schoolyard was a roaring ocean of sound. Dozens of voices chattered, shrieked, and laughed, blending into one great noise that swallowed the narrow playground between cracked cement walls. The smell of fried fish balls wafted from a vendor outside the gate, mingling with chalk dust and sweat. Playful scuffles broke out by the banyan tree; footballs skipped dangerously close to teachers' ankles.
To most, it was just another day in 1978.
To Alexander Wong, it was a marketplace.
He hugged his satchel tightly to his chest, slipping past groups of rowdy boys who were shouting insults and chasing the ball. Inside, carefully arranged, he carried candy sticks, a roll of imported peppermints, and three packs of gum—including two supplied by his new "partner," the thick-browed Chan Fai. Yesterday's deal had been only the beginning. Today, Alexander would test something far more dangerous and ambitious: scaling distribution.
He had tested scarcity and proved it profitable. He had neutralized his first rival by turning him into supplier. But he remembered bitterly from his first life: one man's hands could only carry so much. Leverage was the secret.
He scanned the schoolyard, eyes sharpened like an eagle watching movement in tall grass. Every child clutched coins or small food parcels. Desire burned invisibly everywhere.
Yesterday, he had sold to them directly. But today, he would sell through them.
Under the shade of the banyan tree, amid the scuffed roots that broke through cement, Alexander found Ming Yu—a quiet boy, thin as a reed, usually ignored. Ming had sharp eyes but rarely spoke. Alexander had noticed yesterday that Ming hadn't bought candy, but his gaze had lingered jealously on those who did.
"Want to make money?" Alexander asked bluntly.
Ming blinked, startled. "Hah?"
Alexander pulled out a stick of gum, still wrapped. "You sell this to someone else for two dollars fifty. Bring me back two, keep fifty cents."
Ming's eyes widened. "But… but why not you sell?"
Alexander grinned faintly. "Because I trust you. Because you know who wants it. And because if you do, you eat free candy later."
He placed the stick gently in Ming's palm. Ming stared at it as though it were gold.
Within ten minutes, the boy returned, two coins jingling in his hand, cheeks flushed. He kept his fifty cents like it was treasure. "He bought it! So easy!"
Alexander smiled, masking how fast his heart raced. His first reseller. His first subordinate.
By recess's end, Alexander had distributed his candy into three hands: Ming, who had become devoted after the first easy sale; a chubby boy named Wai who always hung around richer classmates and knew who had money; and one daring girl from another class who agreed to peddle secretly for an extra free piece each day.
He set their rules quickly:
They must sell at no discount.
They must bring back coins before end of lunch.
No stealing, because he always counted.
The thrill in their eyes told him all he needed to know. It wasn't only the candy itself—it was belonging, having a secret identity, being part of something new in a dull school life.
By the time the final bell rang, Alexander had made almost thirty dollars. He had sold almost nothing directly himself.
The principle blazed in his head: delegation expands power.
But success brought danger.
On the third day of this new system, two older boys approached the banyan during lunch—regular bullies who normally stole marbles or mocked smaller children. Their leader, Ho Chiu, smirked as he pocketed a stick of gum he hadn't paid for.
"You selling candy here, Ah Lek? Good business. Give some to us."
His friends laughed as they grabbed another stick. One slapped Ming on the head when the smaller boy tried to protest.
Alexander's stomach tightened. He was only twelve. His older self screamed that violence was not his weapon—but if he allowed this theft, his whole fragile system would collapse.
He inhaled slowly. "You can take today for free," Alexander said evenly, forcing calm into his childish voice, "but tomorrow, no. Tomorrow, I'll give you special deal. Half price. Always."
The bullies exchanged glances. Ho Chiu narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why so nice?"
"Because I like strong friends," Alexander lied smoothly. "If anyone else causes trouble, you protect my sellers. You get cheap candy, nobody else does. We all win."
The logic was crude, but even bullies grasped it. Two minutes later, they swaggered off chewing, leaving Alexander secretly trembling but victorious.
Lesson written in fire across his mind: even predators must be managed, sometimes bought, sometimes turned into shields.
At home that evening, his mother scolded him for coming late. He bowed his head, apologizing, hiding his stash of coins in a folded sock. His father didn't notice, too absorbed in stitching a pair of trousers by lamp-light.
As soon as he closed his door, Alexander dumped the coins across his desk. Silver clinked beautifully, brighter than the hum of his father's old sewing machine.
Thirty-one dollars. More than most boys his age could hold in a year.
He pulled out his notebook and scribbled furiously:
Delegation increases speed ×3.
Recruits motivated not by money alone, but taste → belonging. CHEAP loyalty.
Predators neutralized with bribes / alliances. Lesson: Trust is a commodity.
At the bottom, he drew a crooked pyramid. At the top, himself. Below, sellers. Below them, customers.
It looked absurd, a scrawl in a twelve-year-old's notebook. But Alexander's hands trembled with exhilaration. This is an organization. The first shadow of a company.
The next week at school, his "business" flourished. No longer did Alexander himself chew the gum openly—he sat with blank expression, scribbling in workbooks, while Ming or Wai slipped candy sticks behind cupped hands in corners of the yard.
One teacher nearly caught Wai once, but Wai cleverly shoved the gum into his mouth and said, "My cousin give me, teacher!" The danger only added spice.
Soon half the class whispered about Ah Lek as if he were some mysterious trader who never seemed to run out of foreign sweets. Some boys grumbled about high prices, but they paid anyway. Others bought just to boast.
The trade had become less about sugar on the tongue and more about prestige. Owning a stick of foreign gum was the badge of being "in."
And Alexander watched all of it from the side, eyes half closed, not a seller anymore but the puppeteer.
But growth came with problems.
At the Friday recess, Ming panicked. "Ah Lek—Chan Fai says his cousin not bringing gum this week. No ships came. What if—what if we can't sell?"
Alexander took a deep breath. Shortages were real. He remembered crises bigger than candy—the oil crises of the 1970s, the food panic in 2008, entire markets freezing. Shortages always made prices spike.
"Don't panic," he said coolly. "Tell everyone stock is low. Double price. Only sell to those who beg most. They'll fight to get it."
Ming looked scared but obeyed.
By end of day, sales dropped by half in volume but nearly doubled in profit. Better still, rumors spread like wildfire: Ah Lek's candy was rare, precious, only for those willing to pay.
Scarcity had created prestige. Alexander grinned secretly.
That evening, as his father wiped sweat from his brow after a long day of tailoring, Alexander crouched nearby, pretending to browse a comic.
"Papa," he said quietly, "today my friend's shop ran out of pork. Price went up double. But people still bought, faster. Isn't strange?"
His father snorted. "Nothing strange. When things are rare, people pay more. But unfair. Customers curse."
Alexander tilted his head innocently. "Still… his family earned more in one day than in many weeks."
His father paused, staring at his scissors, before muttering, "Maybe. But you cannot cheat people with fake scarcity. Only rich landlords play games like that."
The words lodged in Alexander's mind. He wanted to argue—scarcity was power!—but he stayed silent. Better not reveal too soon how much he knew. Instead, he nodded obediently. Seeds, always seeds.
That night he emptied his stash again—now almost fifty dollars. He arranged the coins to form rows, then measured them with a ruler as if they were skyscrapers.
How many sticks of gum could he buy with fifty? How many uniforms could he eventually subcontract from his father's shop? How many square feet of land in Shenzhen could fifty dollars become, in just a few years, if placed wisely?
He breathed in hard, a sudden vertigo clutching him. I am holding the future in small coins.
He wrote in thick letters:
Stage One completed: >$50 capital in one month. Business scaled via delegation.
Next move: Use money outside of school = hide growth. Pawn shop? Collectibles? Safe test. Avoid detection at home.
He tapped his pencil against the page and whispered:
"This is only the beginning."
As the city sighed around him—apartment neighbors clashing mahjong tiles, vendors calling last deals outside—the boy lay awake long after lights dimmed.
Hong Kong in 1978 was alive, buzzing, but blind to the empire slowly coiling in its shadows. Today, he had become something more than a clever child.
He had become a manager of people. A creator of systems. A quiet boss with followers, profit, and protection.
Small though it was, it was the seed of a consortium.
He rubbed one coin between his fingers until the edge bit into his skin, tasting the sting.
"From this coin," he whispered to the dark ceiling, "I will build towers. From these children's trades, I will craft empires. Let 1978 be my foundation."
He closed his eyes—and in his imagination Victoria Harbour glittered with skyscrapers not yet built, each one etched with his name.