Morning broke gently over the neighborhood, the first rays of sunlight slanting through the thin curtains of Yogan's small bedroom.
The beam fell like a golden ribbon across the worn study desk, picking out the edges of his notebooks and the faint smudge of pencil on his fingers.
In the still air, tiny motes of dust floated and danced, suspended like a miniature galaxy.
Everything was quiet, calm, and almost unreal.
Yogan's eyes opened on their own, no alarm necessary.
His body's internal clock—sharpened by habit, discipline, and the instincts of a fighter—had woken him precisely at dawn.
He lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Not a single trace of doubt crept in.
Nothing that had happened the previous night had been a dream.
A faint ache radiated from his shoulders down to his calves, the lingering burn of lactic acid after a high-intensity workout.
His young frame was still fragile, unused to the volume of training he'd demanded from it yesterday.
But instead of discouragement, the pain brought him an almost nostalgic comfort.
It was the familiar handshake of an old friend—proof that he was alive, that his muscles were learning, that he could still fight.
Slowly, deliberately, Yogan swung his legs off the bed.
His movements were controlled and light, like a diver slipping into water.
After a quick wash in the small bathroom—cold water splashing across his face, waking him fully—he dressed in his school uniform.
The crisp shirt felt like armor for the day ahead.
He straightened the collar, inhaled deeply, and stepped out of his room.
In the living room, the aroma of steamed buns mingled with the nutty scent of millet porridge.
His mother, Zhou Hui, stood at the dining table, arranging breakfast with habitual care: a steaming plate of white buns, a bowl of porridge from which curls of steam rose, and a small dish of pickled vegetables glistening with sesame oil.
On the sofa, his father, Sun Jianjun, sat with one leg crossed, a porcelain cup of tea in hand.
The morning news droned softly from the television, reporting on markets, weather, and city events.
It was a scene of unremarkable normalcy—an ordinary Chinese family morning.
Zhou Hui looked up, smiling faintly.
"Are you up? Come have breakfast. You've got your monthly check-up today; don't be late."
"I understand, Mom," Yogan said, slipping into his seat at the table.
He began eating quietly, savoring the warmth of the buns yet feeling his mind whirl faster than his chewing.
Plans stacked themselves like cards in his head.
His dream was clear: go to America, enter one of the top boxing gyms, train under the most scientific programs, receive professional nutrition and sparring partners.
To do all of that, he needed capital.
A large amount of it, especially for an ordinary working-class household.
He could no longer afford to drift.
He had to act.
The first step was to secure seed money—his "first pot of gold."
And the only potential "investor" within reach was his father.
Sun Jianjun ran a small hardware store in town, working long hours and managing inventory with stubborn diligence.
He was honest and hardworking but also deeply skeptical of anything that smelled of speculation.
To him, stocks were "improper business"—a trap where nine out of ten people lost their shirts.
Convincing him would be like pulling a tiger's tooth.
But Yogan had already rehearsed his approach the night before.
He set his chopsticks down, wiped his mouth, and drew a slow, steady breath.
"Baba," he said.
"Mm?" Sun Jianjun didn't even look up, eyes still on the TV screen.
"I want to borrow some money from you."
The words dropped into the living room like a pebble into still water.
The air seemed to pause.
Zhou Hui froze mid-motion, a dishcloth in her hand.
Her eyes widened.
Sun Jianjun finally turned his gaze to Yogan, eyebrows knitting.
"Borrow money? You're a high-school student. What on earth do you need money for?"
"Investment," Yogan replied simply.
"Investment?"
Sun Jianjun barked a short laugh, as if he'd just heard a wild joke.
He set his teacup down with a faint clink and leaned forward.
"Do you even know what investing is? Don't waste your time listening to nonsense at school. Your job is to study hard, get into a good university, and stop thinking about this kind of thing."
Exactly as expected.
Yogan kept his expression neutral, his tone calm.
"Dad, our school recently started a 'mock stock trading competition.' The teacher encouraged us to learn about finance. I did some research and found it really interesting. I feel pretty confident."
It was an excuse he'd crafted the night before—half truth, half fabrication, but plausible.
"Using real money for a fake competition?" Sun Jianjun's frown deepened. "Nonsense."
"Dad, I'm not talking nonsense."
His voice carried a steadiness unusual for a teenager, a quiet maturity.
"I found a stock I like: Tencent Holdings. I believe it will see a significant increase over the next few months."
"Tencent? Isn't that the one running QQ?"
Sun Jianjun was no stranger to the name.
He used QQ on the shop computer to chat with suppliers.
But he still shook his head.
"A chat software. How high can it go? Yogan, I'm telling you, the stock market is deep water. Nine out of ten who go in lose everything. You'd better keep your mind on your studies."
"I know you don't believe me," Yogan said quietly, "but I want to make a bet with you."
"A bet?"
"Yes."
He met his father's eyes directly.
"Give me this month's living expenses and all the New Year's money I've saved since I was little—about five thousand yuan. Let me open an account myself and buy this stock.
If I make a profit after a month, the earnings are mine. If I lose, I won't take a single penny for living expenses from next month until the college entrance exam, and I'll come home for lunch every day."
For a moment, even the television's chatter faded from awareness.
This bet surprised Sun Jianjun.
He knew his son: shy, diligent, never frivolous about serious matters.
And today, there was a strange certainty in the boy's eyes, an adult weight in his words.
Five thousand yuan was not small, but losing it would only mean a few months of allowances.
It was within a tolerable risk.
"Jianjun, don't listen to him," Zhou Hui interjected anxiously. "He's just joking."
Sun Jianjun raised a hand to silence her.
He studied Yogan again.
The boy's posture, his unwavering gaze—it was both foreign and oddly reassuring.
"Alright."
At last he slapped his thigh and stood.
"I agree. But since the money is from me, the transaction must be made in my presence. I'll go to the brokerage firm with you after school this afternoon."
He was still uneasy, but at least he could supervise.
Yogan felt a spark of triumph inside.
Step one: complete.
"Okay. We have a deal."
---
The school day passed like a blur.
After the monthly exam ended in the afternoon, Yogan did not go straight home.
He waited at the school gate until his father arrived on an electric scooter.
Father and son rode silently to the downtown branch of a securities firm.
The trading hall of 2012 still bustled with small investors—a sea of middle-aged men and women pointing at glowing K-line charts on giant screens, murmuring about support levels and resistance.
The smell of instant noodles and cheap coffee lingered in the air.
Under the staff's guidance, Yogan completed the account-opening procedures swiftly and neatly, presenting his ID card and newly issued bank card.
He navigated the forms with the ease of someone far older.
Sun Jianjun hovered nearby, scanning the fine print, still feeling this was shaky ground.
At last came the bank-securities transfer.
With a reluctant sigh, Sun Jianjun pulled five thousand yuan from his wallet and deposited it into Yogan's bank card.
Then, on the trading software, Yogan transferred the money to his new securities account.
Sun Jianjun's heart ached as he watched the digits leave his balance.
He couldn't help asking again.
"This is… Tencent Holdings, right?"
"Yes," Yogan said, fingers flying over the keyboard. "The code is 00700."
The real-time chart appeared, candlesticks dancing red and green.
"Buy. Buy them all," Yogan ordered without hesitation.
"Won't you look again? Won't you think again?" Sun Jianjun urged.
"No need, Dad. Trust me."
With a firm click, Yogan pressed the Confirm button.
Order successful.
His account now held more than twenty lots of Tencent Holdings shares.
A slow breath escaped his lungs.
The first brick of his future had been laid.
These five thousand yuan, he thought, would become fifty thousand, five hundred thousand, perhaps more.
On the way home, Sun Jianjun remained silent, his eyes fixed on the road.
He couldn't fathom where his son had acquired such self-confidence.
Could he really be a genius?
Yogan, meanwhile, felt a quiet surge of relief.
Once his financial base was secured, the path to training lay open.
He could finally focus on building his body and skills.
When they reached home, he retreated to his room and closed the door.
He didn't reach for his practice-test answers.
Instead, he took out his phone, thumb hovering over a number he knew by heart.
Zhenwei Martial Arts Gym—Coach Zhang Lei.
Tomorrow, he thought, training would begin in earnest.
And with every punch and every investment, he would build the life he had promised himself under the starry sky.
---