At eight in the morning, the lingering haze of dawn was already fading.
A chorus of cicadas outside the window finally dragged Chen Yansen out of sleep.
The room was small—barely a dozen square meters—and cluttered to the point of suffocation. Three tall stacks of textbooks and reference guides stood against the wall. Two more piles of mock exam papers were stacked beside them. Even the lacquered red wooden desk by the window was buried beneath books.
A poster of Xu Song, with its unconventional aesthetic, hung crookedly on the wall.
"Get up," Chen Yansen muttered. "Time to make money."
He checked the system interface, then glanced at his phone. After a moment, he gave a helpless smile.
There was no going back.
Pulling on a short-sleeved shirt, he went into the bathroom and washed up.
His home was a modest two-bedroom, one-living-room apartment of about sixty square meters. It had once been staff housing for a salt company, bought by Old Chen ten years ago for just thirty thousand yuan.
In 2020, it would be demolished.
Compensation: 480,000 yuan.
A sixteen-fold return.
"When I get the chance, I'll tell Old Chen to buy the units upstairs too," Chen Yansen thought as he brushed his teeth. "That's guaranteed money."
Making money, however, required startup capital.
He had already checked the night before. After scraping together every last bill—and even the coins hidden in his smelly socks—he had barely over three hundred yuan.
Looks like I'll have to 'borrow' some from Old Chen.
Anyway, it'll all be mine sooner or later. I'm just using it in advance.
With that settled, Chen Yansen wiped his face and, guided by memory, walked into Comrade Chen Guobin's bedroom.
On the bedside table, inside the second photo album.
Exactly where he remembered.
Two bank cards.
One belonged to Old Chen. The other belonged to his mother—a woman he had never met.
Every year, Chen Guobin deposited money into both cards. One was for Chen Yansen's university expenses. The other was meant for his future marriage and children.
The passwords?
Old Chen had personally told him.
In 2018, when Old Chen fell critically ill, Chen Yansen had exhausted every connection he had to get him proper treatment. When Old Chen finally woke up, the first thing he did was tell him where the cards were—and their PINs.
"How could someone like Old Chen give birth to a bastard like me?" Chen Yansen muttered with a self-mocking laugh.
He flipped to the last page of the photo album.
An old, yellowed photograph.
In it, Chen Guobin stood upright in a suit, grinning foolishly. A gentle young woman leaned against his shoulder, dressed in a simple linen gown, her face glowing with happiness.
Chen Yansen understood his father now.
Love that fades slowly doesn't torment a person for long.
It's the love that ends abruptly that drives people insane.
His mother had died in childbirth, leaving behind a crying infant.
From that day on, Old Chen became both father and mother, raising him alone.
Of course, no one is perfect.
When Chen Yansen was young, he was unruly and rebellious, often driving Chen Guobin to the brink of collapse. In his rage, Old Chen would kick him mercilessly, shouting through tears, "If it weren't for you, my wife wouldn't have died!"
It was then that Chen Yansen realized something.
To Chen Guobin, his son was an accident.
His wife was his true love.
After being beaten enough times, Chen Yansen's stubbornness hardened. He stopped calling him "Dad" and switched to "Old Chen" instead.
In a strange way, the ambition and ruthlessness he later showed in business had been forged by those very kicks.
"Mom," Chen Yansen said with a carefree grin at the photograph, "I'll take the money you saved for your son and use it to find Old Chen a few more wives."
He put his father's bank card back and slipped his mother's card into his pocket.
Then he pulled out his phone and called Wang Zihao.
"Haozi. Crossroads. Ten minutes."
"Internet café?" Wang Zihao mumbled, half asleep.
"Only kids waste their lives gaming," Chen Yansen replied. "Dad's taking you to make money."
"What? A summer job?" Wang Zihao jolted awake.
It was already late July. Since the college entrance exam, the two of them had been haunting internet cafés and pool halls, not even bothering with part-time work.
"Stop talking. Get here," Chen Yansen said, hanging up.
He went downstairs, found a JetAn bicycle in the hallway, hopped on, and rode off.
Halfway there, he realized he hadn't eaten breakfast.
When he finally met Wang Zihao, the other charged over, shouting, "Chen Yansen, have some decency! You said ten minutes—you're half an hour late!"
Spittle flew everywhere.
"I knew you hadn't eaten," Chen Yansen said calmly, stepping back in disgust and handing him breakfast. "Soy milk. Tofu skin roll."
"You still have a conscience," Wang Zihao laughed, devouring the food.
"Why the sudden urge to work?" he asked between bites. "Short on cash? I've got two hundred left—you can take it."
"Work?" Chen Yansen waved dismissively. "I'll never work in my life."
Wang Zihao grinned. "What, you taking me to sell myself? Let me be clear—my Wang family has morals."
"You wish," Chen Yansen shot back. "Someone has to want to buy you first."
Wang Zihao was slightly overweight, 1.78 meters tall, and decidedly average-looking. No rich woman would give him a second glance.
"What do you mean?" Wang Zihao glared.
"Exactly what I said."
They walked as Chen Yansen scanned the street.
Internet cafés. Phone shops. Clothing stores. Digital electronics.
Products flashed through his mind—then were discarded one by one.
"I don't know this era well enough yet," he thought. "I'll sweep the streets first."
"I'm done eating. Where now?" Wang Zihao asked.
"Market research."
Chen Yansen rode south, stopping at every shop that caught his interest. He asked prices, examined goods, memorized details.
"What are you even doing?" Wang Zihao asked.
"Less talking. More learning."
Chen Yansen focused on the shop windows.
"Noah 5200 — 850 yuan.""Huatian K801 — 988 yuan.""Sony Ericsson T303C — 999 yuan.""Bird V788 — 1,388 yuan.""Blue Demon MP3 — 159 yuan.""Ziguang MP4 — 399 yuan."
Price after price burned into his memory.
Before 4G fully spread, towns like Chunshen lagged far behind major cities. Distribution, pricing, information—everything had gaps.
And gaps meant profit.
Information was money.
"Haozi," Chen Yansen said suddenly, grabbing him. "Internet café. I've got it."
"Don't mess with money," Wang Zihao groaned, drenched in sweat. "I'm dying."
"You'd rather mess with your sister," Chen Yansen snapped.
"You animal! She's fourteen!"
Chen Yansen sneered inwardly.
Fourteen—but with the mind of a forty-year-old.
In his previous life, he'd almost fallen into marriage hell because of Wang Zihao's sister, Wang Ziyan.
This time, he wouldn't repeat that mistake.
"I'm not hanging myself on one tree again," Chen Yansen vowed silently. "This life—I'm staying far away."