Grace Bolton focused his gaze and saw that it was Paul White, who was fiddling with a few pieces of broken silver in his hand, his face beaming with a smile, followed by a few newly recruited street punks.

"So? Did you collect this month's share?"

"Yes, incense master, a total of fifty-six households, one tael each, fifty-six taels in all!" As he spoke, he leaned in and asked Grace Bolton, "I heard we're going to war with Big Carter? Big Carter controls three streets—if we take them, we'll be rich."

"Who told you that?"

"George Knight and Thomas Clark just told me, said you said so."

"Hmph, loose-lipped indeed. Go back and, according to the gang rules, give George Knight and Thomas Clark two lashes each, and you do it yourself!" Grace Bolton said with a cold sneer.

"Incense master, really? Even for something this small?"

"Leaking plans—flogging is already the lightest punishment. What, you want to plead for them?" Grace Bolton shot him a cold glance, paused, and seeing that Paul White dared not argue, continued, "It's true, just keep it in mind. Go back and prepare well—don't wet yourself when the time comes."

Paul White and the punks behind him were all visibly moved—this confirmed the news. "Understood, incense master."

"Good, as long as you understand. If we succeed this time, you can each hang a bamboo stick and take charge of a street. Go!" As he finished speaking, he saw the two, still unaware they were about to be flogged, George Knight and Thomas Clark, grinning as they helped a young married woman move things—this was Mrs. Clark.

Mrs. Clark had fair skin, beautiful features, and a curvy figure, yet she had none of the airs of a courtesan or a petty commoner. No wonder she was called the "Steamed Bun Beauty." Most importantly, though still young, her expression carried a gentle maternal warmth. No wonder George Knight and Thomas Clark, both motherless and in their youth, were so taken with her.

"Hmph, two good-for-nothing brats," Grace Bolton muttered, though in his heart he felt a stir for Mrs. Clark. Spring had come, and she seemed even more beautiful!

Chapter Five: Small Battle (Part One)

This season, there was wind and rain.

Grace Bolton finished his meal and gazed outside. The wind grew stronger, the rain more violent. He looked solemnly into the distance, the wind driving the rain onto his face, yet he remained unmoved.

"My son, you carry a murderous air and a resolute spirit—are you preparing to act?" Mr. Foster asked suddenly as he sat.

"Father, that's exactly right. I wonder how you could tell—I was just about to report to you!" Grace Bolton seemed to change expression at once, as if genuinely surprised.

Fixing his gaze on Grace Bolton, Mr. Foster's eyes held a hint of a smile. "I've been in this business for decades—I still have some perception. When you officially assigned the brothers, I knew you were about to make a move."

After all, he was an old hand. Though he didn't manage affairs directly, he saw everything clearly.

After four months, the expenses for a single street had already become unsustainable.

The reason was simple. At first, those recruited were just small-time punks—once desperate for food and shelter, they were easily satisfied, didn't need a monthly wage, nor did they expect rewards.

Training was supposed to be a major expense, but for now, they lived in temporary housing, martial training was handled by Mr. Foster, and there were no costs for weapons or medical care. Those who could endure the hardship stayed; those who couldn't were cast out.

But this was never a long-term solution.

After some consideration, Grace Bolton divided his subordinates into three categories within his authority:

First, those under probation—petty punks or street informants. Their compensation was simple: each punk got five steamed buns a day, and the street informants received protection.

Second, official gang members with one bamboo stick. Each year, they were issued a long knife, two sets of clothes per season (to be made into uniforms), and one string of coins per month.

Third, small leaders with two bamboo sticks, each in charge of a street. They received five strings of coins per month, and 20% of the street's profits for their own use.

Of course, in the underworld, no matter the era or world, real income comes from bonuses and power. The salary is just a safety net. Once real fighting breaks out, those who survive and win will get several times, even ten times, the bonus.

With this distribution, for the sake of the organization's prestige and Grace Bolton's own position, there was no question of going back on his word. To ensure clear rewards and punishments, the first thing was to seize resources.

"But, my son, why not win them over instead of acting directly? Though you sent someone to contact Mark Carter, your terms were too harsh," Mr. Foster said, glancing at him. "After all, Mark Carter never meant to oppose our gang—he's always been fairly close to us."

This was not a reproach, just a request for his reasoning.

Grace Bolton pondered for a while before replying, "Father, to be frank, Mark Carter actually showed signs of yielding, but I refused. The reason is simple: our new incense master is not yet stable, many things are not yet on track. If we suddenly bring in outsiders—especially old hands—how do we treat the new and the old? There are only so many positions; we can only choose one side. And making that choice, without enough prestige and strength, would do more harm than good."