Chad Bennett bent down and stood up, while Victor Smith was so annoyed by Brother Chad's opinion that his stomach ached and he got up more slowly, but he dared not slack off—if the administrator caught them, it would be a whole lot of trouble. The two of them, one after the other, carried their gear straight toward the spot where the fish were hidden. As they hoisted their equipment, Victor Smith paused for a moment, pointed at the three vehicles, and asked, “Are you telling me they drove two Toyota Prados and even brought a beauty to patrol the warehouse? Are we even needed here?”

“You must be out of your mind, can’t count anymore, huh? Don’t recognize those license plates? Those are cars from the Municipal Government Administration Bureau. Look at those people—their identities aren’t simple. If you mess with them, the consequences are way worse than stealing fish.” Chad Bennett explained, grinning widely as he spoke, pulling Victor Smith along. Victor Smith knew that when it came to street smarts, the title of idiot would never go to Chad Bennett. The two of them ran in single file, and as they ran, Chad Bennett shouted into the walkie-talkie:

“Potato, potato, this is Sweet Potato... There’s a flood, get out quick.”

This was a coded message for Dan Brooks, who was on the other side of the mountain setting nets to catch turtles, a code made up by Chad Bennett: potato and sweet potato, a pair of relatives, using the urban management channel. He spoke as he ran, carrying 80 to 90 kilos of gear, but lazy as Chad Bennett usually was, he didn’t mind the weight or complain. Using both hands and feet, he pushed through thickets and barbed wire, sprinting toward the parking spot at the mountain pass...

Chapter 07: Hometown Accent Unchanged, Tears Flow

“Old Lane, your health really doesn’t match your age—you walk as fast as a young man.”

A middle-aged man with parted hair, panting, offered a compliment. He was used to sitting in cars and really wasn’t accustomed to walking; after just a few steps, sweat beaded on his forehead. He casually swept the hair from the side of his head, revealing a shiny forehead—balding, pot-bellied, short of breath, all classic signs of over-nutrition. Normally, this wasn’t a job for a leader, but the mayor’s office had assigned the political task of accompanying this returning “God of Wealth” and his family, so he gritted his teeth and forced a smile all the way up the mountain.

The elderly man, hands behind his back and supported by his daughter, turned and smiled modestly, saying, “I’m old now. When I was born, the Japanese were still sweeping through Luzhou—that was the autumn of ’42, I think... In the blink of an eye, look how many years of Sino-Japanese friendship it’s been. Life passes in a flash, like grass and trees in autumn—before you know it, the sun is setting on your days.”

He sighed as he walked, his steps never slowing, the deep and solemn feeling of returning home evident. The young woman supporting the old man glanced back. The man who had spoken was Director Hughes from the city’s publicity department, accompanying them to visit their hometown. The local official waved, and the reservoir administrator came over. Only then did the official quietly ask the administrator, who softly explained: which year the migration happened, how many batches, how many people moved, and where they all went. But since it was twenty years ago, even the administrator’s answers were vague.

Besides a minister and a deputy mayor, there were also two young people from the publicity department and the municipal party office. They were quite young, and most of their attention was on Old Lane’s daughter, sneaking glances and inevitably comparing her to other women in their minds, but clearly finding none who surpassed her. She spoke elegantly, the type of lady who smiled without showing her teeth. Such refined women were rare, and even rarer was one who was also beautiful. If you added “well-born” to “beautiful,” then such a woman was far beyond the reach of these junior staffers.

Both of them were sneaking peeks, and when their eyes met by chance, they exchanged a sheepish, knowing smile. One quietly changed the subject: “Liam Brooks, isn’t Old Lane supposed to be hosted by the investment bureau? Why were we pulled out to accompany him?”

“Double coverage, I guess. The investor in the aluminum-zinc chemical project, Grace Lane, is Old Lane’s eldest daughter. As for Old Lane himself, he’s quite the expert in folk culture. I heard from Director Hughes that there’s talk of building a folk culture museum in Luzhou. That’s a soft target, so it falls to our publicity department.” The other explained their purpose. But his companion’s gaze drifted back to Miss Lane, his mind clearly not on culture, and he quietly brought the topic back: “I’ve met Mr. Lane—she’s over forty, right? But look at this Miss Lane, how old could she be? Is she Mr. Lane’s younger sister?”

The implication was clear: one was white-haired, the other in her prime, the age gap more like grandfather and granddaughter. The one in the know smiled and quietly explained, “The eldest daughter is from the first wife, the younger daughter from the second wife... I heard Old Lane has been married three times. Intellectuals are like that.”

They didn’t dare speak loudly, snickering as they strolled along. The people ahead were more reserved. Aside from Director Hughes, who was a bit older, the deputy mayor was a young official not yet forty, and clearly had little in common with the old man, who was said to be a retired professor from a southern university. Other than polite small talk, he was respectfully silent, making things a bit awkward. As they neared the mountaintop, the deputy mayor finally managed to ask a question, and as he casually inquired about Old Lane’s relatives, the white-haired, youthful-looking old man replied as he walked: