As soon as the three of them entered the warehouse, their eyes lit up green with envy. The place was packed full of all kinds of fabric, all surplus left over after the textile factory had met its production quota—otherwise, they wouldn’t dare sell it privately.

“Don’t touch that big pile, that’s Tika (polyester twill), this is poly-cotton twill (poly-cotton blend twill), this is poplin (plain weave cotton), and that’s acrylic yarn... Each bolt is thirty meters. White cloth is two yuan per meter. Pay first, then take the goods!”

Currently, Tika on the market costs over six yuan per meter in cash, plus a three-inch cloth coupon. Here, it was much cheaper—a quick resale would bring a nice profit.

The three of them muttered for a while, pained yet full of longing, and finally started pulling out their money. The old man glanced at Brian Clark and asked, “What do you want?”

“Master, do you have any fabric scraps?”

He felt his status was low, so his tone dropped a few notches.

“What?”

The old man looked at him like he was being ridiculous, pointed inside with annoyance, “Fifty cents a sack, pick them out yourself!”

“Hey!”

He scampered over, delighted, to a mountain of all sorts of offcuts.

In the 1980s, basic fabrics were mainly cotton and polyester, which were then processed into other materials. The blue workwear the old man wore was a kind of tightly woven, sturdy, and durable coarse twill cotton.

In China, it’s called labor cloth; in the West, it’s called denim—the same denim as in jeans.

He only picked out the large pieces, then bought a few sacks from the old man, easily stuffing three big bags full. Not exactly heavy, but not light either—carrying them was a bit of a struggle.

He glanced over and was startled—the three brothers were carrying piles like small mountains, even more exaggerated than migrant workers traveling home for the Spring Festival.

The old man made a tidy profit today, so his attitude improved a bit. “In this business, you have to go for steady, long-term gains. Don’t get greedy. All right, time to go!”

He pushed open the door, and the group slowly squeezed out. Brother Thompson was quite pleased too. Of course, the old man had connections above; everyone would get a share, and he could still get a little something for himself.

And so, in the pitch-black courtyard, four comical figures moved slowly along. Good thing Brian Clark was in good shape, or he’d be out of breath; the other three were even better, clearly used to hard labor.

“Huff...”

He walked for ages, feeling like he’d never reach the end. He silently adjusted his breathing, struggling to lift his head as if carrying a turtle shell, and saw the small gate not far ahead. He psyched himself up, cheering himself on inside.

One step, two steps, three steps... Just as he was about to reach it, he suddenly stopped, his slightly relaxed nerves instantly snapping taut, as if he’d been electrocuted.

Swish! Swish! Swish!

Several beams of light suddenly swept in from the side, dazzling and colorful, making it impossible to see clearly. Then a shout rang out: “Stop!”

Hiss!

Brian Clark jolted all over, his reflexes faster than his mind. He didn’t care who was coming or how many there were. He threw down his sack, relied on his memory of the direction, burst through the door, and ran.

“You, you...”

The other three had spent a fortune and couldn’t bear to abandon their goods. In their panic and confusion, they were quickly tackled by the newcomers.

“Don’t move! Don’t move!”

“Stay still!”

There were seven or eight people, some in worker uniforms, some in police uniforms. The flashlights shone directly in their faces, making them dizzy. When they saw the police uniforms, they instantly collapsed.

The old man and Brother Thompson shook like leaves. With the police involved, it meant the higher-ups had also been caught—definitely a sting operation.

“Comrade, police comrade...”

One man even dropped to his knees, sobbing, “It’s my first time, really my first time! I was stupid, I was just speculating...”

“You keep an eye on them.”

The officers had probably seen this plenty of times and didn’t bother responding. “One got away, I’ll go after him!”

...

“Huff! Huff!”

Brian Clark ran out the north gate, turned onto a small street, and immediately heard footsteps chasing behind him. He panicked and sped up, his throat quickly going dry and hot.

Damn it, I got a second chance at life just to play tag with you guys? How did I end up in this mess?

That Brother Thompson was clearly in charge of recruiting people, the old man was the actual operator, and there must have been a leader above them. What just happened was clearly a shift in the political winds—everyone from top to bottom was finished.

“Stop!”

“Police! Stop!”

Brian Clark didn’t dare look back. He followed the route he’d scouted during the day, turning left and right, pretending not to know the area.

He felt like his lungs were about to explode, but he didn’t dare slow down. Before his stamina hit the red line, he suddenly darted into an alley.

Then, using the cover of darkness, he climbed over the left courtyard wall.

Inside the yard were two rooms, the glass window broken, no one living there. He crossed the yard, climbed over the opposite wall, and ended up on another street. After a couple more turns, he disappeared completely.

“That kid’s pretty sharp!”

Not long after he vanished, a policeman came running, looked around, and realized he’d lost him. “You got away this time!”

...

Brian Clark returned to the inn, naturally feeling all kinds of frustrated.

Failure! Like the late emperor, his enterprise nearly collapsed before it even began!

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got—not at anyone else, but at his own bad luck. In the wave of hustlers risking everything, for every one who made money, there was another who crashed and burned.