John rose from his chair and turned toward the wall adorned with rifles—guns spanning back to the late 18th century. Each piece was a relic he had ticulously acquired, hoping they might serve as inspiration for his craft.
Selecting one from the collection, he inspected it closely.
"A Springfield rifle, discontinued more than 20 years ago. Likely the M1861 model. Simple in design, but a hassle to load and lacking proper rifling. It's the kind of firearm that'll end up in museums in a few years. They didn't produce many of these, so it's a wonder you managed to find one."
John finished his evaluation and placed the rifle on the table.
"Step back for a mont," he instructed.
The mont I complied and moved toward the corner, a loud sound filled the workshop.
Bang! Crack! Crash!
Startled, I widened my eyes in shock as John slamd the rifle repeatedly with a hamr, shattering it into irreparable pieces. Shards of tal and wood scattered across the table, a ss of what was once a firearm.
With a calm smile, John remarked, "Now, who would believe this was ever a rifle?"
"What... what are you doing?" I stamred, frozen in disbelief. The sudden, violent act caught completely off guard.
John's grin widened. "Let tell you a story, my friend. You see, my holand, Arica, is truly a capitalistic nation. During the ti of westward expansion, we needed to push the Native Aricans off the land, but here's the fascinating part: we sold them guns."
My brows furrowed in confusion as he continued, his tone both casual and chillingly matter-of-fact.
"The Natives used those sa guns to fight against us. But when they ran out of bullets, they would gather animal hides and return to Arican traders to buy more ammunition. Now, who do you think made the most money in this scenario?"
"The gun manufacturers?" I ventured.
"Wrong," John said with a chuckle. "It was the fruit rchants. They showed the true essence of capitalism."
"Fruit rchants? What could they possibly have to do with guns?" I asked, skeptical.
John leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "The rchants smuggled guns in crates of fruit. First, they charged the gun manufacturers for hiding their weapons. Then, they demanded compensation from law enforcent, claiming the fruit had spoiled during inspections. Third, they sold the sa fruit to the Natives, pretending it had been damaged during transport. Oh, and if that wasn't enough, they sold whatever remained to the citizens of the West, where fruit was a rare luxury."
My jaw dropped. "They sold the fruit four tis?"
"Exactly. And the law? So inspectors found the guns and took bribes to stay silent. Others couldn't find anything and had to pay for the 'spoiled' fruit themselves. It was like a rigged lottery, my friend. Ha!" John laughed heartily, the tale of cunning profiteering delighting him.
It was audacious, brilliant even. "So they turned fruit into gold," I muttered in awe.
"Take it as a lesson," John said, his grin fading slightly as his tone grew serious. "A product doesn't have to be complete to be valuable. Think outside the box."
That's it. The story sparked an idea in my mind, a revelation that sent my thoughts racing. John was right. My situation wasn't so different from the fruit rchants of old. Under heavy surveillance, I needed to sell firearms in bulk without being discovered, and even if I were caught, I needed a way to escape unscathed.
The question was: Who would be my version of the Natives? Who, in this corner of the East, could beco my most loyal clients?
"The Qing Dynasty..." I whispered.
If the central authority collapsed, the outer edges would inevitably rise. The warlords, currently governing under the guise of imperial appointnts, were essentially independent rulers. Figures like Li Hongzhang might have held them together temporarily, but his days were numbered. Even if he lived, the competition among the warlords had already begun.
And when the chaos truly erupted, when that event occurred, they would have no choice but to seek out. Just like the Natives turning to Arican traders for bullets, these warlords would offer their resources, their influence, their very survival, to acquire what I had.
I sprang to my feet, energized by the idea. Offering John a quick apology, I turned to leave but paused at the door to ask one final question.
"But what about the rare, incorruptible inspectors?" I asked. "The ones who wouldn't fall for bribes. How did the fruit rchants handle them?"
John smirked. "Oh, those types? Simple. They had soone else fight on their behalf—citizens desperate for the fruit. In the dry, barren West, fruit was a necessity, and the rchants turned public sentint into their shield."
Of course. Even the strictest enforcers couldn't stand against the will of the people, especially when democracy frad it as an act of justice. The plan was perfect.
"Thanks, John. I have to go now—tonight is going to be busy," I said as I hurried out the door.
John waved off with a chuckle. "Good luck, Fang Ming. Maybe I'll take this opportunity to work on so guns myself. My hands are getting itchy from all this talk."
Leaving John's workshop, I headed straight for the company office. Though the evening had deepened into night, my thoughts were ablaze, oblivious to the passage of ti. The existing business strategy would need a complete overhaul, but that didn't bother . The foundation was already in place—I just had to refine it.
"I'm not a fruit rchant," I muttered under my breath. "But I can learn from them. I'll craft a thod unique to ."
Grabbing pen and paper, I began drafting plans, the lessons from John's story fueling my every thought. For hours, I wrote furiously, filling dozens of pages with ideas, organizational structures, and contingency plans.
A knock at the door broke my concentration.
"Sir, it's nearly eleven o'clock. Shouldn't you rest for the night?" one of my security staff asked.
I glanced at the clock, startled by how late it was. "Ah, you're right. I was just about to leave."
Gathering my papers, I donned my coat and stepped outside. The night air was brisk as I climbed into the waiting carriage. As the vehicle made its way down the wide boulevard, I caught sight of my ho in the distance. The house was brightly lit, the warm glow spilling from every window—a stark contrast to the dark streets outside.
"Yuna should be asleep by now," I murmured, curiosity rising. Sothing was different about tonight.
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