Chapter 8: Don’t Imitate

Page 1/3

Fu Wei rode his bicycle away from Ocean Electronics Factory, glancing back repeatedly. Unable to see that face, a sudden sense of loss welled up in his heart. The wind blowing toward him slipped through his collar and down his spine, bringing a refreshing coolness, yet he still lingered on the memory of a woman’s warm, soft body pressed against his back.

Whenever he thought of her, a fire seemed to ignite deep within him, burning through every fiber of his being.

Fu Wei gripped the handlebars tightly, his mind racing to make a decision. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to pull himself together immediately. One failure did not define him.

Starting anew required money—a startup fund. He decided against selling his house and sought other ways to convert assets into cash.

Recently, Fu Wei had sold nearly everything he could. While rummaging through his belongings, he found a pile of old stock certificates—some were original shares of mainland companies, others stocks bought in Harbor City. At the time, he had bought many, hoping to profit after hearing they were valuable, but the stocks fluctuated and yielded little gain, so he abandoned them.

Two days ago, he checked again. Surprisingly, many had multiplied in value by ten or even dozens of times. Fu Wei sold some shares, repaid all his debts, and still kept some stock. Though his initial holdings were modest, the remaining shares could be converted into fifty or sixty thousand yuan—enough to ease his immediate crisis.

This time, he vowed to be pragmatic, abandoning lofty ambitions. He refused to put all his eggs in one basket. Giving up small projects to focus solely on large ones was foolish; it was better to diversify and share the risks.

Building projects were profitable, but collecting payments from big projects was difficult. Smaller jobs, like self-built houses, were easier to get paid for. The bigger the project, the heavier the sunk costs and the more compelled one was to advance funds.

Fu Wei was anxious. He wanted to seize this opportunity to make a big profit: establish a construction company, acquire more project qualifications, gather one or two million yuan in startup capital, then find partners to pool several million to develop real estate…

But for now, he had to start over from scratch.

Exhaling, Fu Wei didn’t return home immediately. Instead, he cycled to find some young men in their twenties to help keep an eye on the small gangsters from yesterday and investigate their backgrounds.

“Commander, what are you doing?” A young man in a black T-shirt asked excitedly. They had taken money from Fu Wei yesterday but felt uneasy about it. They wanted to persuade him, but now separated, they had no plans—whether to return home or stay here.

They still wanted to work under Fu Wei, who was their pillar of strength.

Fu Wei said, “Don’t call me commander anymore. Call me big brother.”

“Check with the old comrades—who’s still willing to work with me? Register them.”

“I’m planning to register a construction company. From now on, all financial processes will follow company management rules.” Since the city auctioned off its first piece of land earlier this year, many had started construction companies to buy land and develop real estate. Fu Wei harbored the same ambition.

Though funds were scarce and he couldn’t buy land yet, he could lead a team doing small private projects—building self-built homes and small factories.

Just in 1988 alone, over a hundred thousand migrants flooded in, rapidly increasing the population and housing demand. Work was guaranteed.

Xu Guangmao, the young man in the black T-shirt, eyes sparkling with joy, said, “Alright, Brother Wei, we’ll follow your lead.”

After giving instructions, Fu Wei turned his bicycle’s handlebars and went to find his childhood friend Zhong Xiangdong. They grew up in the same large courtyard, close in age—Zhong less than two years older. Zhong’s family once held high official rank, suffered during the Cultural Revolution, and only recently rehabilitated. He never joined the army or went to university but had been a trader since the 1980s, building a network.

Now the trading market was worsening, especially with the government cracking down severely in the past year. Buying and selling goods no longer guaranteed profit; stockpiled goods often meant losses. Like the once-popular cassette tapes and videotapes, now worthless and barely profitable.

Some traders targeted overseas markets, but Zhong had no interest in going abroad. He planned to come south seeking fortune. They had dined together recently and agreed he would invest when Fu Wei developed real estate. Later, when Fu Wei was chased by creditors, Zhong offered some help, but Fu Wei refused his money and kept away for a while.

Fu Wei knew Zhong wasn’t flush with cash—his so-called help probably came from borrowing. At dinner, Fu Wei had sensed Zhong’s last venture failed, leaving only a few storefronts to prop him up.

Page 2/3

Zhong Xiangdong was a carefree optimist, broad-shouldered and plump, living life with ease and flair. When he had money, he squandered it wildly, staying in luxury hotels, smoking imported cigarettes, drinking fine wine, boasting about meals costing thousands.

When penniless, he cheerfully squatted by the roadside eating instant noodles, spinning tall tales.

Zhong loved money but was not a bad man. He was especially generous when it came to loyalty and friendship.

Fu Wei found him eating wontons by the roadside and rang his bicycle bell.

Zhong turned and spotted Fu Wei, dropping a strand of noodles from his chopsticks. He raised his sunglasses, stunned. “Brother Wei, damn, your bike looks so shabby…”

Zhong dressed very fashionably—what he called “cool and handsome” to attract girls: bell-bottom jeans, flashy shirts, a watch on his wrist, bizarre necklaces on his neck, frog-shaped sunglasses perched on his nose, and a carefully styled tuft of hair on top.

His thick-skinned nature made him call Fu Wei “brother” despite being two years older—not out of respect, but because he refused to admit he was nearly thirty, insisting to girls on the street he was a youthful twenty-five.

“Dongzi, I need to talk to you.” Fu Wei parked his bike and sat opposite him.

At that moment, another voice sounded: “Commander, you’re here?” It was Xue Xiaoshan, a slim young man about 1.75 meters tall, dressed simply in pants and T-shirt, with a neat face and a shy, honest smile, exuding a meek, vulnerable aura.

But anyone who thought him harmless was gravely mistaken—he was a fierce fighter, among the top three in the regiment’s combat competitions, striking fast, hard, and precise.

Xue joined the army young. Fu Wei had always looked out for him, and Xue trusted him completely. When Fu Wei told him to hang out with Zhong, he obediently went along.

Zhong planned to use some money to buy several secondhand big trucks for transport and asked Fu Wei to recommend a driver. Fu Wei suggested Xue Xiaoshan.

With few trucks and many goods, having a vehicle meant steady business. One ordinary big truck could earn at least ten thousand yuan a year in transport, but it was dangerous work—fuel thieves were the least of the problems; the real threat was bandits and road bullies.

Sitting together eating wontons, Fu Wei shared his future plans: he wanted to recruit several veteran engineers, form a construction team, and invest twenty thousand yuan in Zhong’s trucking team, helping to recruit a few freelance drivers to build a transport fleet.

Having such a fleet would make transporting building materials easier and more efficient.

Zhong said, “Brothers, let’s do big things together!”

Fu Wei smiled slightly. Experience had taught him this time to keep clear accounts, especially with close friends. If they were to start a company, they had to follow formal corporate management, with strict rules and regulations.

Without rules, there’s no order. Only by adhering to rules can one win respect.

After discussing business, they moved to a different spot to drink some wine and snack on peanuts. Zhong, fueled by alcohol, began boasting wildly about how many gentle beauties he had encountered over the years and how many hearts he had broken.

Xue listened attentively, a perfect audience, eagerly pouring wine for Zhong, his admiring glances making Zhong feel especially pleased.

“I’ve never even held a girl’s hand,” Xue said shyly.

Fu Wei remained silent. Until yesterday, he too had never held a woman’s hand, but this morning, her hands resting on his waist stirred his restless heart.

He said nothing.

Page 3/3

Zhong looked contentedly at the two bachelors from the army beside him, reminiscing about his glorious romantic exploits—he fancied himself a seasoned Casanova.

“Old Wei, look at you—such a handsome face, never even touched a woman’s hand, right?”

“Do you think women only like money or looks? No, no, no. Let me tell you, that’s totally wrong. Women don’t care about wealth or appearance; they just love someone with a ‘caring heart.’”

…

“Back in the day, Fangfang held my hand, sweetly calling me ‘brother.’ She couldn’t bear to leave me—” Zhong recounted his past loves with satisfaction.

Fu Wei listened quietly, not exposing the truth. Zhong only spoke honestly when drunk; sometimes he even cried.

Over the years, Zhong had fallen in love at first sight many times, mostly experiencing unrequited feelings. He liked pretty girls, prided himself on generosity, was willing to spend money on them, yet no beautiful woman ever truly cared for him.

Once, a beauty courted him, professing deep love, but she was actually after his money to support her college boyfriend.

Or she used him to provoke the man she loved.

…

Zhong had endured many such experiences. He had plenty of romantic tales but was always the third party—the stepping stone, the matchmaker.

Sometimes, Zhong secretly wiped away bitter tears, wondering if he was the reincarnation of the matchmaker god, destined only to connect others.

“Do you want to hear more? I’ll share all my love stories with you,” Zhong offered.

“Sure,” Xue encouraged enthusiastically.

Zhong turned to Fu Wei, who sipped his tea and said, “Go ahead.”

Hearing this, Zhong perked up. If old Fu was interested, his tales must be worth telling.

“I’m telling you, girls love someone artistic. Back then, I conquered them with a song…”

…

Recalling Zhong’s howling voice, Fu Wei twitched his lips, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to listen—but he resolved not to emulate him.

There’s a method in mathematics called eliminating the wrong answers.