175: Chapter 175 The Sucker and the Pulsating Production Line

"Kid, Rogue Trader Reck Vance asked me to pass a message to you. He wants to discuss a deal with you."

Nowadays, apart from the veteran Yuri, no one else in the entire Hive City dares to call Fu Haoran "kid" so brazenly.

Fu Haoran didn't mind Yuri's attitude; as long as things got done, he never haggled over such minor verbal details.

"Him again? What kind of deal does he want to discuss?"

Although they had had conflicts before, Fu Haoran never turned his nose up at money.

"I'm not sure, but based on what I know about these Rogue Traders, he wouldn't make a trip to the Hive City in person unless it was a big deal."

Fu Haoran agreed with this assessment. Rogue Traders were half-pirates; they valued profit more than their own lives and wouldn't stir without a reason.

"Fine, arrange it in the Governors Mansion reception room. I'll go meet him."

Governors Mansion reception room.

Reck Vance sat in the sofa, the mechanical monocle on his left eye flashing with a pale blue light, his fingertips tracing the gold-leafed parchment contract.

It wasn't his first time dealing with Fu Haoran, but every time he came to this Hive City, he felt an indescribable sense of dissonance.

It was too clean, too orderly—completely different from the chaos of other Hive Cities in the Empire, which were filled with the stench of toxic waste, Corpse Starch, and the smell of blood.

The door pushed open, and Fu Haoran walked in, wearing a standard business smile: "Mr. Vance, what wind blew you here?"

"Governor Fu, you flatter me." Reck Vance stood up and bowed slightly, skipping the pleasantries and getting straight to the point: "I have been entrusted by the Mantin Star System Trade Guild to discuss a guaranteed profitable deal with you, Governor."

"I know you are at war, so I presume you have quite a few corpses on hand."

"I have just received long-term orders from several surrounding Forge Worlds to procure a batch of wetware for them."

The Rogue Trader spread the parchment contract on the table and introduced: "Standard Servitor, 6 throne coins each; Servo-skull, 5 throne coins each."

"Delivery begins the month of signing, with a minimum monthly delivery of 300,000 units, no upper limit—we'll take as many as you have."

He looked up at Fu Haoran, his mechanical lens flashing a sharp glint: "At this price, you won't find another buyer in the entire Mantin Star System willing to pay this much."

Fu Haoran looked at Yuri calmly. The latter nodded heavily, unable to hide the excitement in his eyes.

Fu Haoran picked up his teacup and took a sip, his mind racing.

"Acquiring skulls for 50 dollars, turning them into finished products, and flipping them for 5 throne coins—which is nearly 1,000 dollars—that's a profit margin of nearly twenty times. Doing it at scale is pure profiteering."

"However, the contract states clearly that any unjustified supply interruption requires triple the penalty fee, and the contract is for a full year."

"There's no way there isn't a trap in this."

Fu Haoran never believed in free lunches; if there were one, there would surely be a swindler behind it.

After a moment of thought, he immediately understood the other party's entire scheme.

"It seems they are certain I can't meet the monthly supply, waiting for me to breach the contract and pay a huge penalty, or perhaps they want to use this long-term contract to lock up all my wetware production capacity, effectively cutting off the core supply chain for my drone swarm."

Fu Haoran couldn't help but laugh.

It wasn't that he thought the contract was tricky, but rather that... this trap was too simple.

"One month in the Warhammer World corresponds to a full year in the 2K World."

"This one-year contract corresponds to a full ten years in the 2K World. Even if we only count the first half, that's 5 years to fulfill the contract."

"Just counting the accidental deaths, homicides, and unclaimed homeless bodies in America every year, a conservative estimate is over a million."

"Never mind a monthly supply of 300,000; even 500,000 would be no pressure."

"Want to dig a pit for me to jump into? Too bad you don't know I have a cross-world cheat. When the time comes, who's scamming whom is yet to be determined."

"The only thing to worry about is whether the company account can support the cash flow for early storage. Sigh, even a landlord's family has no surplus grain; money is needed everywhere."

Thinking of this, Fu Haoran read the contract word for word from beginning to end and looked up at Vance: "What about the inspection standards?"

A sharp glint flashed in Vance's eyes, and he immediately replied: "Naturally, it will be inspected on-site by a Tech-Priest designated by our side. If the sanctification process is compliant and the functionality meets the standard, it counts as qualified. That way, everyone can rest easy."

"That's fine, but I have additional requirements." Fu Haoran picked up a pen and directly modified two core clauses in the contract.

"First, on-site inspection, on-site delivery. Once inspected and accepted, no returns are allowed, and I will not accept any post-facto accountability or quality claims."

"Second, payment must be settled on the spot. Payment upon delivery—no credit of any form is supported."

After changing it, Fu Haoran threw the contract back, his tone flat: "If you can accept this, sign. If not, the door is over there."

Reck Vance looked at the modified clauses. Instead of objecting, he feigned concern: "Governor, 300,000 units of wetware a month—isn't that too much? Do you want to lower the minimum delivery amount?"

"No need to worry, I can handle it." Fu Haoran was confident.

Reck Vance wore a polite smile, but in his heart, he was already filled with utter contempt: "Hmph! Idiot, digging a pit for yourself."

"Do you really think you can do whatever you want just because the Hive City has many people? You don't think about how, when the war gets intense, the corpses of these Underhive dwellers will be reserve rations."

"If you sell them all to me, what will the Underhive dwellers eat? When the time comes, I'll unite with the grain merchants to drive up food prices, fleece you for everything you're worth, and make you spit out everything you've eaten with interest."

"If you don't agree, I'll starve you out. When the Underhive dwellers are driven mad by hunger, they will definitely revolt. At that point, you, as Governor, will lose a layer of skin even if you don't die."

He had even thought of the follow-up dirty tricks: Once Fu Haoran started delivering, he would immediately spread rumors in the Hive City, slandering Fu Haoran for massacring Underhive civilians and desecrating the dead just to meet the monthly quota.

Once the news spread, the Underhive populace, who already held grudges against the Governors Mansion, would inevitably riot, especially that sect that worshipped the Four-Armed God-Emperor. If they knew their Governor was profiting from the corpses of their believers, the scene would be exceptionally spectacular.

Thinking of this, Reck Vance looked at Fu Haoran again and found that the other party didn't realize the seriousness of the problem at all, signing his genetic imprint with ease.

Reck Vance also signed his name and then picked up his wine glass.

"To a happy cooperation, cheers!"

Both parties raised their glasses and drained them in one gulp.

But as they tilted their heads to drink, neither hid the contempt in their eyes. Both cursed the other as a patsy in their hearts.

Both were thousand-year-old foxes; there was no need to play tricks on each other.

[Ding! Triggered Main Quest: Patsy Supply Plan]

[Quest Requirements: Since there's a patsy offering to pay, why be polite? Fleece him for all he's worth! Within 6 months in the Warhammer World, deliver no less than 3.6 million qualified wetware products; exceeding delivery to 5 million units will unlock additional bonus rewards.]

[Base Quest Reward: Unlock production blueprints for all models of Imperial Scout Sentinel Mech.]

[Bonus Quest Reward: Free Attribute Point +3, Universal Point Manual +1000.]

Fu Haoran looked at the system panel, a smirk curling on his lips.

Technology obtained for free—there was no reason not to take it.

Watching the cheerful Fu Haoran, Vance seemed to have already seen the miserable state of the other party after he had made a fortune, only to be slaughtered by himself for everything he was worth, eventually becoming a lamb for the slaughter.

Reck Vance walked out of the Governors Mansion and sat in his luxury hovercar. The polite smile on his face vanished without a trace.

He took out an encrypted communicator and dialed Count Octavius's private line. In the holographic projection, Count Octavius's sinister face appeared on the screen.

"Count, the fish has taken the bait." Reck Vance bowed slightly, his tone respectful.

Count Octavius leaned back in his command chair, a ruthless smile curling his lips: "Well done. Once he locks all his corpse production capacity into the contract, I'll let him know the consequences of going against an Imperial noble."

"Don't worry, Count. I will handle the follow-up matters." Reck Vance smiled and hung up the communication.

He would earn Count Octavius's commission and the price difference in the contract. Even if Count Octavius eventually lost, he could still make a steady profit from the long-term supply contract with Fu Haoran.

Eating from both sides and always keeping the benefits in his own hands—that was the survival rule for a Rogue Trader in the perilous sea of stars.

After Vance left, Fu Haoran didn't delay and stepped through the portal, returning to the 2K World.

"Jimmy, register a new company immediately. The main focus will be brain-computer interfaces and neuroscience research."

"Huh?" Although he was long accustomed to Fu Haoran's unconventional and wildly cross-disciplinary operations, Jimmy still doubted he had heard correctly after hearing the sci-fi-filled term "brain-computer interface."

"Boss, you mean... the kind of interface that can be implanted behind the brain?"

"Yes, exactly what you're thinking." Fu Haoran nodded.

"But... but this... how do you plan to make a profit?" Jimmy still felt this proposal was too absurd and couldn't grasp his boss's train of thought at all.

Fu Haoran rolled his eyes and casually brushed him off: "Jimmy, do you think many people educated by 'happy education' have the brains to hold knowledge? If our brain-computer interface could directly instill knowledge into people, do you think there would be a market?"

Jimmy's eyes lit up instantly.

Right! How hadn't he thought of that!

"Okay Boss! I'll go register the company and build a team to make a business plan immediately!"

Fu Haoran nodded in satisfaction and sent him away.

He had just casually found a perfect, compliant excuse. On the surface, it was neuroscience research, but in reality, it was a cover for the global human remains storage business. He never expected that this casually mentioned remark would later become one of the most profitable flagship products under the DYB Group, even sparking a global neuroscience revolution.

On the other side, Manuel Garcia, who was far away in Colombia, had been living exceptionally well during this time.

At first, he thought his new boss would be just like the previous drug lords, forcing him to engage in gang wars over territory or traffic drugs. But nearly a year had passed, and the new boss hadn't assigned him a single dirty job, as if he had completely forgotten about him.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar ringtone rang out, so unexpected that Manuel didn't react for a long moment.

"Boss, it's that exclusive encrypted phone the boss gave you!" his subordinate immediately reminded him.

Manuel jolted, scrambling to pull out the phone that had never rung before. After answering, the calm and emotionless voice of Ms. j.a.r.v.i.s. came from the other end: "Mr. Manuel, on behalf of my master, I am assigning you a long-term mission."

"The headquarters requires you to steadily acquire 100,000 complete and compliant remains annually. Specialized funds will be transferred to your account immediately. You need to establish supporting low-temperature cold storage facilities and compliant collection channels locally; headquarters will send personnel periodically to receive them."

"The total acquisition cost per set of remains must not exceed 600 USD. Any remaining funds are yours to keep."

Manuel held the phone, stunned for a full three seconds.

He had thought the boss would make him traffic drugs, engage in gang wars, or smuggle arms. He never imagined that what the boss wanted him to do was cooperate with hospitals and funeral homes to collect remains?

And with a generous budget of 600 USD per set?

Manuel realized instantly—this wasn't a mission; the boss was clearly just giving him money!

He immediately straightened his back, his tone becoming extremely respectful: "Please tell the master that I guarantee the mission will be accomplished! Not just in Colombia, I can also open up channels in neighboring Venezuela, Peru, and Ecuador. Collecting 200,000 sets annually will be no problem!"

After hanging up, Manuel looked at the huge sum of money that had instantly appeared in his account, his eyes lighting up.

Isn't it just collecting remains legally?

It's a hundred times safer than drug trafficking and guarantees a huge profit margin. You couldn't find a better deal even if you looked for it with a lantern!

After handling the wetware supply chain matter, Fu Haoran hadn't even caught his breath when Wade walked in quickly to report some expected news.

"Boss, the Lockheed Martin delegation has arrived. The team is led by Samuel Hendricks, the global head of the F-35 project, and accompanied by Gregory Thomson, the former chief engineer of the F-22 project."

Fu Haoran was somewhat surprised.

"Why would these two, who have absolutely nothing to do with me, suddenly come looking for me?"

"Can I avoid seeing them?" Fu Haoran asked, looking at Jimmy.

"Boss, I suggest you meet them. Given Lockheed Martin's pivotal status in the U.S. Congress, completely offending them is not a good idea."

Fu Haoran agreed, so he stood up and straightened his collar: "Let's go, let's meet them."

In the reception room of the DYB headquarters factory, a thin, tall, bald old man was pacing back and forth with an impatient expression. It was Gregory Thomson, the former lead and chief engineer of the F-22 project.

"Mr. Hendricks, we are completely wasting our time here," Gregory said with dissatisfaction, his tone filled with deep-seated arrogance.

"Even if they obtained the full production line for the F-22, it would be impossible for them to resume production."

"They lack the complete technical blueprints, skilled certified aviation mechanics, enough senior engineers, and, more importantly, a leader who is familiar with the entire project process like I am."

Hendricks looked like a typical Wall Street elite, in his early forties, well-built, and poised.

He shook his head, his tone calm: "Mr. Gregory, I trust your professional judgment, but I must remind you that the purpose of our trip is not just to assess whether they have the capability to resume F-22 production. It is to obtain concrete proof that the F-22 cannot be produced, so we can report back to Congress and push for global orders of the F-35 with full force."

"Therefore, we must nip every possibility in the bud."

Gregory stiffened his neck, his tone growing more certain: "I'll say it again: in this world, aside from us at Lockheed Martin, no one can make the F-22 fighter jet resume production!"

"No one!"

Hendricks felt a headache coming on.

This stubborn old man, Gregory, was as obstinate as a mule, and his ingrained arrogance was written into his DNA. He firmly believed that the technical barriers of the Anglo-Saxon race could never be surpassed.

Although Hendricks shared this view, he wouldn't let it get in the way of money.

He only believed in data and what he saw with his own eyes. Furthermore, he knew nothing about technology. Even if he disliked Gregory's foul temper, he had to drag this industry titan along to endorse his report.

At that moment, a staff member pushed the door open and said politely: "Please follow me, gentlemen. Mr. Fu has arranged for me to give you a tour of the factory."

Hendricks immediately stood up to follow, and the accompanying staff followed suit. Seeing no one left to stay with him, Gregory had no choice but to reluctantly follow at the back of the group.

Everyone arrived at the first workshop. The doors were open, and it was filled with modified parts for Soviet-series fighter jets like the MiG-25, MiG-31, and Su-27, as well as several power systems undergoing maintenance.

Young workers moved about, some replacing skins, others testing flight controls. While their movements weren't extremely skilled, they were orderly.

Gregory glanced at them and scoffed, his tone full of undisguised disdain: "They are only fit to mess around with the junk left over from the Soviet era."

Hendricks remained expressionless, made a mark on his notebook with his fingertip, and said nothing.

The group then walked into the second workshop.

What came into view was a complete pulsating production line for fighter jet assembly.

On site, over a dozen titanium alloy airframes of the F-22 were lined up neatly along high-precision rails, pulsing slowly and steadily from one workstation to the next according to a set rhythm.

This scene left Hendricks, Gregory, and the others stunned on the spot, their feet seemingly nailed to the floor.

Hendricks' eyes widened in anger, and he turned sharply to look at Gregory, his gaze full of hostility and questioning.

Before coming here, this old man had patted his chest and guaranteed that the other party couldn't even touch the edge of an F-22, let alone build a complete airframe.

Gregory's face turned red and then white. He rushed to the airframe, scanned it inside and out, and the heart he had been holding in his throat instantly relaxed. The arrogant curve returned to the corner of his mouth.

"Mr. Hendricks, don't worry about it." Gregory turned around, his tone regaining its previous certainty: "This is just an empty titanium alloy airframe. The riveting stations are empty, the avionics bay is bare, and not even basic cabling has been laid. They aren't building an airplane at all; it's just a model set up to put on a show."

He paused, raised his finger to point at the pulsating rail line, his tone carrying a trace of barely perceptible panic, yet he remained stubborn: "Real F-22 assembly requires the aircraft to be fixed in place at a stationary workstation, with the top aviation mechanics in the entire United States surrounding the plane. Only after one process passes inspection can they move to the next. From skeleton to flight-ready, an aircraft takes at least four months, and that's in the most optimistic scenario."

"Look at what's here. Do they have a five-axis machining center capable of forming integral titanium alloy panels in one go? Do they have assembly jigs that guarantee micron-level precision?"

"Just relying on this pulsating production line, which is only fit for mass-producing cheap goods like the F-35, a few greenhorns who haven't even mastered the blueprints dare to claim they are building an F-22? It's a huge joke."

In his words, this pulsating line, which represents the most efficient assembly mode in modern aviation industry, had become a cheap, unpresentable piece of junk.

The conversation between Gregory and Hendricks fell, word for word, into the ears of Li Jianguo, who was standing nearby.

He didn't respond, nor did he explain.

Even though he wasn't at the Chengdu Aircraft Industry Group factory in China, years of professional discipline taught him when to speak and when to remain silent.

He would never explain to these foreigners that what they were seeing was merely the tip of the iceberg of the entire production process.

The group moved to the avionics testing area. Gregory's gaze swept over the unfamiliar equipment on the test bench, which bore the Eastern logo. He frowned and asked: "Whose avionics solution are you using?"

"Self-developed by Eastern, civilian grade," Li Jianguo answered truthfully.

Gregory laughed out loud on the spot—a scoffing laugh, like someone who had worked in aviation his whole life hearing the most ridiculous joke.

"Civilian avionics?" He glanced at the test report on the table, tossed it back onto the bench, and didn't take it seriously at all. "Civilian chips can't even meet military-standard requirements for anti-interference, shock resistance, and load tolerance. They would lock up immediately during high-altitude, high-load maneuvers."

"The original F-22 avionics took us twenty years to iterate. If you use civilian-grade goods, forget about air combat—you'd crash your own system just by turning on the radar during takeoff."

Li Jianguo opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

Gregory turned to look at Hendricks, his tone extremely certain: "This production line does not possess any conditions for resuming F-22 production."

He paused and delivered the final verdict: "Even if they started from scratch building factories, buying equipment, and hiring workers now, it would be impossible to reach production within ten years."

"Even if they eventually manage to build something, it will just be a pile of scrap metal that can't fly."

Hendricks nodded and heavily wrote the final stroke in his notebook.

The two didn't stay any longer. Without even waiting for Fu Haoran to appear, they turned and walked out of the workshop, got into their car, and left the factory grounds.

In the car, Gregory took off his glasses to wipe them, his tone still filled with lingering disdain: "How should the report be written?"

"Just write that the F-22 production line lacks any conditions for resumption, that key core equipment is completely missing, the avionics solution completely fails to meet military standards, and stable production cannot be achieved within ten years."

Hendricks closed his notebook, a smug, triumphant smile curling at the corners of his mouth: "We'll submit it to Congress as soon as we get back. The era of the F-22 has completely ended. The future belongs to the F-35."