9: Chapter 9 Time is Money

Director Kevin sprang from his chair, spilling coffee all over his hand.

Ignoring the heat, he hurried forward to greet the visitor, his voice trembling. "Sen—Senator Robert! What brings you..."

Senator Robert didn't look at him. He walked over to the sofa, sat down, and pointed at Fu Haoran. "Kevin, Mr. Fu is a business partner of several friends of mine."

"He has a project he needs you to look over."

The Vice Chairman of the lobbying group tossed a document over. "The association has evaluated it. This project can solve the invasive species disasters in five Midwestern swing states and create at least five hundred Jobs."

"It will be... very helpful for the midterm elections."

The lawyer pushed an introductory letter forward. "This is a joint guarantee letter from Mr. Jobs and several investors. You can take a look, Mr. Kevin."

Kevin looked at the three heavyweights before him, then at the Chinese man who was watching the show, signaling that he didn't understand the situation.

Was this a request for help?

This was an order.

He squeezed out his most fawning smile. "Convenient! Absolutely convenient! Mr. Fu's project benefits both the country and the people!"

"Feel free to state any conditions you have; we'll finish all the procedures today!"

Half an hour later, Fu Haoran walked out of the building with a signed memorandum.

The terms were absurdly generous: sole federal designated acquisition status, a processing subsidy of one hundred dollars per ton, full reimbursement for fuel and ammunition, and inspection-free status for end products.

He had barely spoken the entire time.

"Who says the people of the Eagle Nation don't pull strings or understand social graces? Their threshold is just so high it's invisible to most," Fu Haoran said, shaking his head with a smile.

Fu Haoran, whose worldview had just been refreshed, had just gotten into his car when his phone vibrated.

A message came from a member of Jobs' salon: "Mr. Fu, as per your request, the Golden State Food Processing Plant in California's Central Valley—the largest and most automated of its kind—has completed its legal transfer."

"The three main production lines have been calibrated and are ready to start work for you at any time."

Fu Haoran replied with a "Received" and locked his screen.

There was not a hint of pleasantry.

Fu Haoran didn't need their friendship; he only needed their fear of death and their desire to live.

As for those invasive species that no one had high hopes for, they were liabilities and headaches to others.

But to a man who owned a Hive City world, they were strategic resources.

Perfectly high-quality raw materials for making canned food.

You say these ingredients are full of bacteria and high in heavy metals?

Please, the people of the Warhammer World have long been immune to such things. Why would they fear these 'trace elements'?

...

The roar of propellers tore through the tranquility of Montana.

A low-profile Bombardier Global 8000 business jet landed directly on the old runway in Graystone, which was barely fit for takeoff and landing.

The cabin door opened, and Fu Haoran stepped down the airbridge, followed by three people: a shrewd-looking Jewish lawyer, a stoic security chief who looked like a former Navy SEAL, and a female assistant in professional office attire.

The town's gaze focused on them instantly.

Mayor Bob rubbed his hands and went to meet them, his face full of smiles. "Welcome, welcome! Mr. Fu, is it? It's been a long journey! Our Graystone may be small, but the people are simple and the scenery is..."

"How do I get to John Dutton's ranch?" Fu Haoran interrupted him, his gaze sweeping over the cowboys leaning against their pickups with unfriendly eyes.

Bob's smile stiffened. "Old John has a stubborn temper and isn't very welcoming to outsiders. How about I arrange for you all to rest first, and we can talk slowly?"

"No need." Fu Haoran walked toward a prepared black Escalade. "Lead the way."

The dust kicked up by the motorcade hit the mayor right in the face.

The watching townspeople whispered among themselves:

"Another one here to buy land, and an Asian guy at that."

"Showing off by flying in on a plane? Old Dutton will greet him with a shotgun."

"Bet fifty bucks he'll be back here crying in ten minutes."

Limestone Ranch.

In front of the ranch porch, John 'Old Stone' Dutton leaned against the doorframe.

He was the master of this land, which his ancestors had managed for over a century.

He wore a faded denim shirt, his large-knuckled hands clutching an old cowboy hat, his gaze scraping over the approaching motorcade like a knife.

The car came to a stop, and Fu Haoran got out.

Old Stone stared at his Asian face, spat out the cigarette butt in his mouth, and spoke in a voice as coarse as sandpaper:

"Kid, turn around and go back. This isn't a place you should be. I won't sell the land on the edge of Yellowstone even if I die, especially not to an Asian guy who doesn't even know how to hunt wild boars."

The lawyer frowned and stepped forward, but Fu Haoran raised a hand to stop him.

He walked to the weathered wooden table on the porch, pulled a blank checkbook and a Montblanc fountain pen from the lawyer's bag, and tossed them casually onto the table.

"Limestone Ranch, including all subsidiary forest land, five miles of river usage rights, the slaughterhouse, and the buildings," Fu Haoran said flatly. "Fill in the price yourself. Sign the contract now, and the transfer will happen immediately."

Old Stone stared at the checkbook and let out a cold laugh. Then he grabbed the pen and scribbled a number on the check with a few quick strokes.

"I won't ask for too much. Give me 320 million." He stared at Fu Haoran with a provocative look. "Kid, don't use this to amuse me. If you agree to this number, we trade; if not, get lost."

The lawyer was displeased. "Mr. Dutton, that price is three hundred percent over the market valuation! You are acting in bad faith..."

Fu Haoran raised his hand to stop the lawyer from speaking.

"Time is money. This price is quite appropriate."

Fu Haoran turned to his female assistant. "Laura, the contract."

While the lawyer still wanted to argue, Fu Haoran had already picked up the pen and signed his name on the prepared contract.

Old John was stunned. He remained in a daze until the lawyer urged him to sign.

The female assistant tapped a few times on her tablet, and Old John's phone vibrated.

He pulled it out and stared at the bank deposit notification, his expression incredibly conflicted.

The news spread quickly, and the neighboring ranchers who had arrived were in an uproar.

Hank, a balding redneck, rubbed his hands and cursed at Fu Haoran. "Crazy! 320 million for that piece of junk land? This Asian guy is a total sucker with more money than brains!"

A tall, thin man beside him slapped his thigh. "Fuck, why doesn't this kind of good luck fall on me!"

"So what if he bought it? He definitely won't be able to run it in the end, and then he'll have to beat it!"

Fu Haoran ignored the chatter.

The lawyer still tried to advise him persistently. "Mr. Fu, from a professional perspective, I still want to advise you that the invasive species problem here is among the most severe in the entire US. The cost of remediation far exceeds the acquisition price!"

"Professional agencies have calculated that it would take at least ten years to..."

Fu Haoran waved him off, staring at the production capacity assessment report his assistant had just handed him.

[Estimated Annual Production Capacity]

Asian Carp: Annual catch in controllable river sections is approximately 8,000 tons, with 6,000 tons of net fish meat after processing.

Wild Boars: Stable recovery of approximately 40,000 heads, with an average of 100 kg of meat per head, totaling 4,000 tons of net meat.

Other Species (Coyotes, animal offal): Incidental recovery, estimated net meat of 5,000 tons.

Total Annual Meat Raw Materials: Approximately 15,000 tons.

Fu Haoran closed the report.

The figure of 15,000 tons far exceeded the limits of an ordinary farm.

But Fu Haoran knew in his heart that this estimate was based on a crazy premise: he would deploy equipment and hire labor regardless of the cost.

Although high-quality canned food could reduce the demand for Corpse Starch from 4 billion tons to 100 million tons, for the current Fu Haoran, it was still an unattainable figure.

"It's still not enough. It seems I need to speed up my plan. I have to build vertical farms and increase production tenfold to barely plug the hole in the Hive City."

While Fu Haoran was still plotting his industrial chain, he didn't know that on a high ground several kilometers away, the lenses of a pair of binoculars were reflecting a cold light.

Meanwhile, on an encrypted channel:

"Target has arrived at the Montana base; activities are frequent. Preparing to launch the final stage of the recovery operation."