Volume One, Chapter 8: The King of Connections & The Clever Man

Rosang Garment Factory stood at the very heart of Rosang County. In fact, one might say that the entire county had grown up around the factory. No matter which direction one came from, reaching this colossal establishment was always swift and straightforward.

The sun was rising gradually, gently warming Luo Xuan as she stood there.

The day labor market just outside the main gate of Rosang Factory was bustling with people—both those recruiting workers and those seeking work were ready, forming swirling crowds by the riverside of the Rosang River.

Luo Xuan glanced over.

Each recruiter held sample garments, calling out to potential workers; the workers examined the samples on the spot—if they could make them, they would inquire about the payment. The recruiters quoted the processing fees, and if both sides agreed immediately, a day’s business was set.

Someone asked, “How much is the processing fee?”

One recruiter raised a blue sports T-shirt and said, “4.5 yuan per piece, making the whole garment, 37 pieces.”

The worker took the shirt, carefully inspecting it—especially the collar, the edges, and the cuffs. “This shirt’s tricky to make. The slits and turns here, the stitched hems are wrinkled, and the sleeves are slit as well.”

The recruiter replied, “We’ll do the collar separately after the discount. Shoulders and back will be padded.”

The worker rubbed and flipped along the seams: “Do you want five-thread stitching here?”

“Yes.”

The worker turned and left, complaining to a colleague, “No way—I won’t do it. It’s exhausting, and you can barely make a few pieces a day. No profit at all.”

Inside the garment factory, the permanent workers operated assembly lines, producing 200 identical sleeves daily. But day laborers mainly worked on complete garments; the more finished pieces they made in a day, the more they earned.

Luo Xuan ran past, grinning, and chimed in, “He won’t get anyone at 4.5 yuan. If you offer 6 yuan, he might agree.”

“That makes sense—hey, who are you?!”

Luo Xuan dashed away like the wind.

Ahead, someone grumbled while walking, “Prices keep dropping.”

“It’s the off-season.”

“The US dollar devalues every year. Rosang Factory makes American goods and earns dollars, but when converting to yuan—well, guess what? We end up suffering without making money!”

A man with a pressing badge around his neck slurped noodles, mumbling unclearly, “Those shirts I pressed recently sell for 80 dollars in the US, but Rosang Factory only earns 2 dollars.”

Luo Xuan ran past those men, smiling brightly and interjecting, “We don’t even get 2 dollars. That 2 dollars includes shipping, management—1 dollar; imported raw materials, 0.65 dollars. The factory at most earns 0.35 dollars as processing fees. That’s about 3.5 yuan for us.”

The presser scoffed while eating noodles, “Damn, I work so hard, but the US is the only one making money—” He looked up, “Hey, who are you?”

Luo Xuan vanished like a gust of wind.

She soon left the crowd behind and turned toward the side wall of Rosang Factory, where she saw a newly renovated standard tennis court.

A tennis court?

Her eyes lit up.

Luo Xuan had practiced swimming since childhood and was athletic. She was familiar with many sports, including tennis.

She could spend time here.

She turned and bought a newspaper at a nearby newsstand, flipping to the stock market page, where a bold headline caught her eye:

“September Red: US Interest Rate Cut!”

Due to the US rate cut, the domestic A-share and Hong Kong stock markets surged dramatically. Luo Xuan beamed as she saw her stocks’ candlestick charts skyrocket.

As she read, she asked the newsstand owner, “The US cuts rates, the dollar devalues—how does Rosang Factory still have money to build a tennis court?”

The owner, in his early thirties, had a round, fair, cheerful face.

“This Rosang Factory is doomed!” he slammed the table in frustration. “You see, there are more bosses inside Rosang Factory than workers sleeping on the floor. I don’t know which god had this crazy idea, but some kid spent so much money building this thing—to entertain foreign bosses? Who even plays tennis here? Waste of money!”

Luo Xuan twisted the cap off a bottle, “Rosang Factory mainly exports sportswear. They probably use the tennis court to entertain foreign bosses.”

The owner spat disdainfully, “Foreign bosses come only a few times a year. The court’s really for those bosses inside the factory.”

Luo Xuan looked around a while and asked again, “Is the tennis court open to the public? How much do they charge? Do you know?”

The owner studied her, then smiled knowingly.

He pushed a juice bottle toward her. “Five yuan. Let me ask for you.”

Luo Xuan opened her wallet and handed a five-yuan note.

In this small county, interpersonal connections were complex like a spider’s web. Owning a newsstand at the Rosang Factory gate was itself unusual.

The owner made a few calls, listing off relatives, then told Luo Xuan mysteriously, “If you want to work at Rosang Factory, my uncle Manager Wang has connections. It costs 70,000 yuan.”

Luo Xuan coughed violently.

After a moment, she calmed down. “That’s not what I meant…”

The owner understood immediately, “Right, right, I get it. You’re just asking about the tennis court fees.”

Luo Xuan nodded. “How much is it?”

The owner held up two fingers. His hands were fair and soft, without a single scar, even the knuckles were fleshy:

“The best positions are in the Supply and Marketing Department, dealing directly with suppliers, 2,400 yuan a month, with the biggest perks and kickbacks. The Trade Department is also good, 2,900 a month, responsible for foreign orders, highest profits and bonuses. To get into those departments, it’ll cost around 150,000 yuan.”

Luo Xuan coughed harder. “I’m not asking about that…”

“Don’t think it’s expensive,” the owner rubbed his thumb and forefinger. “Look at the accordion pocket on your tennis skirt. Rosang Factory’s workers earn 17.5 cents per pocket on the assembly line, working 14 hours a day with only one day off a month. How many pockets do you think they can sew? Exhausting work, but they make barely any money. You spend a bit more to use connections, and later you can sit comfortably in an office, take a few kickbacks, and make money easily. This is ‘investing in your life.’ You invest, right? You trade stocks, don’t you? Understand value investing?”

“I do,” Luo Xuan caught her breath. “But with this system, isn’t Rosang Factory afraid of going bankrupt?!”

The owner toyed with his drink. “Every factory in the county depends on Rosang Factory’s orders. Do you think it can collapse? If it did, the whole county would starve. Would the government let Rosang Factory fail? Would they ignore us common folks? Put your heart at ease. In my opinion, working at Rosang Factory is even more stable than a government job.”

Luo Xuan thanked him. Encouraged by his enthusiasm, they exchanged contact information.

The owner, beaming, said, “My surname’s Wang. If you want to use connections, find me. I’ll help you open doors—there’s no relationship in Rosang County I can’t handle.”

Luo Xuan saved his contact as “Connection Wang.”

Connection Wang cheerfully wished her good fortune, “Let’s get rich together.”

Luo Xuan nodded heavily and walked away, dizzy.

Only after she tossed the empty bottle into the trash did she suddenly remember:

“Wait—how much does the tennis court actually charge?!”

She circled the court, finally finding a small management office and saw the fee schedule printed in red on white:

Open to the public: 498 yuan per hour for court rental, 30 yuan to rent a racket, 15 yuan per ball.

Luo Xuan worked in the supply chain management department of Shanghai Lihua Group, managing shampoo supply schedules, earning 7,420 yuan a month. She was quite satisfied with her income. Even though she constantly juggled her boss’s endless demands and suppliers’ sudden troubles—orders added one day, halted the next, resumed at night—she still considered herself a well-paid white-collar urbanite.

Now, standing at the gate of her hometown’s Rosang Factory, she realized that two hours of tennis would cost her one-eighth of her monthly salary, transforming her from an urban lady to a city pauper.

Luo Xuan felt utterly disheartened.

She lingered at the management office door, gazing longingly at the tennis court. Just as she was about to leave, someone approached.

They met face-to-face, and the man spoke first, his voice gentle: “How much do they charge here?”

A subtle, cool leather-scented fragrance filled the air.

Though Luo Xuan was already tall, she still had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. A narrow, intelligent face smiled politely at her, eyes slightly curved, soft yet sharp.

His exposed arms were tanned a light golden brown, muscles long and defined from years of regular exercise.

Instinctively, Luo Xuan glanced at his shoes and recognized the tiny silver-letter embroidery on the laces; her eyes traveled up along the costly fabric of his trousers, catching the faint French on the buttons; a closer look revealed a pale wrist, suggesting he usually wore a watch; her peripheral vision caught the subtle sheen of his pristine white T-shirt—well-cut, naturally draping with a fit that hinted at strength.

All in the blink of an eye.