Flip the table and divide the family property! Take his wife and daughter into the mountains and eat

The early spring rain was as fine as cow's hair, carrying a chilling, bone-deep cold.

The uneven dirt road was covered in mud and water, and the dim headlights of the old Jiefang truck could barely pierce through the rain curtain for more than ten meters.

Old Zhao from the Hongxing Machinery Factory's transportation team gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

He had been driving on this muddy road for more than ten hours straight.

The carriage rattled with a series of dull metallic clanging sounds as it lurched. It was filled with machine tool parts returned by factories in the provincial capital.

Old Zhao was in a very bad mood.

This is the third time this batch of goods has been returned for rework.

Yesterday in the provincial capital, the quality inspector didn't even bother to pick up a ruler; he just slammed the delivery slip onto the table.

"What kind of junk is this from your Red Star Factory? It doesn't meet current assembly standards at all! It's not even as good as what those small, privately-owned factories in the south produce!"

The sarcastic remarks from others pierced Old Zhao's heart like awls.

"What they want now are American standards and German precision; yours are full of large pinholes, with tolerances so big you could fit a finger in them. They wouldn't even take it for free!"

Old Zhao sighed, listening to the ear-piercing scraping sound of the windshield wipers, his heart felt heavy, as if it were stuffed with a wad of wet cotton.

He knew perfectly well what was going on.

The old machine tools in the factory are outdated equipment from the 1960s and 70s. The cutting tools are worn down. No matter how hard the masters try, how can they possibly find the "American standard" that people want?

But Lao Zhao just couldn't understand it.

Back in the 1980s, the Hongxing Factory was incredibly prestigious. At that time, the whole country was engaged in construction, opening up vast markets and demanding an immense amount of goods. Any metal lumps that came off the factory's machines would be fighting over before they even cooled down.

Back then, who cared about American standards? If it worked, it was a good product.

How could the world have changed so much in just a few years? How did this once-thriving factory with tens of thousands of employees end up in a situation where nobody wants what it produces and everyone is about to starve?

He sighed, listening to the ear-piercing scraping sound of the windshield wipers, and became more and more worried.

If the Red Star Factory really goes bankrupt, what can he do?

A few days ago, I heard from Lao Liu in the next workshop that many large state-owned factories in other provinces have already gone out of business, and factories with tens of thousands of employees have closed down.

The higher-ups gave everyone a sum of money to buy out their years of service, and then sent them all home, claiming that it was now a "market economy" and that they had to find their own jobs.

Old Zhao is almost fifty this year. From when he started as an apprentice at the factory until now, he's spent most of his life in the Hongxing Factory's residential compound. Once he leaves this factory area, he can't even tell which way is which. If he really gets laid off, how will his family survive?

The more he thought about it, the more agitated he became, feeling as if his throat was parched and on fire.

Old Zhao freed his right hand, picked up the chipped enamel mug on the dial, and wanted to drink some cold water to calm his anger.

The jar was just brought to his lips.

In the dim rain, a dark figure suddenly staggered out and stood upright in front of the truck like a wandering ghost.

Old Zhao's scalp tingled.

He didn't even bother to throw away the jar in his hand, and kicked the brake pedal hard all the way to the ground.

"Creak—"

The heavy truck tires left two long black tracks in the mud and water. The front of the truck suddenly swung around and came to a screeching halt less than half a meter from the figure.

The cold water from the enamel mug was poured all over Old Zhao's crotch, and it was icy cold.

Old Zhao was so scared he almost flew out of his skin.

If he were to hit and kill someone in this rainy early morning, his life would be over.

He pushed open the car door and jumped into the muddy ground, pointing at the dark figure in front of the car and cursing loudly.

"Are you fucking crazy?!"

"Are you blind? Why are you running into the front of the car?!"

Old Zhao strode over, cursing and swearing, grabbed the man by the back of the neck, and was about to throw him to the side of the road when he suddenly froze when he saw who it was.

The man was covered in mud, his clothes were tattered like rags, and his swollen face was smeared with large patches of black blood. He looked exactly like a water ghost that had just crawled out of a pile of corpses.

Old Zhao wiped the rain off his face, his anger turning into astonishment.

"Why?"

Old Zhao looked the man in front of him up and down, who was trembling like a leaf, and even his voice changed.

"Isn't that Sun Changgui's son?"

He took two steps closer, looking at the other person with a puzzled expression: "Sun Weidong? What happened to you? What are you doing here?"

The dark figure was blinded by the truck's headlights and could barely open his eyes. He shielded his face with his hand and squinted through his fingers for a while.

"Hey, Uncle Zhao, you're back from your trip." Sun Weidong's chapped lips trembled slightly, and his voice was hoarse as if he had sand in his mouth.

Old Zhao and Sun Weidong's father, Sun Changgui, had a good relationship. The two would often get together at the factory to play cards and smoke when they had nothing to do, and they were old card-playing buddies.

Seeing his old friend's son standing half-dead in the mud, his head covered in blood, Old Zhao couldn't help but frown.

"My head is throbbing terribly, I'm going to the city hospital to get it checked out." Sun Weidong clutched his swollen head, hissing in pain.

Old Zhao sighed.

"You're injured like this, how come no one even came to see you off?"

Old Zhao turned around, opened the passenger door, and nodded to Sun Weidong: "Get in! In this heavy rain, how long would it take you to walk there? I'll drive back to the factory to report first, and then give you a ride to the hospital."

Sun Weidong gritted his teeth, crawled onto the passenger seat which reeked of engine oil, and slumped in, panting heavily.

As Old Zhao shifted gears and started the car, he glanced at him and said, "What happened to you? Who turned you into this mess?"

"Who else could it be? Those rabid dogs that Zhao Shanhe keeps!"

Sun Weidong gritted his teeth, his voice hoarse and slurred: "That ruthless bastard Da Niu, how vicious he was! He and his men practically killed me!"

Old Zhao paused slightly on the accelerator, and the old Jiefang truck jolted violently in the mud.

He secretly pondered to himself, "Zhao Shanhe is now a living god of wealth that the factory can't afford to offend. Your father has been dismissed and sent to clean toilets. You still dare to mess with this tough guy? Isn't that like lighting a lantern in a latrine and courting death?"

But on the surface, he just sighed, took out half a pack of Chuncheng cigarettes soaked in sweat from his pocket, put one in his mouth, and tossed one to Sun Weidong.

"Weidong, listen to what your uncle has to say from the bottom of his heart."

Old Zhao lit a match and leaned over to light his cigarette, skillfully navigating the steering wheel to avoid a large puddle in the middle of the road: "You think you can mess with Zhao Shanhe and his gang? They're roughnecks from Kaoshantun, they've seen blood, they're fearless."

He exhaled a puff of blue smoke, his eyes fixed ahead: "Tens of thousands of people in the factory depend on them for their livelihood. Even Director Liang has to treat them with utmost respect. What makes you think you can compete with them?"

Upon hearing the words "Director Liang," Sun Weidong reacted like a wildcat whose tail had been stepped on, leaping forward with a sudden burst of energy.

This aggravated his broken ribs, causing him to hunch over in pain, with the veins on his neck bulging out.

"Who does Liang Tiejun think he is! He's a complete ungrateful bastard!"

Sun Weidong slammed his fist heavily on the chipped dial of the watch, making the enamel mug on it clang loudly.

"When my dad was at the height of his power, he called me 'Old Sun' so affectionately! I was beaten so badly I crawled to the security office like a dead dog, my face covered in blood! I just wanted him to step in and get justice for me!"

Sun Weidong's eyes were so red they looked like they were about to bleed, and his chest heaved violently: "Guess what he said? He complained that I was causing him trouble, and in his official tone, he told me to hurry up and go to the clinic to stop the bleeding. He didn't even give me a second glance, and just walked away with that old fox Zhang Dafa with his hands behind his back!"

Old Zhao, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, frowned as he listened, a chill running through him.

Liang Tiejun usually prides himself on being upright, honest, and respectable in the factory.

Old Zhao never expected that after such a big incident involving his subordinates, Liang Tiejun wouldn't even ask a single question.

"Really?"

Old Zhao clicked his tongue in puzzlement: "Director Liang is usually very protective of his own. Even if your father is in trouble now, you're still a child of our factory. He wouldn't be so heartless, would he?"

"Heartless? He's just afraid of offending Zhao Shanhe and cutting off his source of income!"

Sun Weidong gripped his tattered cotton-padded jacket tightly with both hands, his nails almost digging into his flesh, his voice filled with a chilling madness.

"What kind of bullshit rules and decorum are these! They're all a bunch of opportunistic, heartless dogs! Just wait until I've calmed down..."

Before Sun Weidong could finish his harsh words, Old Zhao slammed on the brakes.

"Creak—"

The old Jiefang truck emitted a piercing, strange noise and stopped on the muddy road several hundred meters from the gate.

Old Zhao rolled down the car window, leaned half his body out to look ahead, and muttered to himself in confusion.

"How strange, why is the traffic so bad so early in the morning?"