Courtyard House: A Start with Black Gold Swallowing 100,000 Silver Dollars

She already knew. The affair between Li Guohang and Zhong Linlin wasn't just a rumor; it was solid news—neighbors had bumped into them, her sister-in-law had inquired about it, and even Old Zhang, who sold tofu at the market, had vaguely mentioned it.

But the Li family is one of the most prestigious families in Shanghai. Her father got promoted, her brother got a job in the police station, her family's old house was renovated... none of these things could have been done without the Li family's approval. She herself has never had to worry about food or clothing, and has lived a respectable and stable life. Even her medical treatment and hospitalization are arranged by the Li family for her to see specialists.

Divorce? With what? With just words, or an empty shell?

Unable to swallow her anger, she devised another plan: "You have fun outside once, and I'll pester you when I get home; you go out twice, and I'll force you three times. I'll exhaust you, wear you out, so that next time you take off your belt, you'll first touch your weak knees and trembling wrists."

"Xiaoqin, I really can't... I've been running around all day, my bones feel so heavy." He rubbed his face, his voice hoarse. "Tomorrow night, I'll cancel everything tomorrow night, let's have a good talk, okay?"

"Are you seeing someone else?" she asked bluntly, like a knife pressed against his Adam's apple.

"No!" he blurted out, his shoulders tense.

"Then why are you hiding?"

"It's not that I'm avoiding it, I'm just really tired."

"I don't believe you. If you're innocent, come over here now—otherwise, you're just guilty."

Before she finished speaking, she had already untied the strap of her nightgown, and the fabric slid down her arm, revealing a section of her fair shoulder.

Li Guohang's Adam's apple bobbed, but he remained silent. He gritted his teeth and got into bed.

Having many women doesn't necessarily bring happiness; happiness always has a touch of bitterness—like sugar mixed with salt, making it taste astringent.

In Shanghai, all is calm.

Wang Tingxuan had spoken to the director of the Municipal Bureau of Commerce years ago: the factory is the factory, the names are the names, only the management company is recorded on the books, and everything else is wiped clean. Li Jiayu was ordered by Li Jiacheng to investigate the tape factory. He searched through the files and used all his connections, but he still couldn't find any such factory in Shanghai.

It leaked, and it leaked right here.

Wang Tingxuan and Li Jiayu, one from Shanghai and the other from Beijing, were both privileged young men raised with prestigious backgrounds, neither of them inferior to the other. The bureau chief was caught in the middle, torn between the two sides. If he really had to choose a side, he could only lean towards the more powerful one—Wang Tingxuan had the backing of a retired provincial party secretary and the influence of several senior military leaders.

Unless Mayor Li Guofu personally intervenes. But Li Guofu's schedule is so packed that you can't even squeeze a needle in: morning meetings, research, receptions, signings, discussions... even drinking water has to be timed precisely. If Li Jiacheng and his team were to bother him for such a trivial matter, not only would they fail to get anything done, but they would also appear useless—a man in his thirties who can't even investigate a factory properly, what kind of expert is he?

……

"How are the cassette tapes selling?"

In the gray-walled, red-tiled villa in the suburbs, Qi Zhendong had just landed and, without even unpacking his suitcase, sat down on the living room sofa and asked a question. He hadn't seen him for two months; he was tanned a shade darker, but his eyes were more profound than before.

"It's getting moving, but things are a bit stuck in Beijing." Wang Hanli handed over a sales report, his tone a little somber. "The first batch of goods, 10,000 boxes, is all piled up in the warehouse, and we've only sold less than 3,000."

Qi Zhendong's brow twitched: "Only three thousand?"

"Yes, the channels in the capital are blocked." Wang Hanli sighed. "There's a 'mastermind' over there—surnamed Zhou, known as Boss Zhou—who controls the entire city's supply chain. Once goods enter the capital, they won't be handed over to anyone other than him, not even a middleman."

"I tried to bypass him and privately approached a few children from government compounds, but as soon as they heard it was a cassette tape, they shook their heads and said, 'No, no, don't get us involved.'"

Why?

"It's not just tapes. They got the whole set of goods from Li Guoxian and Li Guohang—enamel mugs, electronic watches, Dacron shirts, radio accessories... all of which are in high demand. We're offering them a discount of three cents, and if they dare to take it, they'll offend Boss Zhou; offending Boss Zhou is like cutting off the entire supply line."

Qi Zhendong was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed, but without much warmth: "Oh... so it's not that you think the money is too little, it's that you're afraid of losing your job."

He made his way up in the US, where profit is everything—only a fool wouldn't take advantage of a good deal. But it's different here. Personal relationships are the bricks, connections are the walls. If the bricks aren't solid, no matter how much money you have, it's just building a tower on sand.

"Really, not a single one will budge?"

"Not a single one." Wang Hanli shook his head. "I had people ask them one by one, and even the youngest one—who had just transferred from the military arts troupe—said: 'Brother, it's not that I don't want to help, it's that if I do help, my dad will make me pack up and go back to my hometown to farm tomorrow.'"

Qi Zhendong didn't say anything more. He got up and walked to the window, gazing at the undulating mountain shadows in the distance. After a long while, he said, "Then let's bypass the capital and head north—Harbin, Shenyang, and Changchun, let's establish three points first."

"Furthermore," he paused, "we'll build our own distribution channels in the capital. We won't rely on introductions; we'll recruit people, rent warehouses, and run around the streets ourselves."

Wang Hanli nodded: "The people have already been sent out."

The two had spent ten years navigating the American business world, their business acumen ingrained in their very bones. But when they finally arrived in the North, they discovered—

The goods had just been unloaded from the truck when the neighborhood committee summoned them to "submit additional materials"; after finalizing deals with two department stores, the next day the counters posted a "Suspension of Orders" notice; even worse, the warehouse was broken into at night, and not a single box of cassette tapes was left, only half a cigarette butt and a sentence painted on the wall: "Get lost."

The reason is simple: those young men in the capital have long regarded the North as their own backyard, and they would chop off the hands of anyone who dared to make a move.

In Beijing, it's even more extreme—if their goods dare to appear in Xidan or Wangfujing, within half a day, uniformed people will come to "routinely inspect" them, seal them up, and take them away, always with a fresh reason: "incomplete procedures," "blurred labels," or "suspected smuggling."

The entire north is like an iron barrel.

The only one who loosened his grip was Li Guohang—every two weeks without fail, he would order 10,000 boxes, pay the money as usual, and sign the invoices meticulously.

But everyone knows that he bought it not to sell it, but to follow the clues and find out exactly where the factory was hidden.

Otherwise? Not a single box would get in.

"Crack—!!!"

The enamel mug on the coffee table was swept to the floor and shattered cleanly.

A month later, products were not selling well, staff had been lost, and boxes of cassette tapes were piling up in the corner of the warehouse, gathering dust. Qi Zhendong stared at the glass of scarlet red wine on the table, his fingers loosened—the wine glass smashed on the terrazzo floor, shattering into pieces, the wine spreading like blood.

Wang Hanli stood by the window, not turning around, but simply stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, his knuckles turning white.

Both men firmly believed that with China opening its doors to the world, it was the perfect opportunity to enter and exit quickly. They wanted to make as much money as possible before returning to the US, and also to prevent Wall Street from diluting their shares under the guise of investment. However, they encountered a major obstacle as soon as they arrived—the distribution channels were blocked, distributors made excuses, and they couldn't even send out a few demo tapes.

What's even more disheartening is that these are people who have survived the cutthroat world of Wall Street, ringing the bell on NASDAQ and signing multi-million dollar checks in private equity firms. Deep down, they believe this market is still in its infancy, with loose rules and slow responses; they think that as long as they present their resumes and write checks, orders will naturally line up. But reality doesn't cooperate—they're either met with cold shoulders at the factory gate, or their orders are cut off by middlemen who drive down prices; before they can even set up their showrooms, they're quietly squeezed out of the game. The loss of face is more distressing than the financial losses.

After a long silence, Qi Zhendong bent down, picked up a piece of glass, wiped his hands with a tissue, and said in a low, even voice, "If we can't get in from the north, then let's go south."

At that time, state-owned factories were the lifeblood of the economy, with steel mills, textile factories, and machinery factories densely packed in Northeast and North China; while the South was mostly comprised of small factories and workshops, with weak infrastructure and consumption. The money was concentrated in the North, and the market was also concentrated in the North—seven or eight out of ten cassette tape sales came from Beijing, Tianjin, Shenyang, and Harbin.

Now that the northern route is cut off, we have no choice but to turn south. It's like holding a bowl and wanting to eat beef, but only getting half a chicken breast. You can't swallow it, but you have to chew it anyway.

"How's the progress at those universities you've visited?" Wang Hanli asked.

For the past two months, Qi Zhendong has visited more than ten top universities, including Tsinghua University, Peking University, Fudan University, and the University of Science and Technology of China, to establish a special funding program under the name of the "US-China Education Development Foundation"—fully covering the tuition, airfare, accommodation, and living expenses of outstanding undergraduate students pursuing master's degrees in the United States. The universities welcomed him, and the faculty and students were grateful. Even the university president shook his hand at the signing ceremony, saying, "His contribution to cultivating talent for the country is immeasurable."

But this "merit" is like a candle flame in the open, but a fuse in the dark.

The United States has always adhered to a "talent-first immigration" policy—the wealthy obtain green cards through investment, while technical elites rely on their academic qualifications and patents. For every STEM PhD or engineer who is successfully sent to the United States on an F1 visa and eventually becomes a citizen, the foundation's account receives $10,000 on time.

This sounds like a brokerage business, but it's a different kind of business: not trafficking people, but brains; not pledging ship cabins, but visas.

Of course, the bonus wouldn't be credited to the account until the recipient swore allegiance to the Stars and Stripes. But back then, the United States was always open to such people—fast residency, housing subsidies, preferential treatment for their children's school enrollment, and even dedicated advisors to assist with the residency application process. Could they not stay? Almost impossible.

This "going with the flow" approach actually involves quietly draining the backbone of the national scientific research team.

August arrived in the blink of an eye.

A nationwide crackdown swept across the country, sparking widespread discussion and widespread approval from the public.

But the Li family members remained unmoved. Li Wenguo had already made it clear: the methods could be harsh, but the person in question couldn't show their face; rules could be circumvented, but the line couldn't be crossed. All actions were wrapped in contracts, authorizations, and third-party agency shells, so clean that not a single thread could be found.

At this time, the second magnetic tape factory jointly built by Li Jiacheng and Li Guoman had already started production. The first batch of goods was shipped directly to Guangzhou, Shenzhen, Xiamen, and Haikou, and then, using these cities as hubs, the goods were distributed to surrounding counties and towns.

But as soon as they arrived at the dock, they heard that the shelves of local audio-visual stores were already full of the same cassette tapes—similar covers, slightly rougher sound quality, but 30% cheaper.

The two men's faces immediately darkened.

"Piracy." Li Jiacheng spat out the two words through gritted teeth.

Li Guoman sneered: "They even dared to forge the 'Shanghai Audio-Visual' stamp on the cover."

The clues quickly surfaced. Li Guohang's informant, planted within the freight truck fleet, pried open the driver's mouth—the goods originated from a place called "Qingpu County" on the outskirts of Shanghai.

The place is right next to the city center; once you exit the outer ring road, it's only a 20-minute drive to the city center.

Most of the counterfeit factories are located in Shanghai.