I manufacture weapons in the Middle East and am wanted globally?

Chen Zheng tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, started the pickup truck, and drove toward the factory.

The clock on the dial shows 3 p.m. on February 15, 2011.

The sun was blazing, and the windshield was burning hot. He reached out and pried the sun visor off, but it was still dazzling.

The car turned into a narrow alley, with gray buildings on both sides, their walls peeling away to reveal hollow bricks inside.

Some windows were broken and patched up with cardboard with Arabic slogans written on them. They were not very clear, but the word "freedom" was recognizable.

At the end of the alley is a school.

The two-story building had a light blue paint on its exterior, but it had faded quite a bit, like a rag that had been washed too many times.

The playground was empty, and the flagpole stood crookedly without a flag.

Chen Zheng hadn't noticed it at first.

Then he saw it.

A dozen or so teenagers were gathered around the wall at the school gate.

Some people were holding spray paint cans, while others were writing something on the wall with chalk.

Chen Zheng slowed down and squinted.

The graffiti on the wall was colorful and the Arabic writing was crooked and messy.

"It's your turn, doctor." (Ejak el door, ya doctor)

"free."

"Down with Bashar al-Assad."

The boys laughed and shoved each other as they wrote, like they were playing a game.

When Chen Zheng saw those words, his scalp tingled.

Hold!!!!

He certainly knew who "The Doctor" was—Bashar al-Assad, the Syrian president, who had studied ophthalmology in Britain and was therefore nicknamed "The Doctor."

It's like when I used to pee at school, people called me "Big Penis!" It means the same thing.

This is not graffiti.

This is a rebellion!

This could be acute iron poisoning!!!

Chen Zheng stepped on the gas, and the pickup truck lurched forward.

Hearing the engine, the teenagers turned around and glanced back. Some gave him the middle finger, while others laughed and continued spraying paint on the wall.

Chen Zheng ignored them, turned the steering wheel, and turned into another street.

In the rearview mirror, the figures of those teenagers grew smaller and smaller, but the graffiti on the wall was still visible, colorful and like scars.

His palms were sweaty.

The steering wheel felt slippery.

A regime's hope lies in its children.

The regime is doomed when children start writing "It's your turn" on the walls.

If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after.

The pressure cooker lid is about to burst open.

History has proven countless times that even a scholar's rebellion can be incredibly passionate and inspiring.

After driving the pickup truck for three blocks, Chen Zheng slowed down. He took two deep breaths and found his heart was pounding like a pile driver.

"Damn it," he cursed, rolling down the car window to let the hot air blow on his face.

He turned onto the main road and drove towards the factory.

What he didn't see was that less than two minutes after he left the school, a gray Toyota pickup truck drove up from the other end of the alley, with four men in black uniforms sitting in the truck bed, each holding an AKM.

The pickup truck braked at the school gate, its tires kicking up a cloud of dust on the gravel.

Four security personnel jumped out of the vehicle swiftly and decisively.

When the group of boys saw them coming, they scattered like birds and beasts.

Then the gunshots rang out.

A boy turned and ran, but a bullet hit him in the back. He fell to the ground, face down, and blood seeped out from beneath him, drawing a dark red flower on the dusty ground.

The remaining boy covered his head with his hands, squatted on the ground, and trembled.

Someone wet their pants.

The one who just gave the middle finger is now crying like a three-year-old.

Security personnel lifted them up one by one and pushed them into the truck bed.

A man who looked like an officer squatted down, looked at the corpse on the ground, rolled his eyes, stood up, and kicked it with his foot.

"Take it away," he said in Arabic, his voice as flat as if he were asking what to eat today.

The pickup truck drove away.

The school gate fell silent again.

The graffiti on the wall is still there.

The colors were vibrant and dazzling in the afternoon sun.

When Chen Zheng returned to the factory, he drove the pickup truck into the yard, closed the door, and got out.

Baldy and Chiang Kai-shek sat on the floor next to the machine tool, leaning against the wall, yawning.

Upon seeing Chen Zheng enter, the two laborers stood up simultaneously.

Chen Zheng looked at them and suddenly found it a little funny.

These two are like they're on steroids when they're working, but when they're not working, they're like two left-behind children.

Chen Zheng was about to enter the office.

He had just sat down when a car horn sounded outside the courtyard gate.

Two short, sharp sounds.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked outside.

A white Toyota pickup truck was parked at the entrance. The truck bed was empty, and a person was sitting in the driver's seat wearing sunglasses, so his face could not be seen.

Chen Zheng went downstairs and walked to the door, but did not rush to open it.

"Who?"

The car window rolled down, revealing a young face, in his early twenties, with tanned skin, a buzz cut, and wearing a gray T-shirt with the words "Weibo" printed on the chest.

"Brother Chen?" The young man poked his head out. "I was called by Uncle Qiao to collect the final payment."

Chen Zheng glanced at him and opened the door.

The pickup truck pulled up, and the young man jumped out, took a piece of paper out of his pocket, and handed it to him.

"Uncle Joe asked me to give this to you."

Chen Zheng took it and glanced at it. It was a debt slip, which showed the amount his father owed Qiao Gen for the remaining balance, along with the date, and was stamped with the official seal of Qiao Gen's small steel factory.

Chen Zheng counted out $1600 from his pocket and handed it over.

The young man took the bills, counted them one by one, stuffed the money into his pocket, and handed the debt slip to Chen Zheng.

"Cleared."

Chen Zheng folded the IOU neatly and stuffed it into his pocket.

The young man turned to leave, but when he reached the car door, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Chen Zheng.

"Oh, right," he said, lowering his voice, "Uncle Joe asked me to tell you something."

"What?"

"Get out of here! Syria is unsafe; the opposition is about to start fighting!"

After he finished speaking, he opened the car door, got in, and started the engine.

The pickup truck backed out of the yard, turned around, and drove onto the main road.

Chen Zheng stood at the door, watching the car disappear at the end of the street.

Then he turned around, closed the door, and went back into the factory.

A fight is about to break out?

How can I make money off JM if we don't fight?

Don't panic...don't panic!!!

Since Chen Zheng is going to make a living from this business, of course he wants to expand and strengthen it.

Selling a gun for the first time is like having sex for the first time – you have no idea what's going to happen, it's exciting, and it's over in a flash.

Green Coins don't lie.

Don't talk about danger or not... that's bullshit!

Chen Zheng walked to the materials area, pulled back the curtain, and looked at the empty steel racks, his brows furrowing into a knot.

Relying solely on imports from Lebanon is not enough.

The distance from the Bekaa Valley to Delaware is 200 kilometers. In between, you have to cross a border checkpoint, evade security forces, and pay tolls to smugglers.

The price of a ton of material has more than doubled, and the delivery time is not guaranteed.

If the border were to be closed one day, he would be completely cut off from food supplies.

We need to find suppliers locally.

The steel mills in Kodra have all been requisitioned by the government forces, and they can't even get a single screw out.

Chen Zheng lit a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and paced back and forth in the workshop.

Baldy and Chiang Kai-shek were following behind him. When he turned around, he almost stepped on Baldy's foot.

"Why are you following me?"

The bald man tilted his head back and looked at him, then said, "Gulp."

Chiang Kai-shek tilted his head back and clucked.

Chen Zheng sighed, ignored them, and continued walking.

He stopped beside the pile of waste.

This pile of waste was accumulated by his father. It consisted of scraps, waste products, cut-off pieces, and old parts collected from the market. He originally planned to remelt them, but he couldn't find suitable smelting equipment, so it just piled up like this.

Chen Zheng squatted down and flipped through it.

It has everything.

The scraps of 45# steel, 40Cr chips, rusted steel bars, a broken drive shaft, and even a few old gears.

These things can be sold at any recycling station in China.

In Syria, this is a treasure.

Then a thought suddenly flashed through his mind.

Scrap steel.

Syria may not have much else, but it has plenty of scrap metal!

Don't have too many scrapped cars and abandoned factories.

He threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out.

Turn to the monster worker's attribute page.

[Monster Peasant Lv.1]

Proficient in: CNC machining, general machining, metal cutting

Expertise: Reading blueprints, programming, and tool selection

There was another line of small print above, which he hadn't noticed before.

[Note: Monster workers can learn and master basic metallurgical skills, including but not limited to: metal material identification, scrap steel sorting, electric arc furnace smelting, composition blending, and continuous casting and rolling. Relevant equipment and operation manuals are required. PS: All of these fall under the industrial category!]

Chen Zheng's eyes lit up immediately.

"Bald! Chiang Kai-shek!"

Two laborers trotted over and stood ramrod straight.

"You know how to smelt?" Chen Zheng pointed to the words on the phone screen. "Scrap steel smelting, do you know how?"

The bald man leaned closer for a look, then nodded vigorously: "Gulp!"

Chiang Kai-shek nodded in agreement, "Coo coo!"

Chen Zheng pointed to the screen again: "What equipment do we need?"

The bald man held up three fingers and counted on his fingers.

"Gurgle." (Intermediate frequency furnace)

"Coo-coo." (Generator)

"Coo coo coo." (Spectrometer)

Then it gestured again, making a hammer-like motion as if it were smashing something.

Chen Zheng understood: "A forging hammer?"

The bald man nodded: "Gulp!"

Chen Zheng thought for a moment and then asked a few more questions.

The bald man answered each question.

Although it could only say "gu," Chen Zheng roughly understood it through gestures and simple syllables.

In scrap steel smelting, the first step is to classify the steel; different types of steel cannot be mixed together for smelting.

Then it is melted in an electric arc furnace or a medium frequency furnace. After melting, the composition is detected by a spectrometer, and alloying elements are added to adjust the composition based on the detection results.

After adjustment, it is cast into a steel ingot, and then forged into the required blank shape using a forging hammer.

With the right equipment, these two things can be handled in one complete process.

Chen Zheng took a deep breath.

This is a complete industry chain.

You can hardly see them even in the Middle East.

Many of them are made using rudimentary methods, the kind that could explode at any moment!

Of course it can be done, but it won't fetch a good price. Have you ever seen a small workshop that has grown into a large and successful business?

Once the fighting breaks out in Syria again, and the Russian and American arms dealers get involved, hey... you damn crude methods?

I'll teach you the dog-turning method! Just let it rot in your hands. Apart from some low-level tribal militia, who would still use such a crude method?

Even African men eventually end up being mass-produced on an assembly line.

It will become formalized sooner or later...

But these things... aren't easy to deal with either.

He took out his phone, found Khalid's number, and dialed it.

When in doubt, ask Brother Ha.

The phone rang three times before I answered it.

"Chen?" Khalid's voice was slightly out of breath, as if he were walking. "What's wrong?"

"Khalid, I have a question for you."

"you say."

"Is there a lot of scrap steel around in Delaware?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

"Scrap steel?" Khalid thought for a moment. "There's plenty, of course there's plenty. There's an abandoned vehicle dismantling yard in the south of the city with hundreds of scrapped cars piled up. What do you need scrap steel for?"

"I want to do the smelting myself."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

Silent for a long time.

"Chen," Khalid said in a low voice, "are you crazy?"

"I'm not crazy."

"You must be crazy," Khalid said. "Smelting? You're a CNC machine operator, what are you doing smelting? Do you know how expensive that stuff is? Do you even know how to operate it?"

Chen Zheng said, "Don't worry about how I operate it, just tell me, can I get these things like intermediate frequency furnaces, generators, spectrometers, and forging hammers in Syria?"

Khalid fell silent again.

Screw silence! Say something!

"These things are now under military control." Khalid's voice lowered, almost inaudible. "The military has taken most of the intermediate frequency furnaces to their military factories in Damascus. The rest are in private hands, but they're all treasures, and nobody wants to sell them."

Chen Zheng frowned: "Smuggling?"

"Smuggling..." Khalid hesitated for a moment, "It's possible to get them. But the risks are huge. There are so many checkpoints along the border now, it's like a sieve with holes. You'll have to get through a lot of obstacles to get these things in."

"Money is not a problem," Chen Zheng said.

"Money is definitely a problem. Do you have any money?"

Khalid gave a wry smile. "But that's not the biggest problem. The biggest problem is that these things are all heavy equipment. A truck carrying a furnace comes from Lebanon, a distance of 200 kilometers, and you have to pass through at least five or six checkpoints. You have to bribe people at each checkpoint, and each person you bribe might betray you."

Chen Zheng remained silent.

Khalid continued, "And let me tell you, the situation in Daraa is getting more and more tense every day. The security forces are like mad dogs, biting anyone they see. A couple of days ago, a businessman brought in a batch of generators from Lebanon. He was stopped at the checkpoint. The security forces said his generators were military supplies, so they confiscated the goods and arrested him. He was detained for three days, and when he was released, he was covered in injuries."

Chen Zheng had a cigarette butt in his mouth, but didn't light it.

"Could you ask for me first?"

He said, "A medium-frequency furnace, 250 kg is fine, I can't fit anything too big. A generator, the power needs to be sufficient, at least 200 kilowatts. A spectrometer, a handheld one is fine, it doesn't need to be too big. A forging hammer, an air hammer, around 150 kg, and a few sets of steel ingot molds are enough."

He did the math in his head: these things might not be anything special in peaceful countries, but in Syria, this was the equivalent of a whole arms factory.

"Could you ask about the price for me?" he said. "I'll figure out the money."

Khalid sighed. "Alright, I'll ask around for you. But Chen, I need to make this clear: even if we can find these things, they won't be cheap. And the risks are very high. You need to think it through."

"I've thought it through."

"Okay," Khalid said. "I'll look into it this afternoon and get back to you tonight."

Thanks.

"Don't be shy, it's not easy to earn money this way."

Chen Zheng chuckled, hung up the phone, and then felt an urge to urinate. He walked to the door and looked for a place to relieve himself.

Suddenly I noticed the factory name on the wall by the entrance, which had very few characters left.

He thought for a moment, then took out some paint from inside the house and wrote directly on the wall: "Monster Factory!!"

……