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

The fluorescent light tube in the factory was still the same broken one, flickering on and off like a half-dead firefly.

Chen Zheng sat on the tattered sofa, holding a bowl of noodles, slurping them down loudly.

What kind of food is available in Syria?

None of them are suitable for me, and there aren't many shops open outside late at night.

Going out to have fun increases the chances of getting shot.

He cooked the noodles himself, adding two eggs, a spoonful of Lao Gan Ma chili sauce, and a few drops of sesame oil.

In Syria, being able to eat a bowl of hot soup noodles is already a luxury. After his father was hospitalized, he had been eating naan bread dipped in olive oil for three days in a row, which made his stomach churn with acid.

Just as I picked up the last bite with my chopsticks, my phone rang.

The screen displayed an unfamiliar number, starting with +961—the area code for Lebanon.

He put down his chopsticks and picked it up.

"Feed?"

There was static on the other end of the phone, like someone driving, then a young man's voice answered quickly in Arabic: "Is this Mr. Chen?"

"it's me."

"I work for Mr. Abdul Karim. My boss asked me to deliver this. Could you please provide a specific address?"

Chen Zheng suddenly perked up and jumped up from the sofa, almost spilling the noodles.

"So convenient!"

He put the bowl on the table, wiped his mouth, and read out the address: "South of the Dera Industrial Zone, go east on Asad Road, past that abandoned gas station, walk another 500 meters, and there's a gray iron gate on your right."

"I know that place, it's a 20-minute walk."

"Okay, okay, I'll wait for you."

The phone hangs up.

Chen Zheng stuffed his phone into his pocket, turned to look at the two laborers, and his eyes shone like two lamps.

"We've got work to do! Get ready to get to work!"

Baldy and Chiang Kai-shek stood up at the same time, their movements so synchronized that they looked like they had just undergone military training.

"Goo!" (Received!)

"Coo coo!" (Understood!)

Chen Zheng strode out of the factory, opened the gate, and stood at the entrance looking out onto the street.

The night in Daraa was as black as spilled ink, with only a few streetlights shining, casting a dim, yellowish glow. In the distance, dogs barked, one bark after another, as if arguing with someone.

He stood at the door and waited for about ten minutes.

Then the headlights appeared.

A white Toyota Hilux, the same model as Chen Zheng's, but much newer, with a bulging canvas-covered cargo bed that looked like it was loaded with a lot of stuff.

The pickup truck slowly drove up and stopped at the factory gate.

The driver's side window rolled down, revealing a young face. He was about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, with sun-darkened skin, regular features, and a neatly trimmed tuft of beard on his chin.

He was wearing a gray long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms.

"Mr. Chen?" he asked in Arabic.

"it's me."

"The goods have arrived." He turned off the engine, opened the car door, and jumped out.

Chen Zheng hurriedly opened the factory gate and pointed behind him: "Back up, back in. I have a crane here, we can unload the goods directly."

The young man nodded, got back into the car, and skillfully reversed.

The pickup truck smoothly reversed into the yard, its tires crunching over the gravel.

Chen Zheng went to pull the crane. That crane was one his father had bought before; it was manual, very old, but still usable.

The young man took a bill from the driver's seat and handed it over. "It'll be $2400 in total."

Chen Zheng took it and glanced at it. It was written in Arabic, the handwriting was messy, but the numbers were clear. He nodded: "Wait a moment, I'll go get the money."

He turned and ran into the office.

The safe was under the desk, a gray metal lump, a secondhand item his father had bought from the market. The key had been lost long ago, and he had to change the combination every time he opened it.

Chen Zheng squatted down, turned the combination lock three times, and with a click, opened the iron gate.

Count out the money, wrap it in a piece of white paper, put it in your pocket, lock the safe, and go downstairs.

The young man stood inside the factory, not waiting in the car.

He was looking at the machine tools with his hands behind his back.

Seeing Chen Zheng come down the stairs, he pointed to the CAK5085 machine from Shenyang Machine Tool Factory and said, "This kind of thing is not common in Syria."

He paused, then looked at Chen Zheng, "Are you Chinese?"

Chen Zheng handed over the money and nodded: "Yes, Chinese."

The young man took the money, didn't count it, and stuffed it directly into his pocket.

Then he suddenly grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, and said in fluent Mandarin, "I lived in China for eight years and studied there."

Chen Zheng was taken aback.

He speaks standard Mandarin with a slight Northeastern accent, but it's more standard than most Chinese people he knows.

"You can speak Chinese?"

Yes.

The young man put his hands in his pockets, leaned against the safety door of CAK5085, and said with a smile, "I graduated from Shenyang University of Technology in 2004 with a major in Mechanical Design, Manufacturing and Automation. After graduation, I worked at the Czech Machine Tool Works for three years as a process engineer."

Chen Zheng's eyes lit up immediately.

He instinctively reached out his hand and said in the Shenyang dialect, "Oh my god, fellow villager! Which part of Shenyang are you from?"

Actually, he wasn't from Shenyang at all.

I only stayed in Shenyang for two months, and I learned a few local dialect phrases when I went there with a friend seven or eight years ago.

But when you're out and about, the quickest way to bridge the gap is to find common ground.

He can speak dialects from about a dozen provinces, so his language skills are quite strong.

Sure enough, the young man's eyes lit up when he heard what he said.

"You're from Shenyang?" His smile deepened, and his tone softened considerably. "What a coincidence."

Chen Zheng chuckled and said, "Come on, have a smoke."

He took out a pack of Liqun cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and handed it to him.

That was his father's stash, which he usually couldn't bear to smoke, only taking it out during holidays.

The young man took it, looked at the brand, and said, "Liqun? That's a good cigarette. It's not easy to find this in Syria."

"I had someone bring these for me." Chen Zheng lit one for him, then lit one for himself. "What's your name?"

"Assam." He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled a puff of white smoke. "Assam Hassan."

"My name is Chen Zheng." He extended his hand again, this time shaking it firmly. "Let's shake hands properly. When fellow villagers meet, their eyes well up with tears."

"Why did you come to Syria?" Assam leaned against the machine tool, tilting his head to look at him.

Chen Zheng sighed and flicked his cigarette ash onto the ground: "I'm drowning in debt back home, and I came here hoping to make a living. Who knew it would get harder and harder? There aren't any orders at all. I'm lucky if I can run my four machine tools for half a month."

Assam nodded without replying. He turned to look at the Haas VF-2, then at the DMG MORI, and remained silent for a while.

Then he suddenly said, "Actually, with this kind of equipment, getting orders is very simple."

Chen Zheng's heart skipped a beat.

He knew what Assam meant by "order".

But he pretended not to understand and frowned.

Assam smiled; he could tell what the other person was thinking just by looking at their expression.

He changed his form of address and spoke in a more intimate tone, "I've been back in the Middle East for several years now, and I know better than you what the place is like. A legitimate business? If you try to do it legitimately, you can't even afford the utilities."

Assam continued, lowering his voice by half an octave: "I have connections in Lebanon. If you need orders, you can contact me. Leave me your phone number first, and call me when you have any ideas."

He pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket and handed it to him. It was printed with Arabic and English, and below the name was a line of small print—"Beirut International Trading Company".

"Anyway, I'm practically a Shenyang native," Assam patted Chen Zheng on the shoulder, "we're practically family."

Chen Zheng took the business card, examined it carefully, and then solemnly put it into his wallet. He took out his phone and gave Assam the number: "Write this down, 139*******, it's a Syrian number, the signal isn't very good, but you'll get through if you call a couple more times."

Assam saved the number and put the phone back in his pocket.

Chen Zheng casually asked, "Are guns very valuable in Lebanon?"

Assam nodded vigorously, his eyes lighting up: "There's something fishy going on right now. A Glock 17 can fetch at least $1200 to $1500 at a bubble tea shop, and an AKM in good condition can sell for over $2000. If you can get your hands on an SVD with a scope, it'll be worth even more, starting at $5000."

Chen Zheng gasped.

Fuck!

The Glock 17, which costs only three or four hundred US dollars at the factory in Austria, can triple in price in Lebanon.

An AKM, made in Russia, costs only seven or eight hundred, but here it can sell for two thousand. On the black market, magazines and accessories are even sold separately!

In other words, if you're selling a gun, you don't have to buy the magazines, well... save some money!

I only paid Abu Ali $550 for my Stechkin APS—I lost money!

I should have sold it for 800.

Of course, he also knew that prices varied from region to region.

If you go to Peshawar in Palestine to sell it, hey, you'll only get $30 at most! An AK.

They don't care if your goods are good or not; they sell them for $30 locally!

After all, 600 small workshops in one village, wow...

The barrel exploded, but that's all!

Can you sell your gun for $1000 without it exploding?

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, threw the butt on the ground, and stomped it out. Then he took out the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and handed it to Assam.

"Assam," his voice warmed, with a heartfelt sincerity, "can you help me make some connections? The agency fee is negotiable."

Assam took the cigarette, but didn't light it immediately; he tucked it behind his ear.

He thought for a moment, then lowered his voice and said, "I have a good relationship with a Druze militant leader. He and I were acquainted during the Lebanese Civil War, and he's willing to give me face."

He paused for a moment, then added, "However, we also need to give him a kickback. These people won't do anything without a bribe."

Upon hearing this, Chen Zheng's expression turned serious, and he said solemnly, "We're all friends. Once we get the order, there's no problem."

He looked Assam into the eyes and said, word by word, "Don't worry, I value integrity above all else in business. You helped me make the connection, and you'll get your share, every penny."

Assam nodded in satisfaction and grinned, "You Chinese are so straightforward in business."

Then he suddenly stopped laughing, his face darkened, as if he had remembered something unpleasant: "Unlike the Indians, damn it, they do business in Lebanon and they're not even planning to pay the balance."

His voice was filled with a gnashing hatred, "Those sons of bitches, they took the goods, but didn't pay, saying there were quality problems and they'd deduct money. And what happened? Later they opened a new stall in Beirut, and when our people went to their door, they wouldn't even open it."

"And then?" Chen Zheng asked.

Assam sneered, "And then? They were slaughtered right then and there. All four of them died. The goods were burned, and the money wasn't recovered. But nobody dared to investigate. In that place, the death of a few Indians was no different than the death of a few ants."

Chen Zheng then cursed, "You son of a bitch Indian."

He spoke with genuine emotion because he himself had been scammed by Indian clients.

The final payment for those air conditioner parts is still outstanding.

The two men stood in the factory and exchanged a few insults with the Indians, which warmed up the atmosphere a bit more.

Outside, the sounds of Bald Man and Chiang Kai-shek tidying up the crane could be heard, along with the clanking of the chains.

Assam peeked out and said, "The materials are all unloaded, I have to go. It takes more than three hours to get back to the Beka Valley from here, and it's not safe to go any later."

Chen Zheng nodded and accompanied him outside.

Assam walked up to the pickup truck, opened the door, and was about to get in.

"Wait a minute," Chen Zheng suddenly said, turning and running into the office.

He rushed upstairs, opened the safe, and took out a pack of Liqun cigarettes. His father had hidden them at the very back of the cabinet; there were only two packs, and he usually didn't want to smoke them, saying he was saving them for New Year's gifts.

Chen Zheng held the cigarettes, hesitated for a moment, then gritted his teeth and pulled out $200 from the safe, wrapped it in a black plastic bag, and stuffed it into the gap of the cigarette pack.

Then he ran downstairs.

Assam was still standing next to the car, the engine was still running, and white smoke was billowing from the exhaust pipe.

Chen Zheng walked over, stuffed the Liqun cigarette into the driver's side window, and threw it onto the passenger seat.

"It's a local specialty, have a taste," he said with a smile.

Assam glanced down at the pack of cigarettes, his eyes lighting up. Just as he was about to say something, Chen Zheng added, "Could you ask about the order for me? I'd appreciate your help."

Assam smiled, did not refuse, and pushed the cigarette further into the seat.

"Okay, wait for my message, I'll get back to you."

He extended his hand and shook hands with Chen Zheng.

"Be careful on the road," Chen Zheng said.

Assam nodded, shifted into gear, and released the clutch.

The pickup truck slowly drove out of the yard, turned onto the main road, and its taillights grew farther and farther away in the night, finally disappearing at the end of the street.

Chen Zheng stood at the door, watching the car disappear into the darkness, for a full minute.

Then he turned around, closed the iron gate, and bolted it shut.

The courtyard returned to silence.

Chen Zheng walked back into the factory.

Bald Man and Chiang Kai-shek have already prepared all the materials.

Eight bundles of steel were neatly arranged on the shelves in the materials area, sorted by material and specifications. Even the binding wires were cut clean, leaving not a single one on the ground.

Two laborers stood in front of the scaffold, waiting for him to speak.

"Let's get started," Chen Zheng said.

The bald man's eyes lit up instantly. He turned and ran to the DMG MORI 60, lifted the plastic sheet, and started powering it on, resetting it to zero, and warming it up. Chiang Kai-shek ran to the tool cabinet, took out the knives he had used before, and arranged them on the table in the correct order.

Chen Zheng took out his phone and opened the Monster Factory app.

He flipped to the page for [Monster Workers] and glanced at the small print: [Level 1 Monster Worker: 1000 Gold Coins/Monster].

He now has 0 gold coins and no cash left.

Once this batch of goods is finished, we'll hire a few more! Then we can go straight to the assembly line.

We need to quickly produce the goods, sell them, exchange them for gold coins, and then summon more laborers.

他的目光扫过厂房里的四台工具机——德玛吉DMU 60五轴、哈斯VF-2立加、CAK5085数控车、SK40P数控车，还有那台T2108深孔钻床。

Four machine tools and two laborers are not enough to keep up with the demand.

He needs at least four laborers to get all the machines running at the same time.

Four laborers require 4000 gold coins.

4000 gold coins is equivalent to 4000 US dollars worth of products.

With the current production capacity of Bald Head and Chiang Kai-shek, one day is enough.

Chen Zheng took a deep breath, walked to the material shelf, and patted the stack of 40Cr bars.

"Bald! Chiang Kai-shek!"

Two laborers trotted over and stood ramrod straight.

"Make 150 APS barrels first," he said. "Make 20 complete guns, and speed things up!"

The bald man nodded: "Gulp!"

Chiang Kai-shek has already started to take action.

It walked to the material rack, bent down, and precisely pulled out a 40Cr round steel bar from the stacked bars with three fingers. After weighing it, it turned and walked towards the saw.

Sizzle—Sizzle—

The saw started, iron filings flew everywhere, and the sound of feeding material echoed in the factory, like an old-fashioned industrial rock song.

The bald man stood in front of the DMG MORI, his fingers rapidly clicking on the control panel.

It pulled up a program that it had written itself that afternoon, a complete machining process for Stechkin APS sleeves, with five-axis linkage, one clamping, and all completed.

accelerate!

……