Thirty days had passed since a freezing downpour soaked the stone plaza outside Grand Golden-Plume.
On that dark night, Lin Mo had stood under a broken umbrella with exactly forty-eight yuan and fifty cents in his mobile wallet. He had been mocked, dumped, and discarded by those he had trusted. And beneath a flapping, leaky plastic tarp, an elderly grandmother and her sick granddaughter had offered him shelter and eight steaming bowls of shrimp wontons without asking for a single extra coin.
Today, the sky above Jiangcheng was a vast canopy of brilliant, cloudless azure.
Beneath the monumental marble archway of Grand Golden-Plume Plaza, a long crimson carpet stretched three hundred yards across the polished stone concourse.
One hundred round banquet tables draped in white damask were set out under open silk canopies. Seated at the tables were one thousand sanitation sweepers, delivery riders, night-shift nurses, and elderly pensioners from across the city.
In the center of the plaza, ten massive polished copper cauldrons simmered over roaring blue flames.
The air was thick with the heavenly aroma of simmering Wagyu beef bone broth, fresh mountain ginger, and succulent freshwater shrimp wontons.
Behind the central cauldron stood seventy-year-old Grandma Chen.
Above her head, her Goodness Score glowed in an unblemished, peerless emerald radiance: Goodness: 98/100.
Grandma Chen wore a clean white chef’s apron over a new burgundy silk tunic. Her flour-dusted hands moved with the effortless rhythm of fifty years of craft, folding thin wonton skins into neat little golden ingots.
Beside her, six-year-old Little Guo’er stood on a sturdy wooden step-stool, wearing braided pigtails tied with red silk ribbons. Her rosy cheeks were bright with excitement. Little Guo’er’s Goodness Score shone above her head in a pure, golden-white halo: 100/100.
Around the central banquet stage stood Lin Mo’s core team: Su Wan, holding an executive portfolio; Tie Niu, standing tall like an iron watchtower; Dr. Gu Qinghe, stroking his white beard with immense pride; Chief Counsel Shen Qiaoqiao, smiling warmly in her tailored suit; Master Lu Jian, holding blueprints; and Old Wu, wearing a sharp blue sanitation supervisor uniform.
Nearby sat Stationmaster Old Ma with his delivery riders, Captain Zheng with his young orphan mariners, and Auntie Liu with her fellow street sweepers. Every table was filled with laughter, clean conversation, and the joyful clatter of porcelain bowls.
“Who would have thought a month ago,” Stationmaster Old Ma remarked, ladling soup for his riders, “that we delivery riders would sit on the red carpet of the city’s most expensive luxury plaza, eating Wagyu wontons with Chairman Lin?”
“Chairman Lin treats common workers like family,” Captain Zheng agreed, raising his tea bowl. “He built a future for our orphan mariners. There is no other leader like him in the world.”
Lin Mo stepped to the microphone at the center of the stage.
He wore his clean white linen shirt, dark trousers, and comfortable shoes. He looked completely unassuming, but every person in the plaza looked up at him with profound reverence and love.
Lin Mo looked down at the exact spot on the stone pavement where Grandma Chen’s rickety wooden cart had stood a month ago.
Thirty days, Lin Mo thought, feeling the immense weight of the journey. Thirty days ago, forty-eight yuan was all I had between me and starvation. Now, one hundred billion sits in my vault. Money changes the world, but only if it flows into hands that protect life.
Lin Mo tapped the microphone, his voice carrying warm, clear, and steady across the plaza:
“Thirty days ago outside this exact entrance, I stood in the freezing rain with forty-eight yuan and fifty cents in my pocket. My shoes were soaked through. I was hungry and alone.”
The crowd quieted, listening to every word.
“On that night,” Lin Mo continued, turning to look at Grandma Chen and Little Guo’er. “Grandma Chen did not care that my coat was cheap. She did not care that I had no car, no company, and no social status. She gave me warmth. She fed me eight bowls of her finest wontons, and Little Guo’er handed me a paper napkin with a pure, honest smile.”
Grandma Chen’s eyes filled with tears. She pressed her apron to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with deep emotion.
Little Guo’er looked up at Lin Mo, her innocent eyes shining like bright stars.
“Grandma Chen,” Lin Mo said, his tone gentle and full of respect. “On that rainy night, I made you a promise. I promised you that you would never have to push a wooden cart through the mud again. Today, the entire plaza is your kitchen.”
Lin Mo turned to Master Lu Jian, nodding slightly.
Master Lu stepped forward, unveiling a scale architectural model carved from crystal and white jade.
“By unanimous resolution of the Taichu Group Executive Board,” Lin Mo announced, “we dedicate the permanent commercial deed of the three-story flagship pavilion on this central concourse to Grandma Chen! It is hereby named the Golden Wonton Heritage Palace, owned by Grandma Chen and Little Guo’er with full permanent property rights!”
The crowd of one thousand workers erupted into thunderous applause, cheering and banging their porcelain spoons against their bowls in joyous celebration.
“Long live Grandma Chen!” Stationmaster Old Ma shouted from the front table.
“Decency wins in the end!” Auntie Liu cheered, wiping tears from her eyes.
Grandma Chen dropped her ladle, tears spilling freely down her wrinkled cheeks.
“Chairman Lin... oh, my good boy...” Grandma Chen sobbed, clutching Lin Mo’s hands with both palms. “How can an old street cook own a palace? I only boiled a few bowls of noodles for you!”
“You boiled love and decency into those bowls, Grandma,” Lin Mo answered gently. “And decency deserves a palace.”
Lin Mo knelt down on one knee before six-year-old Little Guo’er.
From a red velvet box in his pocket, Lin Mo produced a delicate necklace.
Suspended from a braided cord of pure golden silk was a two-inch locket carved from antique white mutton-fat jade. The jade was carved into the shape of a blooming nine-petaled lotus. Inside the locket rested an ancient warming spirit-herb array designed by Dr. Gu Qinghe to nourish the girl’s awakened spirit root.
Lin Mo gently fastened the silk cord around Little Guo’er’s neck.
The moment the white jade touched her collarbone, a soft, warm golden glow flared across the pendant.
Little Guo’er touched the smooth stone with her small fingers, her eyes widening in delight.
“Uncle Mo!” Little Guo’er giggled happily, jumping on her tiptoes. “The little lotus is so warm! It feels like a cup of hot sweet ginger soup in winter!”
Dr. Gu Qinghe smiled warmly, stroking his beard.
“The warmth of that mutton-fat jade will protect her meridians from any cold draft, Chairman Lin,” Dr. Gu remarked quietly. “A blessed child deserves blessed jade.”
Ding.
The System’s celestial chime rang out in Lin Mo’s consciousness:
[Ding! Detected spending of ¥10,000,000.00 RMB on Heritage Wonton Palace Endowment & Innate Spirit Root Locket!]
[Target Beneficiaries: Grandma Chen (Goodness: 98/100) & Little Guo'er (Goodness: 100/100)!]
[Purpose: Commercial flagship property deed (¥8,000,000) and custom Spirit-Herb Warming Jade-Lotus Locket (¥2,000,000)!]
[Pure Altruistic Intent Verified: Fulfilling moral vow, honoring foundational benevolence, and protecting innocent spiritual child!]
[Triggering 100x Pure Benevolence System Refund!]
[Cash Refund Received: +¥1,000,000,000.00 RMB!]
[Funds deposited directly into Host Personal Liquid Vault!]
[Personal Liquid Vault: ¥101,000,000,000.00 RMB!]
[Benevolence Merit Points: +1,000,000 BMP | Total BMP: 193,949,528 BMP!]
[Good People Network Expanded: 9,925 Verified Righteous Allies (+5 heritage palace master artisans formally integrated)!]
One billion more in cleared cash, Lin Mo thought, watching his vault balance reach one hundred and one billion yuan. A hundred and one billion. Thirty days to turn forty-eight yuan into a sovereign fortune.
Grandma Chen picked up her wooden ladle, wiping her tears with a clean white cloth.
“Eat, everyone!” Grandma Chen shouted through her tears, her voice carrying warm and hearty across the plaza. “Every bowl has double Wagyu beef and giant tiger shrimp! Eat as much as your bellies can hold!”
The one thousand sanitation workers, delivery riders, and veterans cheered, digging into their steaming bowls of wontons with joyous laughter.
The plaza was filled with warmth, chatter, and delicious aroma.
SCREEECH!
Suddenly, the violent, ear-splitting squeal of burning rubber shattered the peaceful atmosphere.
Three long, midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom sedans tore across the pedestrian plaza at forty miles per hour, smashing through the temporary wooden crowd barriers.
The lead vehicle slammed on its brakes right at the foot of the banquet red carpet.
Its heavy tires crushed Grandma Chen’s fresh welcome flower pots into shredded dirt and ceramic shards.
The customized vanity license plates on the three luxury sedans bore the gold insignia of Tianhai Provincial Capital:
Tian-A 00008
Tian-A 00009
Tian-A 00010
The rear doors of the three limousines swung open simultaneously.
Eight massive men in dark tailored martial robes stepped out onto the carpet. They were tall, broad-shouldered, and cold-faced. Above their heads, crimson Goodness Scores flickered between 5/100 and 12/100. Each bodyguard radiated the sharp, heavy aura of a Rank Two Internal Martial practitioner.
The bodyguards formed two rigid lines along the red carpet, shoving two sanitation workers roughly out of their path.
“Out of the way, peasants!” one bodyguard barked, knocking a wooden bench aside.
From the rear seat of the center Rolls-Royce, an arrogant middle-aged man stepped out.
He wore an expensive, shimmering silver silk suit with a lavender silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He held a thick Cuban cigar between his fingers, puffing thick gray smoke into the fresh autumn air.
His face was long and narrow, his eyes hooded and filled with condescending disdain.
Above his head, the System displayed a dim, poisonous rating: Goodness: 7/100.
This was Director Song Biao, the nephew of Patriarch Song of the powerful Song Tycoon Clan in Tianhai Capital.
Song Biao flicked his cigar ash dismissively onto the crimson carpet. He looked around at the one thousand workers eating wontons, curling his upper lip in open disgust.
“What a repulsive stench,” Song Biao said, his voice loud, nasal, and dripping with contempt. “A thousand peasant street-sweepers eating pig broth in front of a luxury shopping mall. Is this where country bumpkin Lin Mo plays emperor?”
The banquet fell completely silent.
One thousand workers set down their spoons, their faces tightening with anger.
Tie Niu’s knuckles cracked like a dry pine branch snapping in two. He took half a step forward, his eyes turning cold as frost.
Lin Mo raised a single finger, signaling Tie Niu to hold his position.
Lin Mo stood on the stage, looking at Song Biao with calm, unblinking eyes.
The Song Clan of Tianhai, Lin Mo thought, his expression completely flat. The Zhao family just entered their prison cells, and the provincial hyenas are already arriving to smell the meat. They think a Tianhai license plate makes them gods in this world.
Song Biao strolled forward, stopping ten paces from the stage.
He blew a stream of cigar smoke directly toward Grandma Chen’s soup cauldron, looking up at Lin Mo with a mocking smirk.
“Are you Lin Mo?” Song Biao demanded, tapping the ash off his cigar. “I am Director Song Biao of the Song Tycoon Clan in Tianhai Capital. My uncle, Patriarch Song, watched your little commercial games in Jiangcheng. He decided our Song Clan is willing to give you face today.”
Song Biao pulled a blue-bound contract folder from his bodyguard’s hands, tossing it onto the edge of Grandma Chen’s prep table like a piece of garbage.
“Here is five hundred million yuan in cash,” Song Biao said, his voice arrogant and grating. “Our Song Clan will take fifty-one percent controlling equity of your Taichu Hospital, your canteen chain, and this luxury plaza. Sign the agreement right now, bumpkin. Otherwise, not a single one of your delivery trucks or herb ships will ever cross the provincial river into Tianhai.”
Behind Song Biao, the eight bodyguards crossed their arms, their internal qi humming with violent menace. They smirked at the crowd of sanitation workers, waiting for the young chairman to beg for mercy.