Chapter 3: Making Money Ain’t Easy

After leaving Fenghuali Community, Jiang Qin headed straight home.

A 120-square-meter, three-bedroom apartment—living room on the left, kitchen on the right. It held all his fondest memories.

His mom, Ms. Yuan Youqin, was in an apron, chopping away—loud enough to tell it was meat, probably with bones.

His dad, Jiang Zhenghong, lounged on the sofa reading the paper, humming "Clouds of My Hometown", slippers dangling off his toes.

Soaking in this familiar warmth, Jiang Qin felt a pang of emotion.

Drifting in Shenzhen for years, he'd been a rootless leaf. This was where he'd grown up—irreplaceable.

Seeing his parents young again was surreal.

"I'm back!"

Jiang Zhenghong squinted at him. "Exams done?"

Ms. Yuan poked her head out from the kitchen. "How'd it go? Confident?"

"One foot's already in a top university."

"You little punk, talking so big—real or fake?" Ms. Yuan eyed him skeptically.

Jiang Zhenghong backed him up. "If he's bold enough to say it, he's got some confidence. Tonight, us guys are drinking!"

Jiang Qin waved it off. "Dad, I've decided—I'm starting a business this summer. Can't waste a second."

"Business?"

"Making money."

Ms. Yuan pondered. "Fine, after dinner, wash the dishes. Five bucks a bowl, ten for the pot."

Jiang Qin sighed, not arguing. "How about 300 total for the dishes and pot?"

Jiang Zhenghong's head snapped up. "That's a deal? I'll do it!"

"Get lost—300 could buy a new set! I wash every day and no one's paying me 300. Go wash up for dinner!"

"Alas, this king's venture dies before it begins."

Jiang Qin sighed dramatically, washed his hands, and joined his parents for dinner.

Before bed, Ms. Yuan came out of her room and slipped five 100-yuan bills into his hand.

She knew high school graduation meant freedom—hanging out with classmates, karaoke, it all cost money. Her earlier "five bucks a bowl" was just tough love.

Holding the 500, Jiang Qin's heart ached a little.

What big entrepreneur starts with just 500? Still, better than nothing.

"Ms. Yuan, you're the future mother of a chairman!"

"Be a general manager, and I'll be satisfied. Oh, I asked your uncle today—head to Zhengfang Driving School in a few days to learn to drive."

"Driving can wait. I've got urgent stuff to do."

Taking the cash, Jiang Qin retreated to his room, fired up the computer, and found Guo Zihang's QQ. He told him to meet at Center Street tomorrow morning.

Guo asked what for, but Jiang Qin dodged, just saying he had 500 bucks, making Guo howl "Brother!" in excitement.

After setting tomorrow's plan, Jiang Qin opened Baidu to check news, hoping to jog memories of demolition projects, policy shifts, stock trends, or market booms—anything to prep for wealth.

But before the page loaded, his eyes caught on his QQ friends list.

Chu Siqi's chat was pinned at the top?

He moved the cursor, unpinned it, locked his profile, and swapped out his cringe non-mainstream avatar.

Checking his bio, he winced—three bedrooms and a living room's worth of embarrassment:

["I love you—what's it to you?"]

So awkward. He slapped his forehead, deleted it, and replaced it with lyrics from "Yesterday's Song".

Right after, Chu Siqi's gray avatar lit up—she was online. Her icon bounced; she'd sent a message.

He clicked it, glanced, and closed it, bored.

She'd asked why he locked his profile and demanded he unlock it so she could "visit."

Visit my space? How old-school is that? Want to "run a lap" next?

Next morning, clear skies, warm sun, gentle breeze.

Jiang Qin biked to Pingyang East Road's pedestrian street.

This was Jizhou's busiest commercial strip. Before the old market's overhaul, it was a goldmine for vendors, but fierce competition and price wars kept things cheap.

Guo Zihang, drooling over Jiang Qin's 500, pedaled like mad, arriving sweaty and eager.

"Bro, what's the plan for that 500? I've never been to a bar—let's try it!"

"Forget that nonsense. See that guy selling boxed meals? Ask him the prices."

Guo followed Jiang Qin's finger, face paling. "We're eating boxed meals for lunch?"

Jiang Qin narrowed his eyes, not explaining. "Just ask. Don't worry—I won't shortchange you."

"Oh."

Guo trudged over. In 2008, prices were low: 2 yuan with shredded potatoes, 3 with some meat scraps, 5 with a drumstick and potatoes, 6 with a drumstick and fried egg.

Jiang Qin checked the time, tossed the vendor 200 yuan, and told him to keep making meals—no questions.

He grabbed two cardboard boxes, packed some meals, and hauled Guo to the internet cafe strip.

Pushing into one cafe, he slipped a pack of Yuxi cigs (bought en route) to the manager, then hawked his meals. Late-night netizens, starving but too lazy to leave, pounced on the delivery.

Boxed meals weren't fancy, but they beat instant noodles, right?

So, 2-yuan meals sold for 4, 5-yuan ones for 7, 6-yuan ones for 9. Everything sold out except two drumstick-and-egg combos.

From 7 a.m. to 1 p.m., they hustled three trips across five cafes, even jacking prices twice.

Guo was wiped, tongue lolling, sweat dripping.

Jiang Qin's back was soaked too. Squatting curbside, he wiped his brow and counted cash.

200 yuan's worth of meals sold for 378. The two leftover drumstick meals? One each for them.

This wasn't really about profit—it was about testing a hunch. The hunch worked; money was made. But the margins were razor-thin.

Still, he wasn't discouraged. Expecting huge gains from 200 yuan was delusional. Thousands, maybe?

He'd never done business pre-rebirth. This was just to feel out earning money.

Truth be told, it was a loss. Five packs of Yuxi cost over 100, plus half a day's labor, and they'd only netted 78 after exhausting themselves.

But with bigger capital? Higher-value goods? Doubling 78 wasn't bad.

He peeled off five 10-yuan bills for Guo, who instantly perked up, clutching the cash and chanting "Thanks, bro!"

"Bro, we doing it again tomorrow?"

"Hell no, I'm beat. Made 78, gave you 50—barely enough for a pack of smokes."

Jiang Qin griped, but his mind was already on that first pot of gold.

Where could he score it?

In novels, reborn protagonists jumped straight into big deals. Why was it so hard for him?

Worst case, he'd convince his parents to sell the house and buy Bitcoin or Maotai stock.

Just then, the boxed-meal vendor approached, spatula in hand. He eyed Jiang Qin, then sidled up mysteriously, offering a Baijiang cig.

"How much did you sell those 200 yuan's worth of meals for?"

Jiang Qin took the smoke, tucking it behind his ear, and looked up calmly. "460."

Guo blinked beside him. Wasn't it 378?

But seeing Jiang Qin's cool confidence, he swallowed hard and stayed quiet.