Chapter 24 – Second Business Expansion

Chapter 24 – Second Business Expansion

When a business begins to stabilize, it must immediately start thinking about how to expand. This was one of the most valuable lessons Yang Wendong had learned from his past life—over a decade of running his own ventures.

The very next day, he handed off responsibility for the six current warehouse clients to Zhao Liming and set off toward a new target: Willy Warehouse, another site in the same industrial district.

As soon as he arrived at the entrance, he was stopped by the guard. The man, about 30 years old, gave him a once-over and asked, "What are you here for?"

Yang Wendong pulled out two cigarettes with a smile and replied, "I'm here to meet Director Qin from your warehouse. This is Mr. Qian from Henry Warehouse's business card. They've already spoken on the phone."

Anyone with experience in business—or life—knew this simple truth:

The greedier the man, the more useful he can be—as long as you know what he wants.

And in this case, the man wanted money. That made him predictable and easy to manage.

The truly difficult ones were those who actually cared about their company's image and performance. Those people were often rigid, stubborn, and nearly impossible to deal with unless you genuinely brought something they needed.

That's how Yang had ended up getting on Qian Si-Yan's good side. Qian, in exchange for "introducing" him to several warehouse contacts, had begun to enjoy a little personal cut of the profits. It was a dirty arrangement—but efficient.

Not free, of course. Yang had to pay "referral fees" after each deal was closed. But to him, it was an acceptable cost of doing business in 1958 Hong Kong.

The guard took the cigarettes and glanced at the card. It looked official enough. "Alright. Wait here a moment."

"Thank you," Yang said politely.

He waited at the entrance under the afternoon sun. Ten minutes later, the guard returned. "You'll have to wait a bit longer. Director Qin's in a meeting with a foreigner."

"How long do those meetings usually last?" Yang asked, pulling out another cigarette and handing it over.

The guard accepted it and made a gesture, asking Yang to follow him.

They moved to a shaded spot near the warehouse wall. The guard lit his cigarette and glanced sideways. "You don't smoke?"

"No," Yang said with a smile. "My lungs aren't great. I had pneumonia as a kid."

It was true—he had never smoked, neither in this life nor his past one. Even when he had to entertain clients in his previous life, the most he did was hold a cigarette for show. He simply didn't enjoy it.

But he never judged others, either. As long as it didn't affect him, he didn't care.

"My friend also died of pneumonia," the guard said, exhaling a stream of smoke with a sigh.

"My condolences," Yang replied respectfully.

They chatted casually for a while. Yang subtly shifted the conversation toward rat problems. It turned out the night shift guards had been ordered by their supervisors to try and catch rats on their own—unsuccessfully.

After an hour of chatting and waiting, Director Qin finally arrived.

He was in his forties, with a serious look and a clean-cut jacket. Upon seeing Yang, he raised an eyebrow. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Yang replied.

Qin was surprised. "So young? Old Qian didn't mention that. But he spoke highly of your rat-catching skills."

"I just want to make a living," Yang said with a modest smile. "And this is the only skill I've got."

In rich societies, this kind of self-deprecating talk might be seen as fake humility. But in poor societies, it was survival logic. In 1950s Hong Kong, countless children were out working by age six or seven, and by their teens, many had already become the main breadwinners.

Even Li Ka-shing, according to his biography, had started working to support his family before turning fifteen.

Qin nodded. "Since Qian referred you, I'm willing to give you a chance. But you'll need to prove yourself."

"Of course," Yang said. "Let's do a one-week trial. I guarantee you'll see a clear reduction in rats."

In the beginning, he hadn't been that confident. But after more than a month of field experience, research, and adjustments, Yang had become something close to a rat-control expert.

After one walk through a warehouse, he could already tell where rats were hiding. They were crafty, yes—but still creatures of habit.

Qin nodded again. "How do you usually work? What were the terms with Qian?"

Yang laid out the structure of his current contracts, including rates, trap setup, service frequency, and follow-up. "I'd propose the same arrangement for you."

"Fine," Qin agreed.

Like most minor managers in this era, he wasn't particularly proactive—he was just waiting to be convinced.

Yang grinned. "Great. I'll begin deployment this week, and we'll see the results."

The man was clearly another greedy but practical type—like Qian Si-Yan. Easy to handle, as long as you kept the money flowing.

…

Over the next two days, Yang visited five more warehouses—all contacts passed to him through Qian's network.

He landed every single one of them.

And for the first time, Yang Wendong found himself feeling genuinely appreciative of people like Qian Si-Yan.

Corrupt? Yes.

Shameless? Probably.

But efficient? Absolutely.

This was, in fact, the norm in 1950s Hong Kong. When his first round of expansion had happened, it was all thanks to Brian, a foreigner. The other Chinese managers hadn't benefited from that—so they hadn't cared.

But now that it was a Chinese manager helping other Chinese, and all of them got a piece of the pie, business moved much smoother.

Maybe it was always like this in business.

Some eras were subtle.

Some were blunt.

This era? Blunt as a brick.

…

By early March, Yang's extermination business had doubled in size. He now served 12 warehouses across the Tsim Sha Tsui district.

Because the warehouses were spread out geographically, he expanded his core team from four to eight people, hiring four more young men from the shantytown—people he or his team already knew.

In just over two months, he had created seven direct jobs and at least one dozen indirect ones, including trap makers and suppliers.

With more clients and more moving parts, Yang also began pulling back from the front line. His time was now needed for coordination—between team members, warehouse managers, and suppliers.

Fortunately, most warehouses were good about payment—prompt and clean. Probably because the weekly fees were low, and the results were clear. Fewer rats meant less loss.

One day, during a routine visit to the Jordan warehouse, Yang ran into an old acquaintance:

Elena.

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