I couldn't take it anymore; when I went home for Chinese New Year, the family genealogy book ha

"Brother Chen, I feel something's not right."

Wang Dagou leaned against the porthole, watching the Kuala Lumpur International Airport gradually enlarge below the wing, his brows furrowed into a tight knot.

After several hours of flight, the three Boeing 737s landed smoothly on the private tarmac. The moment the cabin door opened, a rush of hot, humid air, carrying the stuffiness characteristic of the tropics, rushed in.

Kuala Lumpur in December, 32 degrees Celsius.

Jiang Chen stood up from first class and glanced at the old man first. Jiang Wanshan sat upright, still clutching the old photograph in his hand, his knuckles white.

"Great-Grandpa, we've arrived."

Jiang Wanshan nodded, carefully put the photo away from his body, and stood up while holding onto the handrail.

The gangway was lowered. Jiang Chen helped the old man down the plane step by step.

On the tarmac, ground crew were already waiting. Three white Boeing 737s were lined up in a row, and the red banner on the fuselage that read "Jiangjiacun Overseas Family Search Special Plane" was particularly eye-catching in the tropical sun.

Wang Dagou was the first to jump down the gangway, and as soon as he landed, he began to look around.

"Goodness, it's hot here!" he said as he took off his military overcoat, revealing a black vest underneath.

The security team members who followed behind were in no better shape.

These men were used to doing rough work in Jiangjia Village, and they all wore work pants with black vests and training shoes. More than sixty people poured down from the three planes and stood on the tarmac—they looked exactly like a construction team.

Ding Xiu walked at the back of the group, unscrewed the lid of his thermos, took a sip of goji berry water, and glanced around at his surroundings.

"Hurry up, don't dawdle."

After the team lined up, they followed the airport ground staff to the terminal.

Going through customs.

The problem is coming.

More than sixty people lined up and walked toward the customs channel, handing over their passports one by one. The first few people passed through relatively smoothly, although the customs officers' expressions were not very pleasant—after all, three chartered planes had arrived at once, and more than sixty Chinese people who looked like a construction team would give anyone a second glance.

But when it was the old man's turn, he got stuck.

Behind the counter sat a middle-aged man with a small mustache, wearing a customs uniform, and the badge on his shoulder indicated that he was the duty supervisor of this passage.

The man with the mustache examined Jiang Wanshan's passport for a long time, then stared at the old man for a while before slamming the passport down on the table.

"The paperwork is incomplete."

He spoke in broken Chinese, pausing between each word.

Jiang Chen stood behind the old man, his brow twitching slightly.

Attorney Zhou immediately stepped forward and handed over a stack of pre-prepared documents: visa, invitation letter, health certificate, and itinerary plan—the complete set.

"Sir, these are all our entry documents. All procedures were handled officially through your country's embassy in China. Please take a look."

The man with the small mustache didn't even glance at the stack of documents before pushing it back.

"not enough."

He crossed his legs, tapped his fingers on the table, and gave a knowing smile.

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"Each person must pay a $2,000 customs fee, or they will all be deported."

Upon hearing this, Wang Dagou felt his blood rush to his head.

He took a step forward abruptly, clenching his fists, his voice low but filled with anger: "Bullshit! All our paperwork was done legally; you're clearly trying to rip us off!"

The smile on the man with the mustache disappeared.

He raised his hand and beckoned slowly.

On both sides of the passage behind them, a dozen airport security personnel dressed in gray uniforms with pistols on their waists suddenly surrounded Jiang Chen and his group, blocking them in the customs passage.

The man with the small mustache crossed his legs again, leaned back in his chair, and pointed at Jiang Chen and the others with his chin.

"Here, I am the rule."

The veins on Wang Dagou's forehead bulged, and his fists clenched so tightly they cracked.

Ding Xiu had somehow moved to the front, his thermos placed aside, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, but his entire aura had changed. The dozen or so security personnel who had surrounded him instinctively took a half-step back.

The atmosphere was electric.

Jiang Chen reached out and pressed down on Wang Dagou's shoulder, pulling him behind him.

He didn't get angry. He didn't say a word. He didn't even change his expression.

He glanced at Lawyer Zhou standing beside him.

"Go, open those two big black leather suitcases."

Attorney Zhou was stunned for less than a second before turning around and dragging two huge black aviation-grade aluminum alloy suitcases off the luggage cart.

"Bang."

The first suitcase was placed on the customs platform.

"Clatter".

The combination lock popped open.

The moment the lid was lifted, the light from the incandescent bulb above the table was reflected into a blinding green.

The box was full of US dollars.

One hundred-yuan notes. Neatly arranged, bundle after bundle, stacked tightly together.

The second box was opened as well.

Same content. Same visuals.

Two boxes of US dollars were placed on the customs counter, emitting the distinctive ink smell of new banknotes in the humming air conditioning.

Five million US dollars.

The man with the small mustache put his legs down.

He stared at the two boxes of money, his pupils dilating rapidly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and even his breathing rhythm becoming disordered.

The dozen or so security guards around were all stunned. One of the younger guards was shaking; he probably had never seen so much cash appear in front of him at once in his life.

The entire customs passage was so quiet that you could hear the hum of the air conditioning vents.

Jiang Chen put one hand in his pocket and pointed to the two suitcases in front of him with the other.

"Go and call the highest-ranking person in charge of your airport."

His tone was so flat, as if he were just saying the weather was nice today.

"I will donate this money to the airport construction as a sponsorship fee."

The little mustache's mind went blank for a moment. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but not a single word came out.

Five million US dollars.

He couldn't earn that much in a year, even if he didn't eat or drink, even if he worked for a hundred years.

The news spread much faster than expected.

Less than three minutes.

A series of hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the terminal corridor. A middle-aged man in a dark blue suit, his hair meticulously combed, practically jogged towards them. His tie was askew, his forehead was covered in sweat, and the heel of his left shoe was almost slipping off.

He is Hassan, the highest-ranking executive officer at Kuala Lumpur International Airport.

Hassan rushed to the checkpoint and immediately saw the two boxes of US dollars. He then glanced at the bearded manager behind the counter, who was still staring blankly.

"Snapped!"

a slap.

It was both loud and crisp.

The man with the mustache tilted his head forty-five degrees, and half of his face immediately swelled up.

Hassan cursed in the local language, something like "Are you fucking trying to kill me?", then turned to face Jiang Chen.

Bow at a 90-degree angle.

His waist was bent lower than the tabletop.

"Sir! I am very sorry! This was our negligence! Please forgive us!"

His Chinese was much more fluent than the mustache's—he had clearly done his homework.

Hassan bowed and waved, giving a rapid-fire barrage of orders to the staff behind him.

"Open all VIP access channels!" "Prepare tea, refreshments, and fruit in the VIP lounge!" "Where's the convoy? Has it arrived yet? Send me seven of the best cars!"

The bearded manager was dragged away by two colleagues. When he passed Jiang Chen, his legs were so weak that he could barely stand, and his lips were pale.

Less than ten minutes.

Seven black, extended, bulletproof Mercedes-Benzes were lined up and parked under the awning at the VIP exit of the terminal. Next to each car stood a driver in a black suit and wearing a headset, who respectfully opened the car door.

Hassan bent over the entire time, personally guiding Jiang Chen and his group into the car. The old man was seated in the middle car, with a large, soft seat and the air conditioning was just right.

Jiang Chen was the last to board the bus.

Before getting into the car, he glanced back at Hassan.

"That guy with the mustache is fired."

Hassan nodded repeatedly: "He's been fired! He's been fired!"

The car door closed.

The convoy slowly drove out of the airport gate, led by two motorcycles and followed by seven bulletproof Mercedes-Benz vehicles with flashing police lights.

Wang Dagou sat in the third car, looking at the terminal building getting further and further away through the rear window, and slapped his thigh.

"Brother Chen, do you think the system will give us a cashback after we spend five million US dollars?"

Jiang Chen leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed.

"you guess."

The phone screen lit up briefly. A system notification popped up silently.

[Ding! Host's spending has triggered the cashback mechanism. This spending: Five million US dollars (approximately 3.6 million RMB). Cashback amount: 3600 million RMB. Credited to account.]

Jiang Chen glanced at it and then turned off the screen.

made money.

The convoy drove onto the highway and sped towards downtown Kuala Lumpur.

The old man sat in the middle car, one hand tightly gripping the yellowed old photograph, the other hand clutching his cane.

He looked out the car window at the unfamiliar tropical street scene—coconut trees, the domes of mosques, colorful signs, and the humid, sultry air.

More than seventy years have passed.

It was from this very land that my great-grandfather sent back that photograph and that letter.

Jiang Wanshan's Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't speak.

The convoy drove through the bustling city center, with skyscrapers lining both sides.

But Jiang Chen stared at the radar interface of the bloodline tracker on his phone, and the location of that red dot was clearly not in these bright and shiny areas.

The red dot is in the North Zone.

A place he saw marked "Old Town" on the map.

The convoy turned a corner and drove off the main road.

The view outside the window began to change drastically.