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

The bald man knelt on the ground, slapping his own face with both hands.

"Slap! Slap! Slap!"

Each strike was louder and more forceful than the last.

After less than ten slaps, his cheeks swelled up like pig's heads, and his mouth was full of blood. He cried with snot and tears streaming down his face, his voice distorted.

"Boss! I was blind! I didn't know you were some big shot! Please put the gun away, it could go off accidentally and kill us!"

He crawled forward two steps on his knees, trying to hug Jiang Chen's leg.

Ding Xiu stepped forward to block him, placing one foot on his shoulder and pinning him to the spot.

Jiang Chen didn't even glance at the bald man.

"Charles."

"Boss."

"Throw these scumbags out. I don't want to see them in Kuala Lumpur again."

"Yes, sir."

Charles waved his hand.

The security guards herded the three or four hundred thugs kneeling on the ground out of both ends of the alley like cattle. The bald man was dragged away by two men, his legs leaving two watermarks on the ground, while he kept shouting, "Boss, spare my life!"

Five minutes later.

The entire old street is deserted.

Apart from the machetes and steel pipes scattered all over the ground and a few motorcycles that had been run over, it was as if nothing had happened.

The helicopter gradually ascended, and the sound of its rotors faded into the distance.

Armored vehicles were withdrawn to both ends of the street intersection to await orders. Security personnel were stationed at the intersection, armed to the teeth.

Behind the metal gates on both sides of the alley, the local Chinese who were peeking were all dumbfounded.

Jiang Chen turned around.

Jiang Yaohua was still standing next to the soy milk stall, his body stiff, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word.

In his ninety-six years of life, he had never seen anything like it.

Jiang Ming fared even worse, collapsing to the ground with his eyes glazed over, the half-eaten steamed bun still clutched in his hand, now crumpled into a dough ball.

Jiang Chen squatted down and patted Jiang Ming on the shoulder.

"It's alright. Get up."

Jiang Ming nodded mechanically, his legs still trembling.

Grandpa Jiang Wanshan walked to his younger brother's side with his cane and took Jiang Yaohua's hand in one hand.

"Don't be afraid. You'll gradually learn about Chen-ge'er's situation later."

Jiang Chen followed Jiang Yaohua into the tin shack.

He paused for a moment as he entered the room.

The room was dark and damp. A bare light bulb hung overhead, its wattage pitifully low, casting a dim, yellowish light. The room was barely thirty square meters. A small wooden bed was missing a leg, propped up in one corner by bricks. A dark, old iron pot sat on the floor, next to several bags of soybeans.

There was a broken fan in the corner, its blades covered in dust, probably broken for a long time.

A faded red paper was pasted on the headboard, with four characters written in calligraphy: "Descendants of the Jiang Family".

The strokes are crooked and uneven, but every stroke was made with force.

Jiang Yaohua's great-grandson—a seven or eight-year-old boy—was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with several patches, barefoot, hiding in the corner of the bed, too afraid to make a sound, his round eyes staring at the group of strangers.

Jiang Chen took in everything inside the room.

My heart felt like it was blocked by something.

The Jiang family's current assets include hundreds of billions in cash, gold mine-level system rebates, and even the village's security guards patrol in G-Wagons.

But his own bloodline has been drifting overseas for seventy years, living a life where they can't even afford to eat and stay warm.

A 96-year-old man is still pushing a stone mill to sell soy milk.

Jiang Chen walked out of the tin shack, stood at the door, and looked at the dilapidated old street.

The tin-roofed houses on both sides were crooked and leaning, the wires were a tangled mess, and the smell of stinking ditch fermented in the hot wind.

He turned his head and called out.

"Attorney Zhou".

Attorney Zhou immediately squeezed through the crowd, his briefcase tucked under his arm.

"arrive!"

"Go contact the owner of this old street. I don't care who he is, just get him to name a price. I'm buying this land."

Attorney Zhou pushed up his glasses, didn't ask why, and turned to leave.

Wang Dagou stood to the side, rubbing his hands together, seemingly wanting to say something but holding back.

"Brother Chen, is this place... worth buying?"

Jiang Chen did not answer his question.

Attorney Zhou was as efficient as ever. Half an hour later, he came running back with a thick stack of documents, his suit jacket completely soaked with sweat.

"Mr. Jiang, the property rights are held by a local wealthy businessman surnamed Lin, who holds the title of Datuk. When he heard we wanted to buy it, he asked for an outrageous price—two hundred million US dollars."

Wang Dagou nearly jumped up: "Two hundred million US dollars?! Why doesn't he just rob this dump?!"

Attorney Zhou shrugged: "This is ripping people off. The market value of this street is at most thirty million US dollars, but he asked for two hundred million. He clearly thinks we're suckers."

Jiang Chen leaned against the door frame, tore off a blade of grass, and put it in his mouth.

"Transfer money."

Attorney Zhou was taken aback.

"I want to see the name on the property certificate changed to Jiang Yaohua within ten minutes."

Wang Dagou's mouth was open, and he couldn't close it for a long time.

Without uttering another word, Attorney Zhou opened his laptop, connected to the satellite network, and began processing the cross-border transfer.

Ten minutes later.

Two hundred million US dollars.

One payment received.

Dato' Lim called back within three minutes.

According to Attorney Zhou, the voice on the other end of the phone was trembling like a leaf—he had originally thought these Chinese people would try to bargain, and had prepared his sales pitch to reduce the price from 200 million to 50 million. But the other party transferred the full amount without saying a word, which startled him so much that he thought he had misread the decimal point.

Half an hour later, Dato' Lim personally arrived at the old town with his legal team.

A fat man in his fifties, wearing a white linen suit, bowed and shook hands with Jiang Chen as soon as he saw him.

"Sir! It's a great honor to work with you! I will handle all the transfer procedures, and it can be completed as early as today!"

The entire afternoon, the legal team and Attorney Zhou were locked in a room requisitioned at the intersection, burying themselves in processing various documents.

Jiang Chen sat on a plastic stool next to the soy milk stall, keeping the old man and Jiang Yaohua company.

Six o'clock in the evening.

Attorney Zhou walked out carrying a stack of documents, a faint smile on his face.

"Mr. Jiang, it's all done. The permanent ownership of all the land and property in the entire Chinatown, totaling seventeen buildings and forty-six shops, has been transferred to Jiang Yaohua's name."

Jiang Chen took the stack of land deeds and rent collection ledgers and walked up to Jiang Yaohua.

"Great-grandfather."

He stuffed the thick stack of documents into the old man's hands.

"From today onwards, this street is yours. You don't need to sell soy milk anymore; just collect rent at the street corner every day."

Jiang Yaohua looked down at the land deed in his hand.

He can read. Although he spent seventy years in Southeast Asia, he never forgot a single Chinese character that his father taught him.

The land deed states—

Property owner: Jiang Yaohua.

His hands began to tremble.

His breathing became rapid, and he opened his lips several times, but no sound came out.

"This...this..."

Jiang Ming, who was standing next to him, peeked over and his legs went weak, and he almost sat down on the ground again.

"Grandpa...Grandpa...Does this describe the whole street?"

Jiang Yaohua's fingers, gripping the land deed, turned white, and large tears rolled down his cheeks, landing on the yellowed paper.

He took a step forward, bending his knee—

Jiang Chen caught him in his arms.

"Great-grandfather, this isn't customary in our family."

Wang Dagou rubbed his eyes vigorously, muttering, "The sand is too big."

Ding Xiu stood at a distance, expressionless, but he couldn't screw the thermos lid on properly after trying for a long time.

Jiang Wanshan looked at the stack of land deeds in his younger brother's hand, his grip on his cane tightening and loosening.

The old man didn't say a word.

He simply reached out and patted Jiang Chen on the back.

This strike carries more weight than any words.

The news spread within the Chinese community in Kuala Lumpur.

North Chinatown—that dilapidated slum neighborhood—was bought out in full by a young man from China for two hundred million US dollars in cash.

After buying it, I gave it to the old man who had been selling soy milk at the street corner for forty years.

Some people didn't believe it and came specifically to see for themselves.

Upon seeing the heavily armed international security personnel standing guard at the street corner, they immediately ran away again.

That evening, reporters from Sin Chew Daily, Kuala Lumpur's largest Chinese-language newspaper, waited outside the old street, but were stopped by Charles's men.

The phone screen lit up briefly.

[Ding! Host's spending has triggered the cashback mechanism. This spending: US$200 million (approximately RMB 14.4 billion). Cashback amount: RMB 144 billion. Credited to account.]

Jiang Chen glanced at it and turned off the screen.

My phone vibrated again in my pocket.

A call from Su Tianhao.

"Son-in-law! How come everyone in my business association group is talking about you buying a whole street in Kuala Lumpur?!"