Farming Life Starting in Africa

Rosen went upstairs to the second floor, pushed open the bedroom door, plopped down at the computer desk, took another big gulp of Levitra, and let out a comfortable burp.

"Sure, where shall we trade?"

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone, then the voice on the other end rang again, this time with a laugh, "Ten o'clock, the deal will be made at the bonfire party."

Rosen raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching slightly. A bonfire party would be a crowded and chaotic place, yet he chose to make his deal there.

"How have you managed to survive this long, being so flamboyant?"

There was a chuckle on the other end of the phone, a hint of smugness in it. "Honey badger, there's an old Chinese saying—the more dangerous the place, the safer it is."

Rosen didn't respond to that.

"Bring enough gold tonight."

"Don't worry, you'll get your share. I've also prepared a little surprise for you."

The phone hangs up.

Rosen tossed his phone onto the bed, stood up, and began to undress. His muscular physique was revealed, and he walked barefoot into the bathroom.

The bathroom wasn't big, but it had everything you needed. The toilet was a very basic squat toilet; you had to reach in and pull the rope holding the tank. The showerhead was solar-powered; a black plastic bucket sat on the roof, and after a day in the sun, the water was so hot it could scald pig bristles.

Rosen first tested the water temperature, and it was indeed too hot. He turned the cold water valve to the maximum and waited a while before the water temperature dropped to a tolerable level. Rosen has always disliked the stimulation of cold water, even when it's very hot.

Water sprayed from the showerhead, hitting his shoulders and running down the lines of his muscles.

Rosen closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the water splash on his face and hair. Water droplets dripped down his straight nose and well-defined chin, slid over his firm muscles, and landed on the floor tiles, splashing up tiny water droplets.

This bedroom is considered a luxury in Ullr, but only relatively speaking. It has clean water, electricity, air conditioning, and internet, and there's a reliable black guy downstairs who looks after the house. The only thing missing is being addressed as "master," which makes him feel completely lost.

After taking a shower, Rosen felt much more relaxed. The hot water washed away the sweat and dirt, and he lay down on the bed shirtless, his wet hair sprawling on the pillow, feeling cool and comfortable, which made him hum softly.

I closed my eyes, and my consciousness sank into the capsule space.

The all-purpose platform sat quietly in the very center, its silver-gray surface gleaming with a cold light, resembling a large metal coffin. It looked a bit creepy, but it was truly amazing to use.

The assembly of the two downgraded racing drones is nearing completion.

Rosen swiped his fingers across the platform's control panel a few times, and a holographic projection appeared, unfolding the drone's structural diagram layer by layer, like an anatomical illustration. With these two finished today, a total of four drones and ten racing drones have been produced this month.

His handmade drones and racing drones have been selling really well lately.

There are genuine products on the market, but they are far inferior to what he makes. His product has a much longer battery life than others on the market, is quieter, and night vision can be added.

Moreover, this thing can be customized to meet individual customer needs. Even if you want thermal imaging, that's fine too, just pay extra.

Take Old Zhou, for example. He occasionally deals in weapons or something, but he's extremely cautious, always afraid of being ambushed when he goes out.

With this Lawson drone, you can take it off and circle around to see at a glance whether there are ambushes or pursuers within a radius of several kilometers. It has an extremely high cost performance.

If someone dies while you hire them for security or reconnaissance, you have to pay compensation. If a drone explodes, you can just buy another one.

Old Zhou's real name is Zhou Weijie. He doesn't actually know where he's from. He went abroad with his family when he was five years old and has never returned since. His passport has long since expired.

After his parents died, he grew up in different Chinese families, relying on the kindness of many. However, the person who had the greatest influence on him was an old man from Guangzhou, who taught him all his skills.

This guy roams among various African tribes year-round, maintaining good relations with those informal local armed groups, and can exchange weapons for gold from them.

The sources of gold in this area are always varied. Once the gold is in Rosen's hands, he can take it to Sangkujia Town and exchange it for a good price with Old Lin from Hanbang Steel Factory.

However, Rosen's ultimate dream was no longer to build nuclear bombs. Those things were too dangerous and too fiery. If he accidentally messed it up, it wouldn't just be about building nuclear bombs; he would likely be the one to die first. He still wanted to stay in the human world for a few more years.

He's been trying to figure out how to get his hands on a US dollar bill's printing plate. He wants to help Americans print some money to spend in order to improve the sluggish state of the dollar consumer market.

It was completely dark outside. In the yard, Patrick was struggling with the charcoal in front of the tin grill.

This black guy seems to be completely clueless when it comes to fire. He's almost used up half a box of solid alcohol, but the charcoal is still the same color it should be, showing no sign of turning red.

Just then, someone shouted at the entrance of the courtyard.

"Xiao Luo—come out quickly—I brought you some cured meat from China—"

The voice was loud and clear, full of energy, and could be heard clearly even through the wall. Patrick looked up and saw a crew-cut Asian man striding in, followed by a tall, thin Black man.

"Brother Miao!" Patrick called out in his heavily accented Mandarin, then stammered out a few Chinese words, "The boss... is... in the studio."

He called him "Brother Miao" quite smoothly. Miao Feng came by often, and Patrick's impression of him was just one thing—a Chinese man, a good person. He once gave him a bag of White Rabbit milk candy, which was so sweet that it gave Patrick's teeth aches for three days. In the end, Patrick gave it all to his father-in-law. He believed that since people get old, it doesn't matter whether they have teeth or not.

Miao Feng immediately noticed the pile of unlit charcoal next to Patrick, then glanced at the nearly empty bottle of alcohol beside him and couldn't help but chuckle. "Hey, are you guys having a barbecue tonight?"

"The boss bought a sheep from my father-in-law's yesterday," Patrick said with a proud grin. "I spent all day stringing it up and got it all done."

Miao Feng shoved the piece of cured meat in his hand into Patrick's arms. The cured meat was wrapped in newspaper, and the oil had soaked through many layers of paper. You could smell the smoky aroma even through the newspaper.

"Alright, take this inside, and while you're at it, bring out the skewered meat. I'll take care of starting the fire, Hassan, you just watch and learn from me."

Patrick looked down at the cured meat in his arms, then at Miao Feng, and hesitated. He knew that if he couldn't get the fire going, he could forget about having a barbecue tonight.

Patrick chuckled twice, grabbed the cured meat, and dashed into the house. In his mind, anything given by the boss's friends was a good thing. And anyone Chinese was a good person. No problem.