Maina and the captain leave first. Maximus stands up, politely greets Zihao and Aldo with a knowing smile, then leaves as well.
Zihao exhales a long breath.— "We should go too."
Aldo nods. The two leave the conference room, descending the marble steps into the central square of Tarif—a city steeped in Islamic-Arabic architecture, adorned with intricately carved domes, red-brick-paved streets, and bustling marketplaces filled with people.
The scent of Eastern spices, the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the calls of merchants blend together, painting a vivid picture of a thriving economy.
Aldo and Zihao walk leisurely, weaving through the crowd, conversing about their business.— "After this conference, I'll focus on bamboo paper, bamboo fabric, and wine," Zihao says, his eyes scanning the lively streets.
Aldo gives a slight nod.— "As for me, I'll push Helene to restart enzyme production as soon as possible."
Zihao tilts his head.— "How is Helene doing these days?"
Helene, a brilliant engineer who designed and operated the enzyme extraction machinery for Aldo, had her life upended after the Bone Collector incident. A deranged lich, infamous for kidnapping children and livestock to turn them into monsters, had attacked Helene's team. In the battle, a curse had completely altered her body—from male to female.
Zihao, the one who had saved Helene at the time, had always taken a special interest in her condition.
Aldo remains silent for a moment before replying.— "Biologically speaking, Helene is now fully female. But her personality remains the same—tough, decisive, and brutally straightforward. The issue is, no one knows how female hormones will affect her brain and subconscious in the long run."
Zihao nods slightly.— "Regardless, the Bone Collector disrupted enzyme production for nearly a week. The supply is critically low right now."
— "I know. I'm accelerating production. In two weeks, enzymes will be back on the market, along with bioethanol."
Zihao raises an eyebrow.— "You have me curious. Why choose to produce organic chemicals in a post-medieval world like Terre?"
Aldo shrugs.— "This world's market is tightly controlled by trade guilds. They monopolize almost every essential commodity—from food and weapons to handcrafted goods. If I want industrialization, I need a sector they can't easily control. Organic chemicals are the best option."
Zihao smiles faintly.— "I see. I'll also push forward with capitalist expansion."
Aldo glances at Zihao, his gaze sharpening.— "You're Chinese. Why choose capitalism over socialism?"
Zihao turns to face Aldo directly.— "And you? You're Vietnamese. Why choose capitalism? And why do you seem to favor it so much?"
Both fall silent.
The voices of merchants calling out their wares, the clinking of gold coins, and the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carts on stone roads fill the square.
Across the street, a silversmith haggles with a Persian merchant, while a group of belly dancers performs in front of a tea house.
A child dashes by, clutching a warm loaf of bread, laughing gleefully.
A pickpocket, swift as a shadow, snatches a coin pouch from a nobleman. But before he can flee, a guard swings his spear, blocking his escape.
The crowd flows like a never-ending river.
Tarif Square, beneath the golden afternoon sun, bustles with life. The gilded domes glisten under the sunlight, while narrow alleyways branch out like tree roots, where merchants fiercely compete to sell goods from all across Mikhland.
The rich aroma of Eastern spices, the scent of freshly baked bread, mingling with the musky fragrance of perfumes and the olive oil from roadside stalls. Intricately embroidered carpets spread beneath vibrant kiosks, gleaming glazed pottery, and gemstone-encrusted jewelry—everywhere, a scene as lively as a painting.
In one corner, a group of musicians plays a cheerful tune on an oud, a ney flute, and a darbuka drum. Nearby, a troupe of belly dancers twirls in shimmering, sheer garments, their silk veils fluttering in the wind.
Aldo and Zihao stroll through the square, letting the city's energy seep into their thoughts. They remain silent at first, each lost in contemplation.
— "After this conference, I'll focus on bamboo paper, bamboo fabric, and wine," Zihao finally says, his eyes still following the bustling crowd.
Aldo raises an eyebrow but doesn't look surprised.— "A safe choice. Bamboo grows fast, is cheap to cultivate, and has countless applications."
Zihao chuckles softly.— "You say that like you already predicted it."
Aldo shrugs.— "It wasn't hard to guess. You prefer stable, low-risk ventures. Bamboo paper has the potential to replace parchment, while bamboo fabric is lightweight, breathable, and could compete with silk. As for wine, it's a long-term market you can exploit."
Zihao nods, not denying it.— "And you? What are your next plans?"
Aldo instinctively rests a hand on the hilt of his dagger, a habit whenever he thinks seriously.— "I'll push Helene to restart enzyme production as soon as possible."
At the mention of her name, Zihao hesitates briefly before turning to Aldo.— "How is Helene doing now?"
Aldo takes a deep breath before answering.— "Biologically, Helene is now fully female. But her personality hasn't changed—she's still tough, decisive, and scarily direct. The real question is how female hormones will influence her brain and subconscious over time."
Zihao nods slightly. "This guy answers so mechanically inclined", he thinks to himself.
— Anyway, Bone Collector has disrupted the enzyme production chain for almost a week. The supply is extremely scarce right now.— I know. I'm pushing production back on track. In the next two weeks, enzymes will roll out again—along with bioethanol.
Zihao raises an eyebrow.— You're making me curious. Why choose to produce organic chemicals in a late medieval world like Terre?
Aldo glances at Zihao, his gaze growing heavier.— This world's market is tightly controlled by trade guilds. They monopolize almost every essential commodity—from food and weapons to handcrafted goods. If I want industrialization, I need a field that no one has the capacity to dominate yet. Organic chemicals are the best choice.
Zihao thinks for a moment, then chuckles softly.— Sounds reasonable. I'll accelerate the capitalization process as well.
Aldo shoots Zihao a sharp look.— You're Chinese. Why choose capitalism over socialism?
Zihao raises an eyebrow slightly, then turns to look at Aldo.— And you? You're Vietnamese—why choose capitalism? And why do you seem to favor it so much?
Silence.
The voices of merchants hawking their goods, the clinking of gold coins, and the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestone streets echo throughout the square.
In the distance, a street vendor waves a skewer of roasted lamb, its aroma drifting through a thin wisp of smoke. A child dashes past, clutching a warm loaf of bread, laughing gleefully.
Across the street, a silversmith haggles fiercely with a Persian merchant, while a troupe of belly dancers performs in front of a tea house.
A pickpocket, quick as lightning, snatches a coin pouch from a nobleman. But before he can escape, a guard swings his spear, blocking his path.
The crowd flows like a never-ending river.
Amidst the bustling scene, Aldo and Zihao remain still.
A prolonged silence stretches between them, as if both are carefully weighing the question.
Until one of them finally speaks, breaking it.
— I prefer the freedom that capitalism offers. Aldo shrugs, answering Zihao's earlier question.
Zihao smiles faintly, his eyes following a merchant bargaining with a customer.— As for me, it's family influence. It's tradition.
Aldo raises an eyebrow, his sharp gaze searching for deeper meaning.— Tradition? He tilts his head. But China hasn't been capitalist since the '50s.
Zihao isn't surprised by the question. He replies calmly:— China reopened its economy under Deng Xiaoping.
Aldo nods but keeps a skeptical look.— But you used the word "tradition." He emphasizes the term.
Zihao pauses briefly, then speaks slowly.— My paternal family were long-established merchants in Shandong. When the Kuomintang rose to power, they supported them wholeheartedly. My great-grandfather even joined the Kuomintang army, fought against the Japanese, and later against the Chinese Communist Party.
Aldo raises an eyebrow, slightly intrigued.— And then?
Zihao gives a faint smirk.— In 1947, as the civil war escalated, the entire family fled China and moved to the U.S.
— What did they do there?
— At first, just small-scale trading. But after a few decades, they built a thriving business empire.
Aldo crosses his arms, his gaze turning keener.— The U.S. was extremely racist back then. Chinese people faced heavy discrimination. How did your family manage to succeed?
Zihao chuckles lightly, a glint of pride in his eyes.— Because three factors help Asian communities rise despite being a minority: an extreme work ethic, strong community ties, and smart business strategies.
Aldo nods, as if understanding.— And what happened next?
Zihao continues:— By 1980, my grandfather decided to return to China and founded an agricultural processing and paper manufacturing company. In 2000, my father came back to inherit his legacy. That same year, he married my mother—a beautiful Zhuang woman.
Aldo smirks.— So your family is not only wealthy but also ethnically diverse.
— Exactly. Zihao nods. In 2001, my eldest sister Meilin was born, then my second sister Ai in 2002, and finally, me in 2008.
Aldo thinks for a moment before asking:— So that means you grew up in China from the start?
Zihao nods.— That's right.
Aldo narrows his eyes.— Did you feel different from your peers?
Zihao gives a small, knowing smile.— One of the most obvious differences was how I approached learning. He pauses briefly, then continues. The school curriculum was relatively easy for me—thanks to good genetics, a strong family background, and a faster learning speed than most people.
Aldo watches him with curious eyes.— And how is your family business doing now?
Zihao answers without hesitation:— The company has 28 factories—18 for agricultural processing and 10 for paper manufacturing. We employ 7,000 workers, generate around $1 billion in annual profit, and have an estimated valuation of $10 billion.
Aldo raises an eyebrow, subtly surprised.— $10 billion? Your family controls a corporation of this scale and still doesn't align with the government?
Zihao chuckles.— No. My family neither bribes nor associates with provincial officials. That's why the company often gets inspected, but we always meet the standards—so there's never been a problem.
Aldo nods, seeming to grasp the complexities of China's business landscape.Then he asks:— How did your peers treat you? Were they jealous or biased against you?
Zihao exhales, a trace of weariness in his eyes.— Some were overly eager to curry favor with me. But most resented my family background.
Aldo leans in, more intrigued.— What did they resent?
Zihao shrugs, his gaze turning cold.— They called me a descendant of traitors, saying my family once opposed the nation. Some labeled me a "rotten capitalist" just because our company wasn't state-owned. Others even accused me of being a "Western lackey."
Aldo chuckles softly.— Such strong ideological convictions.
— Yeah. But I don't care. Zihao smirks. I was born with everything they could never have. Their jealousy doesn't change a thing.
Aldo remains silent, studying Zihao carefully.
Amidst the bustling square, two teenagers—whose minds and ambitions surpass the era of this world—continue their conversation, where ideologies, perspectives, and pasts intertwine like the crisscrossing streets of this crowded city.
After a while of conversation, Aldo slowly walks away, his figure quickly disappearing into the bustling crowd. Zihao remains standing in the square, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze following the stream of people passing by.
The atmosphere here stays as lively as ever, with market stalls crammed along the stone-paved streets, filled with the chatter of buyers and sellers. Merchants from all over gather, creating a vibrant scene with all kinds of goods—fabrics, food, pottery, herbs… The calls of vendors, the haggling of customers, and the hurried footsteps blend together into a chaotic yet energetic symphony.