The next morning, an uncharacteristic haze hung over Fenyang Town, muffling the usual clamor of the market and lending the air a peculiar stillness. Lin Yuan, with the economics primer now a permanent fixture in his worn backpack, made his way to the village's only internet café. It was known as the "Cyber Nest," a misnomer, for it was less a nest and more a dimly lit cave filled with the muted glow of outdated LCD screens and the rhythmic, incessant clicking of cheap keyboards. The proprietor, Mr. Hou, a portly man with perpetually stained fingers from too much instant coffee and cigarette smoke, merely grunted a greeting as Lin Yuan paid his 5 yuan for an hour of access.
Most patrons, a mix of restless teenagers and idle young men, were either lost in the pixelated worlds of online games like CrossFire or aimlessly scrolling through short video clips on Douyin. Lin Yuan, however, was on a mission. He'd spent the previous night sketching out rudimentary business plans on the back of discarded delivery receipts, each line a silent calculation. His gaze, accustomed to finding patterns in chaos, now focused intently on the digital world. While the internet in Fenyang was slow, often buffering, and expensive for his meager budget (a luxury at 5 yuan per hour when his best hourly wage was 8 yuan), it was a precious window to a larger reality. He typed in specific search queries into Baidu: "abandoned industrial properties Sichuan," "low-cost warehouse acquisition Fenyang," and "start-up capital small businesses China." The results were a torrent of information – official government property listings mixed with dubious private sales and countless ads for get-rich-quick schemes. He sifted through it with practiced patience, recognizing keywords, cross-referencing addresses with satellite maps he secretly accessed, noting discrepancies in reported land sizes and ownership histories.
His search led him, as before, to a niche online forum: "Sichuan Small Business Struggle & Support." It was a digital echo chamber of shared complaints, dashed hopes, and the occasional desperate plea for advice. But buried deep within threads, among posts lamenting high taxes and corrupt officials, he found a post that still resonated from his previous search: "Old Silk Mill – Abandoned for 17 years, owner desperate to sell. Prime location near defunct railway line. Any takers?" The timestamp showed it was months old, nearly seven months to be precise, posted by a user named 'FenyangHope'. It was almost certainly a dead lead, the kind of stale bread that offered no sustenance. But the mention of the "defunct railway line" near the village's forgotten industrial zone sparked a specific flicker in Lin Yuan's mind. He remembered seeing the mill, a hulking skeleton of rusted corrugated iron and shattered windows, a place everyone else dismissed as an eyesore and a hazard. A defunct railway line could be reactivated for logistics, or more importantly, re-purposed for infrastructure, perhaps a future road or even a power conduit. It was a long shot, a speculative flicker of opportunity, but in his world, a long shot was often the only shot worth taking.
As his hour of internet access neared its end, the system flashing a '1 minute remaining' warning, he overheard a frustrated shout from the next cubicle. A young man, probably in his early twenties, no older than 22 or 23, with a nervous tic in his left eye, slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it! Another delivery driver disappeared! This app is useless, absolutely useless!" This was Chen Guang, the very same individual from the previous chapter, his face now etched with more pronounced strain and a sheen of sweat. He was trying to run a small, independent online grocery delivery service called "Fenyang FreshGo," but his posture, slumped and defeated, spoke volumes of constant, systemic problems. His phone displayed a jumbled interface, clearly homemade, probably built by a local amateur programmer for a few hundred yuan.
Lin Yuan recognized the common pain point immediately. He'd delivered food; he knew the inefficiencies, the profound lack of trust that plagued such low-wage, high-turnover jobs. He leaned over, his voice quiet, calm. "Your drivers disappear with the orders, don't they? And the customers never receive their goods. You pay upfront, before confirmation."
Chen Guang, startled by the unexpected intrusion, glared at him, his brow furrowed. "Who are you? What do you know about my business?" His tone was defensive, a common reaction from small-time entrepreneurs who felt their struggles were unique.
"Lin Yuan," he said, calmly, his eyes assessing Chen Guang's desperation. "Your app, Fenyang FreshGo. It doesn't have a reliable GPS tracker, does it? Or a secure payment escrow system that holds funds until delivery is confirmed. You're bleeding money with every unreliable driver." He pointed to the basic, almost primitive interface on Chen Guang's phone. "Your user reviews on the local WeChat groups are full of complaints about missing items and late deliveries. Your routing algorithm is basic, inefficient. And you pay your drivers upfront, before confirmation. It's a system designed for fraud, and a perfect target for those looking for a quick, dishonest yuan." He spoke plainly, without a hint of judgment, merely stating observed facts, the way an engineer might diagnose a faulty machine.
Chen Guang, though initially defensive, slowly deflated. What Lin Yuan said was accurate, painfully so. He slumped back in his chair, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "So, what, you got a solution, smart guy? Think you're a tech expert?" he muttered, more defeated than sarcastic. He thought about the 700 yuan he'd already invested in his app, most of it borrowed from his elder sister, Chen Li, a demanding and skeptical woman who worked in the town's small bank. The 200 yuan lost from the vanished driver felt like a mountain of debt.
Lin Yuan leaned back slightly, his gaze quiet but intense, taking in Chen Guang's nervous energy, his desperation. "Maybe. But solutions aren't free. And they're not simple." He thought about the Old Silk Mill, the daunting need for capital, the endless grind of odd jobs. Here, in this dim internet café, was a potential connection, a small puzzle piece in his grander design. He wasn't just observing inefficiencies anymore; he was identifying leverage, a strategic point of entry. He knew that control was earned, not given, and sometimes, it began with a quiet, confident offer to fix someone else's broken system. The first whispers of his strategic mind beginning to weave threads of opportunity from the fabric of others' failures. He mentally added Chen Guang to his nascent, invisible ledger of potential assets and liabilities.