The late afternoon sun, a bruised orange bleeding across the dusty sky of Fenyang Town, cast long, distorted shadows as Lin Yuan walked away from the Old Silk Mill. The confrontation with Boss Wei had been a calculated risk, a necessary provocation to mark his territory and subtly challenge the existing order. He knew that to truly gain the "Shadow Throne," one had to first understand and then dismantle the crude, fear-based power structures that had held Fenyang in a stagnant grip for generations. Boss Wei represented the brute force, the old money, the pervasive influence, a relic of a bygone era. Lin Yuan, however, was the quiet current, the unseen hand, the inexorable future – a future not built on intimidation, but on meticulous calculation, strategic leverage, and the cold, unyielding logic of the market.
He didn't head straight home to his humble shophouse. Instead, his path led him to the district library, a squat, utilitarian building with a surprisingly elegant, if faded, crimson gate, standing incongruously beside a bustling local clinic where a weary-looking Nurse Jing was just ending her shift. The library's interior smelled faintly of old paper, the dry, almost medicinal scent of ancient dust, and the hushed whispers of forgotten dreams. Inside, among the worn shelves that creaked under the collective weight of outdated volumes, he sought out obscure texts on local property law, specifically scrutinizing Fenyang Ordinance No. 37, 'Industrial Re-use Permits', a complex, multi-page document he'd previously only skimmed. He also located practical guides to industrial blueprints dating back to the era when the republic was still young, approximately six to seven decades prior. He spent nearly three and a half hours, his focus absolute, oblivious to the occasional curious glance from the librarian, Ms. Liao, a sharp-eyed woman in her late fifties who often wondered what a boy from the poorer district spent so much time reading in the dusty history section. She watched him, a faint, unreadable curiosity in her eyes.
Lin Yuan meticulously cross-referenced information about the Old Silk Mill's original construction permits from that initial period, its last registered owner (Mr. Gao's grandfather, Gao Ming, whose name appeared on several faded land deeds), and any documented disputes or liens that might complicate ownership transfer. He discovered the mill, a once-thriving textile producer, had been formally declared defunct and decommissioned over a decade prior, lying fallow for precisely seventeen years, a period during which it had steadily accrued environmental and structural degradation. Its last official valuation, a mere formality for bank records conducted a few years prior during a brief, localized property assessment boom, had been 1.8 million yuan, a figure ridiculously inflated for its current, dilapidated condition. He mentally adjusted the numbers, knowing that paper valuations rarely reflected true market distress or the hidden costs of neglect. He suspected Boss Wei's "fair price" of 800,000 yuan was still a predatory offer, designed for a quick, brutal liquidation of a desperate asset, factoring in little beyond scrap metal and cheap land.
Lin Yuan knew the true salvage value of the mill, in its current state, was likely less than 250,000 yuan after accounting for demolition, hazardous material disposal (a potential issue with old industrial sites he needed to investigate), and basic cleanup costs. This figure could even be lower if extensive environmental remediation was required, a detail he made a solemn mental note to research further, perhaps by discreetly consulting municipal environmental reports. But its potential value, once meticulously repurposed, could easily exceed 2.5 million yuan within the first two years of operation, possibly even reaching 6 million yuan within five years, if his audacious vision for a Community Innovation Hub materialized. This was the vast chasm between Boss Wei's myopic focus on quick profits and Lin Yuan's long-term, exponential calculus, a game of chess where Boss Wei was playing checkers.
His next stop was a small, bustling hardware store on the outskirts of the market, "Fenyang Hardware & Supplies," a chaotic symphony of metal, wood, and the faint scent of oil. It was run by an elderly, perpetually grumpy but honest man known only as Uncle Hu, whose weathered face and perpetually stained apron spoke of decades of hard labor. Lin Yuan had been a frequent customer for odd bits and pieces for various repairs in his humble shophouse or for his countless odd jobs, always paying promptly, always polite, earning a rare nod of grudging respect from the old man. He lingered near the section for electrical wiring, his gaze drawn to a thick roll of heavy-gauge industrial cable, its copper strands glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights, priced at a daunting 250 yuan per meter. An impatient delivery boy for a local restaurant rushed past, nearly knocking over a display of hammers, adding to the store's typical clamor.
"Uncle Hu," Lin Yuan began, his voice calm, pitched just right to catch the old man's attention without startling him, "I need to understand something about industrial electrical systems. If one were to, theoretically, re-power an old factory... what kind of issues would one face? What would be the common pitfalls for someone with limited capital?"
Uncle Hu, without looking up from polishing a rusty wrench with a practiced, rhythmic motion, grunted. "Rusty circuits, boy. Corroded conduits, wiring that's probably been chewed through by rats and time. You'd need a complete overhaul. Expensive. Very expensive. And you'd need a permit from the Electric Power Bureau, a safety inspection from the Fire Department, and then... bribe many hands. That's the Fenyang way." He spat a stream of dark tobacco juice into a nearby spittoon with a soft thwack, his eyes briefly meeting Lin Yuan's over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Why? You thinking of playing factory boss? Thought you were a delivery boy, not some big-shot investor." His tone held a hint of genuine curiosity, rare for the old man.
"Just curiosity, Uncle Hu," Lin Yuan replied, allowing a faint, almost imperceptible smile to touch his lips. He knew Uncle Hu was a font of local, unfiltered information, a man who saw the grime beneath the polished surface of every deal and every regulation. "Hypothetically, what would a minimum, viable power supply cost for, say, a hundred small workstations? Not heavy machinery, just computers, lights, small office air conditioning units. Nothing industrial, just enough for a startup."
Uncle Hu pondered for a moment, scratching his grizzled chin with a calloused finger, then began listing figures from memory, a surprising depth of knowledge behind his gruff exterior: 15,000 yuan for a basic new circuit board, 8,000 yuan for replacement copper wiring for the entire building's skeleton, 3,000 yuan for updated fuse boxes and safety breakers. He quoted numbers for industrial-grade, but energy-efficient, LED light fixtures (80 yuan per unit, needing at least fifty for adequate lighting, totaling 4,000 yuan), and entry-level inverter air conditioning units (3,500 yuan each, needing at least four for a space that size, totaling 14,000 yuan). The mental tally in Lin Yuan's head spiraled past 44,000 yuan just for basic utilities, not even considering extensive structural repairs, a new roof, or basic furnishing. His current total cash on hand from his meager odd jobs barely touched 800 yuan, meticulously saved over months. The gap was immense, a towering mountain range.
As he was leaving Uncle Hu's, his ancient flip phone buzzed with an incoming message – a rare occurrence, as he typically avoided unnecessary calls or texts to save on his meager phone credit. It was from Chen Guang, the struggling owner of Fenyang FreshGo: "Hey, Lin Yuan. That delivery driver I told you about? He vanished. Completely. Took my last five orders for Old Lady Liu's Pharmacy, Master Zhang's Bookstore, and three other customers. Now I'm in the hole for 200 yuan to the customers, and my reputation is in tatters. I don't know what to do! I'm desperate, truly desperate." The message was rife with exclamation marks and question marks, highlighting Chen Guang's panic.
Lin Yuan's mind clicked into gear, like a well-oiled machine finding its next gear. This was not a problem; it was an open door, a crack in the wall he could exploit. Chen Guang's desperation was an asset, a point of leverage, a perfectly timed opportunity. He responded simply, concisely, carefully avoiding excessive characters to save his phone credit: "Meet me at the Cyber Nest tomorrow morning, 9 AM. Bring your phone, all delivery records, and every user complaint you've received. Don't pay the customers back yet. And don't talk to anyone else about this."
He then walked home, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of fiery red and deep purple, reflecting off the stagnant puddles in the cracked pavement. He passed the Fenyang No. 1 High School, its windows glowing with the harsh fluorescent lights of the Gaokao cram school. Silhouettes of students, hunched over desks, practiced endlessly for the national college entrance exam, their dreams pinned on escaping Fenyang to big cities like Chengdu or Beijing, of white-collar jobs, of stability. But even in a big city, without capital, without a network, they were still small fish in a massive ocean, often struggling with high rents and fierce competition. His "Community Innovation Hub" was not just a business idea; it was a lifeline, a chance to provide the very tools he wished he had: affordable space, reliable internet, and, critically, a network of support, a place where people could grow without being exploited by the likes of Boss Wei.
Back in his tiny room, the single bare bulb illuminating his worn desk and casting dancing shadows on the peeling wallpaper, Lin Yuan pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from a discarded exam pad. He began to draw. Not abstract diagrams, but concrete schematics: the layout of the Old Silk Mill, broken down into 100 rentable workstations, each approximately 4 square meters in size, meticulously planned for optimal space utilization, with calculated walkways and common areas. He calculated the potential monthly rent per workstation at 150 yuan, a mere fraction of commercial rates even in Fenyang, but enough to generate a projected 15,000 yuan per month once fully occupied. His current financial position was a stark -200 yuan (factoring in the value of the stolen packages Chen Guang was now liable for, which Lin Yuan mentally took on as his first "investment," a personal guarantee of success).
He listed the immediate, critical costs, his pencil scratching on the paper:
* Legal fees for property acquisition and permit processing (estimated 3,500 yuan minimum, accounting for potential 'expediting fees' for bureaucratic speed, possibly paid to an unnamed clerk in the Land Bureau).
* Basic structural repairs (estimated 12,000 yuan for critical roof patching, reinforcing load-bearing walls, clearing internal debris like old machinery remnants).
* Electrical overhaul (estimated 26,000 yuan based on Uncle Hu's detailed figures, including a new main breaker panel).
* Internet installation (estimated 1,500 yuan for a basic fiber optic connection from China Telecom, reliable enough for small businesses).
* Basic furniture (used tables and chairs, estimated 5,000 yuan from a bulk purchase from a recently closed school cafeteria).
* Total estimated initial capital needed for minimum viability: ~48,000 yuan.
The number was astronomical, a sheer cliff face. He felt a fleeting tremor of the enormity of it, a stark contrast to his meagre 800 yuan. But Lin Yuan saw it not as an insurmountable obstacle, but as a series of smaller, surmountable hills, each requiring a specific strategy. He also began to consider the "soft" costs: the countless hours spent navigating municipal bureaucracy, the psychological drain of Boss Wei's inevitable interference, the challenge of attracting and retaining tenants in a skeptical town. He added a crucial line item at the bottom of his ledger: "Contingency for unexpected interference and operational buffer: 25% of capital." This brought his needed capital to closer to 60,000 yuan.
He then started on a detailed, step-by-step plan to acquire that capital. Part of it, he knew, would have to come from fixing Chen Guang's broken delivery service, transforming it into a profitable, reliable venture. He had to prove his worth, not with words, but with tangible, undeniable results. The rest... the rest would have to be earned, borrowed through unconventional means, or found in the hidden, forgotten corners of this economically stagnant town. He traced the words "Lin Yuan" on the paper, then "Legacy of the Shadow Throne." The name felt heavy, a burden and a promise. He knew the first stone of his empire would not be laid with gold, but with a silent, unflinching resolve, one meticulous calculation at a time.