He was a blind man, after all; Chen Qing couldn't give him too much money, for fear it would make him a target.
This would do until the Blood Moon. When it drew near, he'd drag Uncle Xia into his home by force if he had to.
As he was thinking this, the feed factory happened to call:
"We can do it. Per your requirement, meat content around 8 percent, at 320 yuan more per ton."
That little?
Chen Qing was taken aback. A ton normally sold for 3,000; adding meat raised it by only 10 percent.
But on reflection, it wasn't strange—for one, the meat content was low; for another, the meat used was nothing fine.
"Make it 3,300 then. Start with 1,000 tons. Send me your account number."
The other end paused a moment. He'd never seen anyone do business like this.
But he sent the account right away.
3.3 million was transferred over at once.
Soon the phone rang again, the tone much more courteous now:
"Sir, may I ask how to address you..."
At this point he found it absurd himself.
He didn't even know the man's surname, yet 3.3 million had just been wired over—weren't they afraid he was a con artist?
"Surname Chen."
"Time's a bit tight, so get production going. Just notify me when it's ready."
"Will do! I'll send you a number that's on 24 hours—any instructions at all, just tell me."
Hanging up, Chen Qing called Manager Yang again.
"Manager Yang, you got an empty warehouse I could borrow? A week at most."
"I do. There are three empty warehouses in the High-Tech Zone in the north of the city. Go anytime; I'll put in a word whenever you need."
"Thanks!"
"Don't mention it."
Wasting no time, he took a cab straight to the High-Tech Zone by the address.
Before the Ghost Tide, this place had run nearly 24 hours a day.
The Ghost Tide's impact on the north was minimal, but from the current warehouse vacancy rate, you could tell it had already touched every corner of life.
All three warehouses were huge, easily over ten thousand square meters, and what Chen Qing liked best was the conveyor belts.
They ran straight from the back door of the warehouse through to the front.
Best of all, the conveyor also passed through two security scanners, and the whole warehouse was divided by those two scanners into three zones.
The three zones couldn't see one another.
In short, he'd just have them package the food and set it on the conveyor.
Chen Qing dug out a phone number:
"I'm VIP card number 527. Any discount for booking a banquet at your hotel?"
"Yes, sir! Anywhere within the city, book a full table's worth and we deliver it packaged, with compensation for late arrival. Over 50 tables, and we've even got mobile catering vans—we can cook on-site."
Chen Qing knew this, and asked, "How much per table?"
"Depends on the dishes—there are five tiers, from 688 to 4,888. The standard for a 688 table is..."
"Tell me about the 4,888 one."
"Er, the 4,888-yuan table has 18 dishes: an exquisite eight-cold-plate selection, garlic Australian lobster, poached prawns, wine-fragrant stuffed fish, huadiao jumbo crab, secret-recipe braised ox head, scallion-oil Dalian abalone, lotus-scented stewed soft-shell turtle..."
The height of delicacy.
But it all sounded like a gout attack waiting to happen.
He asked about the other tiers too; the 688 was home-style stuff—sweet-and-sour ribs, twice-cooked pork, meatball soup, and the like.
Which was, in fact, more to his taste.
Truly the fate of a poor man...
"Book 100 tables of the 4,888. 500 tables of the 1,288. 1,000 tables of the 688."
"Uh... are you sure, sir?"
The other end paused.
A hundred tables already counted as a very large banquet.
A scale of 1,600 tables was unheard of.
And besides... the great taboo at a banquet is having tables at different tiers.
If you're short on money, better to halve every table's dishes or drop them two tiers than to have some tables fine and others shabby.
So for now he took Chen Qing for a prank caller having a laugh.
Or a scam call.
But in the service trade, all he could do was smile along.
"Bring it to the High-Tech Zone warehouse district, then—Zone C, Warehouse 2-11."
"So sorry, sir, but because the volume you've ordered is a bit extreme, we'll need to collect a deposit before we can come."
"Oh, how much?"
"The total is 1.82 million; we collect a 20 percent deposit. That's 364,000."
"Your account number?"
The operator recited the account, sneering inwardly.
This scam script was far too old.
He'd probably say something next about a frozen bank card, followed by a heap of hoary tricks—click the link in the text message, that sort of thing...
"Holy shit!"
As he was thinking it, a voice suddenly shouted out:
"There's a 1,600-table order in the warehouse district?!"
"Are they trying to feed the whole damn city?!"
The operator froze.
"Wh... what?"
Wasn't this obviously a scammer—how was it turning out to be real?!
"Quick, quick, quick, quick! Everyone, move!"
"Cook Team One, get moving with the ingredients for 100 tables of home-style dishes; everyone else, go buy materials, now!"
"Call every supplier—this order absolutely cannot fall through!"
The operator blinked, and said hesitantly, "It's... a scam, isn't it?"
"The deposit's already been wired! Scam your damn head!"
The whole hotel sprang into motion.
Everyone was astonished. 1,600 tables—were they throwing a feast for the entire city?
The hotel moved fast; the mobile catering vans reached the warehouse district in no time, only for the cooks to be dumbfounded.
Where were the people?
Just one guy?
Where were the banquet guests?
"Where... uh, Mr. Chen, where are the people eating?"
"This is an urgent task. Never mind that—just package every portion and set it on the conveyor belt. Someone at the back of the warehouse will haul it away."
"You lot stay up front in the loading area. Absolutely no going to the back to look."
"Don't overthink, don't ask, don't be curious."
The head cook felt a jolt in his chest, and any number of guesses sprang to mind at once.
His gaze at Chen Qing was already utterly changed.
"Could it be... the Ghost-Control Army?"
"This young man—as young as he is, he must be a real big shot in the Ghost-Control Army!"
Burning with curiosity, but forcing himself not to pry, he simply called to his fellows and set to work laying things out.
It was a semi-trailer van.
Once the switch was flipped, the doors on both sides opened, and with a rumble it slowly extended into a space of roughly 7 by 7 meters.
The cooks were quick, and soon they were bustling away.
The rhythmic chop-chop-chop of prep work rose in a chorus.
The conveyor belts inside the warehouse were all covered with plastic sheeting; lifted off, they looked brand-new.
And the food was all packaged anyway, so even a little dust was no concern.
Whoosh—roar!
The fire was lit.
The heat was fierce, the dishes coming fast, and soon the first one traveled across half the warehouse to arrive before Chen Qing.
He opened it: stir-fried pork slices, steaming hot and fragrant.
Chen Qing was thoroughly pleased, and stored it in the Demon-Suppressing Pagoda.
A 15,000-to-1 time differential—which meant that even taken out ten or twenty years later, the dish would still be hot.
He and Chen Man could live out the rest of their lives in comfort.
Then the second portion, the third...
The hundredth, the two hundredth...
Two hours later, the pace of dishes suddenly doubled.
The second batch of hands must have arrived.
Kept this busy, evening soon came.
He called Chen Man to tell him to eat and sleep on his own, then wolfed down a couple of boxed meals himself.
And threw himself back into the work.
He was collecting the dishes with mind-force.
By now Chen Qing was utterly exhausted, but... his mind-force seemed, faintly, to be growing stronger.
Could this also count as a kind of cultivation?