Jingang City, Bay Area, the exclusive residence of the influential—lavishly called a villa.
The Federation elite had a peculiar fondness for “heaviness,” particularly those in high society. They adored aristocratic aesthetics, where everything exuded opulence, elegance, and grandeur.
Their studies reflected this preference: towering bookshelves, wide and hefty desks, red or white high-back chairs accented with gold trim. Fine cashmere rugs covered the floors, often accompanied by a globe in the corner, antique decor, or even mounted animal specimens.
The room itself was no exception. Senator Williams sat in a chair with a pipe in his mouth, while opposite him sat his son, Arthur.
Arthur, in his early twenties, had platinum blond hair and striking looks—traits he inherited from his mother. Senator Williams, over sixty, had an air of lethargy typical of his age, though in Jingang City, no one dared underestimate his influence or power.
Despite his half-closed eyes, a glimmer of sharpness occasionally escaped through the narrow slits. Arthur, who was known for his arrogance outside, sat before his father as meek as a quail.
“The Temperance Organization is coming in a few days,” Senator Williams said sternly. “You’d better not do anything stupid. If you do, I’ll personally throw you in jail.”
Arthur nodded hastily. “I’ll stay in the manor and go nowhere.”
The senator glanced at him, trying to discern whether his son was serious or merely placating him. Seeing Arthur’s earnest expression, he felt a faint sense of relief. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t do anything—just don’t cause trouble.”
Arthur hesitated before asking, “Father, isn’t it just a temperance group? Do we really need to be so cautious?”
“‘Just a temperance group?’” Senator Williams was momentarily surprised by the naivety of the remark, but he quickly chuckled, the sound tinged with mockery.
He knew Arthur wasn’t the best candidate to inherit his influence and power; he had other sons for that. Arthur, the product of his fourth marriage, was dear to him but not enough to cloud his judgment.
In a good mood, the senator explained, “The Temperance Association originated from the church. That alone involves many prominent figures in the upper echelons of the Federation.”
“Not to mention the political maneuvering and social experiments behind it. Explaining these things to you is pointless; your brain, stuffed with dogsht, won’t grasp what I’m saying.”
“All you need to know is this: don’t cause trouble in the next few days, or I really will send you to jail.”
Seeing Arthur’s pitiful and aggrieved expression, Senator Williams softened slightly. “I hear you’ve been stockpiling alcohol lately.”
Arthur’s face turned pale, fearing his father was about to punish him. He quickly explained, “I’m just… storing it for a friend!”
The senator sneered. “You lie the same way you did as a child—you haven’t changed a bit. Don’t lie to me, Arthur. I’m your father; you can’t fool me.”
“But you’ve done well with this. Stockpile more if you can. On October 25th, Harvest Festival, the entire state will join the Temperance Alliance, and the governor will announce Prohibition.”
The Harvest Festival, also known as “Reaping Day,” was a grand celebration of the autumn harvest and a hopeful prayer for future prosperity. Declaring Prohibition on that day was symbolically significant—a direct declaration of war against the industry and culture represented by alcohol.
It was a war destined to succeed from the start. Prohibition’s supporters would gain recognition from mainstream society, solidifying their influence, status, and power.
Seeing Arthur’s confused expression, the senator sighed. “You’re hopelessly stupid, my dear boy.”
“So before I fall, I hope you can make as much money as possible. It’s the only gift I can leave you.”
“Now get out. Looking at you hurts my eyes!”
Arthur slinked out of the room and went straight to see his mother, a woman who appeared no older than thirty-six or thirty-seven.
She was lounging in casual homewear on a sofa, flipping through a magazine. She glanced at Arthur and gestured for him to sit on the opposite sofa. “Your father didn’t beat you? That’s rare.”
Arthur’s gaze briefly lingered on her ample chest before he averted his eyes, embarrassed by the impolite memories of his childhood that involuntarily surfaced.
“Father told me to stockpile more alcohol,” he said.
She put the magazine down. “So you’re here to ask for money?”
“I heard you’ve been flaunting your father’s name to rake in quite a bit of cash.”
Arthur wasn’t as intimidated by his mother and responded cheekily. He sat by her feet, massaging her calves. “I’ve just stocked 45,000 bottles of liquor, and I’m running low on funds.”
“Forty-five thousand bottles?” She opened her eyes, intrigued. “I hope you didn’t buy the cheap stuff?”
“Gold-label Napa Whiskey,” he said proudly.
Her eyes gleamed with a hint of admiration. “The one that’s six dollars a bottle?”
Arthur corrected her smugly. “It’s nearly eight dollars now. I also got some Duran Gin.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re richer than I thought.”
Forty-five thousand bottles came to 360,000 dollars—a sum that seemed insignificant to her, but for a common worker earning thirty to forty dollars a month, it represented a thousand years of income.
She thought for a moment. “I have about 300,000 dollars. I can give you 250,000, but you’ll owe me 300,000 in return.”
Arthur was elated. He knew why his father had tipped him off about this—he wanted him to amass as much alcohol as possible before Harvest Festival.
With the funds, and perhaps borrowing a bit more, he’d be set for a foolproof venture.
He kissed her cheek enthusiastically. “Thank you, Mom! You’re the best!”
She pushed him away playfully. “You’re drooling on my face. Go to the bank and find Marlon; he’ll handle the transfer.”
Marlon, her attorney and financial representative, oversaw such transactions. Though her personal account held only a few thousand dollars, the funds she promised Arthur came from the Jingang City Love Charity Fund, a private charitable foundation she managed.
Arthur left in a rush. As much as he loved his mother, the promise of 250,000 dollars—and the potential for greater wealth—was far more enticing.
At the Broadcom Bank manager’s office, Marlon was chatting with the branch manager when Arthur burst in.
Marlon disliked Arthur but hid it well. After presenting the authorization, he transferred the funds from the foundation’s account to Arthur’s.
Arthur also didn’t like Marlon, whose competence made Arthur’s shortcomings all the more glaring.
After signing the paperwork, Arthur left immediately. He decided his first stop would be Jobav’s office.
Arthur had extorted Jobav before. It sounded excessive, but considering Senator Williams’s influence, nearly every immigrant capitalist in the city had been subjected to his schemes at some point.
In fact, Arthur sometimes felt his extortion was a mark of respect—not everyone was “privileged” enough to be his target.
When Arthur’s ostentatious, one-of-a-kind convertible stopped outside Jobav’s bank, his assistant rushed into Jobav’s office in a panic.
Standing by the door, clutching the handle, he stammered nervously, “Arthur is here.”