They arrived at the place.
There were already a lot of people, crowded and bustling, but they mostly kept to a line that stretched all the way to the street corner, with more people gradually joining.
Zhao Chang found it strange.
—So many people waiting in an orderly queue, and no one was even cutting in line!
A while back,
Some big merchants had a spat and slashed prices on goods, but the discounts weren’t even that deep.
Despite the massive crowds back then, it wasn’t as busy as this, and people shoved and jostled until it nearly cost lives—he was the one reporting on it.
Had the national civility improved overnight?
The next second:
“Hey, I’m talking to you. Yeah, you. Get the hell out here.”
When the man didn’t move, a guy in a white cloth button-down shirt with hair so short his scalp showed through grabbed him by the collar and yanked him out of the line.
Then came two sharp slaps:
“Are your eyes painted on, you bastard? You think you can pull your grubby little trick right under my nose? If I don’t teach you a lesson today, I’ll eat my own boots!”
With that, he landed a few more punches and kicks,
holding nothing back.
The man being beaten was short and scrawny, spinning around like a top from the blows. Some onlookers showed faint sympathy, but then he frantically pulled a small cloth bundle from his chest and begged:
“Sir, sir, please spare me! Don’t hit me anymore! I was blind not to know this was your turf. I only did one job, and everything’s right here.”
A stir went through the crowd.
So he was a pickpocket!
The person next to him quickly checked his belongings, and a scream followed: “My money! My money’s gone! That was my money!”
“What’s all the noise about?”
The thug turned around, glaring with a fierce face, and the crowd went quiet again. Most recognized him—with that getup, he had to be from the underworld, probably from some famous big gang.
Once it was quiet,
He turned back, snatched the bundle, weighed it in his hand—it was heavy, at least two silver dollars’ worth.
A flicker of regret crossed his eyes.
He tossed it to its owner. “Catch. Don’t count on luck like this again.”
“Th-thank you.”
The owner’s voice stuttered, never expecting to get his money back.
The others felt much the same.
The thug waved his hand impatiently, clicking his tongue in irritation at the loss. When he turned and saw the pickpocket staring at him in disbelief, like he was some kind of fool, he gave him another hard slap and a few kicks to blow off steam.
From a distance, a policeman sauntered over.
Seeing the scene,
He didn’t intervene but idly stood by until it was over. The thug shook his hands off, while the pickpocket, now bruised and swollen, just groaned in pain.
“What’s going on?”
“Bad luck,” the thug spat disdainfully, nodding toward the pickpocket. “Out-of-towner.”
Those three words were enough.
The policeman chuckled. “That explains it. Locals know the deal. Only a fool would try something this stupid here.” He then barked at the man on the ground, telling him to stop faking and get up.
The pickpocket was soon led away.
The thug turned back to the crowd with a sour look.
“You all see that?” he growled. “Everyone lines up properly, no screwing around, or my fists will find you.”
The crowd nodded in fear.
The line, already somewhat orderly, straightened up even more. Anyone thinking of cutting quietly slipped to the very end. Something was off—these gangsters couldn’t be playing peacekeepers out of the goodness of their hearts.
Zhao Chang mulled it over thoughtfully.
Clearly, someone in the line knew the inside story. As the thug went to patrol the front,
they began whispering among themselves.
"I heard that Miss Su put in a word, and both the underworld and the legitimate circles gave face. No one dares to start trouble here. But everyone should still be careful—better not even argue. These gang types have ruthless hands."
"After they beat you, they'll send you to prison to eat free meals."
"I've heard of Miss Su too. Her business is nothing small, but she's just a merchant. How long has she been in Shanghai? How could she have that kind of pull?"
"You're out of touch. There's a world of difference between merchants. Miss Su sits at the very top. Not to mention anything else, just that penicillin alone—everyone has to beg her for it. That stuff saves lives."
"Whoa, that powerful."
Hearing this, Zhao Chang lowered his head and smiled. That woman was indeed formidable—no one could deny it.
But a strong dragon doesn't crush a local snake.
The fact that Shanghai's underworld and legitimate circles were giving so much face was really a kind of compensation—to smooth things over with Miss Su, so she wouldn't hold up the mass release of penicillin later.
This, too, was an "inevitable trend."
Looking at the long line, Zhao Chang's heart was as bright as the pale light spreading across the horizon at dawn.
Full of hope, too.
...
At eight o'clock sharp.
The line began to creep forward. Even with gang members patrolling back and forth, they couldn't suppress the restlessness. Some people craned their necks, some sent children to scout ahead.
And all kinds of news passed back and forth.
"The kerosene they're selling is excellent—crystal clear, like water."
"What's the price?"
"Six cents a catty."
"Not bad, same price as foreign oil. By the way, has anyone pulled a penicillin ticket?"
That question drew a round of snickers.
"Pulling a ticket now?"
"Are you confused, or did you just wake up?"
Finally, someone kindly explained.
"Ever bought a lottery ticket? It's the same. When you buy something, they give you a numbered ticket. Hold onto it. When the draw time comes, if your number is picked, you win!"
"Ah, I get it."
"Remember, don't lose that ticket. The newspaper made it clear—the ticket, not the person, is what counts."
Though the line was long, it moved quickly. Not only were the workers nimble, but no one dared to cause a fuss.
Soon, there were only a few people left ahead of Zhao Chang.
The person currently being served kept a low profile, but their skin was fine, their clothes well-fitted, and most notably, they wore a gold watch—clearly someone of wealth.
"What'll it be?"
"No rush," the wealthy person said with a smile. "First, tell me what you've got in stock."
"Anything related to petroleum—we've got it all. Diesel, motor oil, kerosene, gasoline, lubricating oil, paraffin, asphalt. Every item comes with a penicillin ticket attached."
The shop assistant didn't stumble once.
Then he pointed to the dozen or so containers in front of him, saying the samples were displayed there.
By now, the sun had fully risen.
Zhao Chang could see clearly. Though he couldn't identify a few of them, every one he did recognize was undeniably of high quality—the kind you'd usually have to pay a premium for.
If everything for sale matched the samples in quality, then every buyer was practically getting a deal.
Zhao Chang smiled.
And let out a sigh of relief.
Without a doubt, Su's Petroleum was going to be a huge success. That way, Miss Su wouldn't be so angry... would she?
Joy and sorrow don't connect between people.
The wealthy person's face darkened. They bought some of each item, up to the maximum limit, and stepped aside to inspect the samples then and there.
Their expression only grew gloomier.
For a journalist, the most important thing is the eye and nose for news.
Take Zhao Chang at this moment, for example.
He felt there was something off about this person—if the shop assistant hadn't called out to him, he would have even forgotten his penicillin coupon, which meant he wasn't here for the lottery draw. So why then…
But before he could figure it out,
The line had already reached him.
"Two catties of kerosene, please," he said, handing over the can and the money.
When it came back to him, besides the filled kerosene can, there was also a thick penicillin coupon with eight numbers printed on it.
