Although Jiang Hai didn't hold a large share, neither Larry Page nor the board of directors would ever underestimate him—especially after all the waves he had made this year.
Almost everyone who knew Jiang Hai understood one thing: he possessed enormous potential.
His ranch's cattle now supplied nearly 20% of high-end restaurants across the United States.
Sam's Club and Walmart's seafood division worked with him exclusively. Only about one-thousandth of his cattle ever reached the open market; the rest were pre-ordered by upscale restaurants long before the meat even hit the shelves.
Naturally, people like Larry Page had already tasted Jiang Hai's beef. His newly launched seafood business had also secured a firm foothold in the high-end American market. While it couldn't quite rival his beef in terms of absolute quality, its sweet, fresh flavor allowed it to sell for several times the price of ordinary seafood—and even then, restaurants still sold out.
Aside from Boston's top restaurants, most others purchased through Walmart.
That, however, was only the second layer of profit and required greater capital investment. After Jiang Hai established his own logistics company, customers near New York began buying directly from him, and even restaurants in California sourced seafood through Walmart channels.
It was inevitable. Everyone knew seafood from temperate waters simply couldn't compare to that from cold regions.
Fish in warm waters grow year-round and have abundant food, so they mature quickly. Cold-water fish, on the other hand, grow for only half the year with limited resources, often taking four or five years to mature. If something that took five years to grow tasted the same as something that matured in a single year, what would be the point?
Because of this natural advantage, Jiang Hai's seafood remained highly sought after—even in places like California and Miami—despite the higher price.
With just beef and seafood alone, Jiang Hai could already rank among the world's top billionaires.
But just when everyone thought his success had peaked, he started selling grass.
Many people said he was crazy. Why sell grass? With that grass, he could raise even more cattle. Instead of controlling 20% of the market, he could reach 50%—even 100%. The profits would be astronomical.
And yet he was selling it, enabling others to raise cattle that sold for fifty or sixty thousand dollars each. Wasn't that madness?
Three years ago, Jiang Hai might have thought the same.
It wasn't that he had suddenly become generous—or lost his mind.
Even if he had, people like Qi Li and Moses Adams, both extremely sharp businessmen, would have stopped him.
The real reason he sold the grass was simple: he wanted allies.
When Jiang Hai first came to America, he constantly worried that the government or powerful families might swallow up everything he built. Back then, his method of self-protection had been to buy oil futures.
It worked. If someone truly tried to take over his estate, those billions in futures could serve as a stepping stone to gain protection from families like the Rockefellers.
But even that only bought entry. It didn't guarantee respect.
Without influence, he would still be seen as nothing more than a fat sheep.
Now, Jiang Hai no longer wanted to depend on anyone.
He had no interest in building some global empire or national strategy. He simply refused to become someone else's lackey.
Selling grass changed everything.
Today, who would dare touch him?
He had a strategic partnership with the Dubai royal family, business ties with American real estate magnates like Luke Sean, collaborations in South Korea, and strong backing from the Qi family in China. His allies were everywhere.
On top of that, he paid every tax in full and on time. Both federal and state governments viewed him favorably.
Why would they not protect a law-abiding billionaire who stayed completely out of politics?
He didn't support any party or faction.
Under these circumstances, Jiang Hai transformed from an easy target into someone everyone wanted to befriend.
Of course, that wasn't the only reason.
There was another.
He simply didn't dare to raise too many cattle.
Only he knew the secret behind his livestock's extraordinary quality. Others couldn't replicate it—but if it were ever exposed, he would be in serious trouble.
Human nature was unpredictable.
He couldn't guarantee every employee's loyalty. The more people he hired, the greater the risk of spies or saboteurs slipping in. Expanding too fast would only invite danger.
So limiting both manpower and herd size was the safest choice.
Even so, in Larry Page's eyes, Jiang Hai remained a wealthy and powerful patron.
They had come to witness his strength firsthand.
Ordering a ten-million-dollar system without hesitation—that was true power.
After passing the platform, Jiang Hai and the others entered the laboratory at the back.
The moment he stepped inside, he couldn't help but gasp.
Before him stretched a vast white space, divided into sections of roughly a hundred square meters each. There were no doors, but every area was clearly dedicated to different research.
The first section he noticed focused on robots.
Google's robotics division had been extremely popular lately. The most famous product, AlphaGo, had repeatedly defeated professional Go players, shocking the entire world. But AlphaGo was only software data. This team's job was to bring that intelligence into physical machines.
Various prototype robots stood before him. Some resembled Eve from WALL-E, others looked like simplified versions of the machines from I, Robot. Wires were exposed, their forms crude and unfinished.
But everyone knew the hardest part was the system, then the transmission mechanisms. The outer shell was the easiest. After all, if Japan could mass-produce life-sized dolls, a robot's exterior wasn't the challenge.
When Jiang Hai and his group approached, several robots turned toward them. Upon recognizing Shawna Boone leading the group, they even saluted.
The gesture was oddly cute.
Other sections were filled with research teams—some working on drones, some on systems architecture, others on explosion-proof technologies. Jiang Hai couldn't understand most of it. And when Shawna Boone explained things to him, he recognized each word individually, yet together they made no sense.
All he could do was smile awkwardly.
It wasn't that he hadn't studied hard enough—he simply had no idea what she was talking about.
About halfway through the lab, something caught his eye.
Inside one partition, everyone wore devices resembling the power level detectors from Dragon Ball, gesturing and interacting with the air.
Curious, Jiang Hai stopped.
"This is the AR research department," Shawna Boone said with a smile. "We released Pokémon GO this year. Have you played it?"
"Of course," Jiang Hai replied immediately. "I'm a die-hard fan. But isn't that a phone game? What's with those Dragon Ball–style detectors?"
She laughed and explained.
"This is the next generation of our augmented reality device. It's an advanced version of Google Glass. It can display your phone's interface—and even replace the phone through voice control."
She led him inside, handed him a device, and asked him to try it on.
Up close, it really did look like a Dragon Ball scouter—a semi-cone lens attached to an ear clip. Putting it on was a bit awkward; he had to slide it in from above.
Once fitted, a phone interface appeared before his right eye—the same home screen as the device on the table.
Following Shawna's instructions, Jiang Hai focused on the Pokémon GO icon.
"Start."
The moment he spoke, the game launched.
Since it was still experimental, there were no animations or music. After a brief loading bar, the real world appeared—augmented with virtual elements.
On the ground beside him stood three Pokémon, looking up at him adorably.
Charmander. Bulbasaur. Squirtle.
He knew them well.
But this time was different.
They weren't just images on a screen.
They felt alive—standing right there in the same world as him.
Real.
Perfect.
(To be continued.)