With Ming now comfortably settled into city life, making friends at school and gradually finding his place among Zhonghai's elite youth, Liang Chen finally turned his full attention back to what truly stirred his blood—business. Twin Tower, Odoo Cabs, Food-i-Way, and ExpressCart were running smoothly under their managers. But Liang wasn't focused on those steady fires. His gaze was fixed on a new battlefield, one that could elevate his influence to an entirely different scale.
The early autumn wind carried a crisp coolness as Liang Chen's navy-blue Porsche 911 rolled out of the city and onto the long industrial highway. The sharp hum of the engine softened against the sprawling landscape—factories belching smoke into the horizon, chimneys standing like iron spires, clusters of old textile mills slumped on either side of the road like weary guardians of a bygone era.
Liang drove in silence, eyes locked forward. His hands rested casually on the steering wheel, yet his mind was already moving ten steps ahead.
The System had rewarded him generously after the Innovation Challenge—three factories and twelve textile mills, previously belonging to the Wang family. But to Liang, "reward" was too generous a word. What he had received was a neglected empire, gutted by inefficiency, weighed down by corruption, and left to rot under the careless rule of its former masters.
"Good," Liang murmured under his breath, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Broken things are easier to rebuild."
The Porsche pulled up before the first factory, a squat, gray concrete structure surrounded by rusting gates. The guard at the entrance looked half-asleep, slouched in a chair with a cigarette dangling from his lips. It wasn't until Liang stepped out—tall, dressed sharply in a black tailored coat—that the man scrambled to his feet.
"Y-you are…?"
"Your new boss," Liang said simply, brushing past.
The guard stammered, paling as he fumbled for his phone to alert the inside. But Liang had already entered the compound.
Inside, the sight was worse than he had imagined. Piles of raw fabric sat exposed to the damp air, some already molding. Workers loitered around, their movements sluggish, unmotivated. The machines, outdated and whining, clattered with every spin. The factory floor reeked of inefficiency.
A man in his late forties, stocky and overdressed in a silk shirt, hurried down from the office mezzanine. "Ah, President Liang!" His tone was ingratiating, his smile oily. "If only the Wang family had told me earlier you'd be visiting, I would have prepared—"
Liang's gaze cut through him like a blade. "You're the manager?"
"Yes, yes! Wang Yongqiang, at your service. I've overseen this factory for twelve years, brought it to where it stands today—"
Liang gestured to the rusting looms, the idle workers, the rotting fabric. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of judgment. "This? This is where you've brought it?"
The manager's smile faltered. "There… there are difficulties, you understand. Rising costs, unreliable suppliers. The mills under Wang family were too outdated to cooperate with us, so I had to seek other sources—"
Liang's eyes narrowed. "You mean you ignored twelve textile mills owned by the same family and bought overpriced fabric from outside suppliers instead?"
Wang Yongqiang shifted uncomfortably. "Those mills were inefficient, President Liang. Useless. I had no choice."
A faint chuckle left Liang's lips, devoid of humor. "No choice, or more profit for you?"
The color drained from the manager's face.
Liang didn't waste time. Within an hour, he had spoken to supervisors, examined invoices, and compared supply costs. The truth became glaring: the manager had been pocketing millions by inflating supplier contracts, while deliberately underutilizing the family's own mills.
The workers had suffered the consequences. Their wages had been delayed, their bonuses withheld, their conditions neglected.
Liang returned to the manager's office, the damning invoices spread across the desk like evidence in a courtroom.
"You've been bleeding this factory dry for your own gain." Liang's voice was cold, his eyes merciless. "You're finished here."
The manager's face twisted. "You can't just fire me! I'm connected. My brother-in-law is a senior officer at the Zhonghai Police Bureau. You think you can just waltz in and—"
Liang stood. His shadow stretched long across the office wall, a silent reminder of who truly held power here. "Get out."
The backlash came quicker than expected.
That very evening, as Liang was leaving the third mill, a pair of police cars blocked the road. Uniformed officers stepped out, led by a thickset man with a square jaw and eyes that burned with hostility.
"Liang Chen?" the officer barked. "You're under arrest for financial misconduct and labor exploitation."
The accusation was laughable, but Liang raised his hands calmly. "On what evidence?"
"Don't play smart with me," the officer sneered. "We'll sort that out at the station."
It was obvious—the corrupt manager had called in his brother-in-law.
Liang cooperated without resistance, his calmness unnerving the officers. At the station, however, the atmosphere shifted the moment his identity became clear.
The supervising chief entered, a middle-aged man with graying temples. His eyes widened as he read the name on the file. He nearly dropped it. "Liang… Chen?"
The officer who had arrested him puffed out his chest. "Yes, sir. I've apprehended him on charges of—"
"Shut up!" the chief barked, slamming the file shut. He turned to Liang, bowing slightly. "President Liang, my sincerest apologies. There's been a grave misunderstanding. You're free to go immediately."
The arresting officer froze, confusion painted across his face. "Chief, but he—"
"You fool!" the chief snapped. "Do you have any idea who he is? Release him at once! And as for you…" His voice dropped into a deadly growl. "Consider your career over. And tell your brother-in-law to crawl out of whatever hole he's hiding in. This city isn't one he can play games with."
Liang walked out of the station without a single hair ruffled, his composure intact. Yet in his eyes burned a dangerous fire.
That night, back at his penthouse, Liang sat before the glowing console of his Business Simulation System. A 3D holographic map projected the mills and factories, each represented as flickering nodes connected by supply chains.
He experimented. Mills producing fabric supplied directly to factories instead of outsourcing. Machines upgraded with automation. Workers incentivized with higher salaries and medical benefits. Logistics streamlined through ExpressCart.
The simulation ran through countless variables, profit margins rising and falling, production lines stabilizing. Then, finally—
The factories and mills, once isolated and inefficient, now formed a seamless network. Costs dropped by nearly forty percent, while output doubled. Worker satisfaction rose. Profit margins skyrocketed.
Liang leaned back in his chair, satisfaction curving his lips. "This… this is how an empire is born."
The next weeks saw sweeping change.
Old looms were replaced with smart, automated machines imported from Germany and Japan. AI-driven quality control ensured not a single flawed piece of fabric left the mills. Workers received salary increases and health insurance, their morale surging.
More importantly, Liang unified the mills and factories into one system. No longer did factories purchase from outside suppliers. Instead, every roll of fabric came directly from Liang's own mills, slashing costs while maintaining premium quality.
The name Aurorris was chosen—a brand to embody light, brilliance, and elegance.
Liang established three tiers of production, each factory dedicated to one.
Factory One produced affordable daily wear—comfortable, stylish, rivaling brands like Uniqlo and H&M.
Factory Two created trendy youth fashion—hoodies, sweatshirts, streetwear, bold designs born from collaborations with young artists and influencers.
Factory Three was devoted to luxury—tailored suits, blazers, evening gowns, haute couture meant for the city's elite.
Aurorris launched with a whisper, but within weeks, its roar shook Zhonghai.
In the bustling shopping districts, Aurorris stores opened with clean minimalist interiors and bold displays. Customers flocked in, lured by word-of-mouth. The affordable daily wear quickly became the city's new favorite—comfortable, fashionable, and durable.
The youth embraced the streetwear line, posting pictures on social media, turning Aurorris hoodies and jackets into statements of identity.
And the elites? They found themselves quietly seduced by the elegance of Aurorris' luxury line. CEOs and celebrities began appearing in Aurorris suits and gowns, their silent endorsement louder than any advertisement.
Competitors tried to fight back with rumors—claims of cheap quality, whispered doubts about production ethics. But when customers held the fabric, when they wore the clothes, those rumors dissolved into air.
Aurorris stood firm.
Liang didn't stop there. He implemented one-day delivery, leveraging his logistics arms from Food-i-Way and ExpressCart. Customers marveled—order today, wear tomorrow. It became a selling point so powerful that even global brands felt threatened.
One evening, Liang stood atop the Twin Tower, the city sprawled beneath him like a living organism. Billboards across Zhonghai now glowed with the Aurorris logo. People on the streets carried shopping bags bearing its name.
His empire was no longer confined to cabs, food, or logistics. It now draped itself over the very bodies of the city's people.
Liang's reflection shimmered against the glass, sharp and resolute.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered.
The dragon had spread its wings.
And now, the world would learn to fear its shadow.