Chapter Thirty-Three: My Parents' Career

Watching Su Yingxue get into the Santana police car, the vehicle spat out a cloud of exhaust and sped away. Li Mu, left feeling empty and disappointed, kicked a soda can by the roadside.

It had taken so much effort to finally have the chance to escort his goddess home late at night, only for that sycophantic bootlicker to ruin it. Still, being able to take driving lessons with the campus belle he’d secretly admired for years wasn’t such a bad thing, either.

From inside the car, Su Yingxue glanced back, catching Li Mu’s actions, and couldn’t help but smile. Had he always been this amusing? How had she never noticed? She used to think he was a bit of a fool—endearingly so, perhaps—but it seemed the atmosphere around him had changed too quickly for her to keep up.

Li Mu had no idea Su Yingxue was watching him until the car turned at the intersection.

All he could think about was that his high school life had now come to a complete end. From tomorrow onward, he’d have to start preparing for university.

Money, on the surface, seemed a trivial matter. But on closer thought, he knew he had to be more diligent. His parents would lose their jobs by year’s end. Li Mu’s hope was to find them a new path before he started university.

He understood his parents well. In their early forties, they still considered themselves young and strong. Even if he made a lot of money and piled it in front of them, reassuring them they could retire in comfort, they would never be content to sit idle.

They needed a career to maintain their vitality, a venture to prove their worth. The best solution was not to let them fumble around after being laid off, but to help them find a reliable direction himself.

Li Mu pondered carefully: what business would be both profitable and relatively effortless in 2001?

As he racked his brains, he suddenly noticed the brightly lit signboard of a Baleno store gleaming late into the night. Instantly, everything became clear.

Of course—a franchise store!

In Haizhou, youth clothing brands were still rare. Aside from sports and casual brands like Li Ning and Double Star, only Baleno and Jeanswest were in the market.

Semir had not opened yet, neither had Yishion, and the trendy Metersbonwe—famous in the years to come—had yet to set foot here. If memory served, the first Metersbonwe store opened during his first winter break at university, launching on the very first day of the lunar new year. Business was booming then, and by that calculation, there were still more than six months before it would appear. The franchisee probably hadn’t even started operations yet.

Thinking of Metersbonwe also brought Jay Chou to mind. In the future, he’d become a superstar, endorsing this clothing brand for over a decade. While the brand never quite climbed to the top, one thing was certain: after more than ten years, Baleno, Semir, and Yishion had all faded, but Metersbonwe still held its ground in the mid- to low-end market.

If he invested in a Metersbonwe franchise for his parents, he had no doubt that, in a city like Haizhou, a single store could easily yield a net profit of several hundred thousand a year.

Moreover, Li Mu knew even more about Metersbonwe’s history. It was the most forward-thinking clothing brand in terms of information technology, with a robust network system built by the renowned Cisco from the US. He wasn’t sure if they’d already brought Cisco on board in 2001, but even so, it showed the brand’s long-term vision. With an efficient network system, franchisees could handle inventory, restocking, and returns with ease.

His mother had an accounting background; his father was meticulous in his work. If they opened a franchise, hired an experienced manager and some young salespeople, they wouldn’t need to stay at the store daily. Periodic checks of the accounts, inventory, and system sales records would suffice, and with his mother watching the books, there’d be no fear of anyone tampering with the numbers.

It wouldn’t be too taxing, nor would it require too much attention, and it was certain to make money—at least for a few years. The plan was highly feasible. All that remained was to figure out how much opening a store would cost.

...

The next day, Li Mu did some research online and browsed the official Metersbonwe website. He quickly formed a rough estimate.

Metersbonwe didn’t charge any franchise fees, but there were a few requirements.

First, they prioritized untapped markets—cities without an existing Metersbonwe store.

Second, in fifth-tier cities, the store had to be on a busy street in a prime district, with a minimum area of 80 square meters and at least 50 square meters of dedicated floor space.

Third, the investment in a fifth-tier city needed to be at least 200,000 yuan, with renovation costs ranging from 80,000 to 150,000 yuan.

If these criteria were met, one could apply to Metersbonwe, pay a 3,000 yuan inspection fee, and they would send someone to evaluate the site. If the assessment passed, the application would go to headquarters for review. Upon approval, the process would move to training, renovation, and stocking, after which the store could open.

Li Mu did the math. The total cost was roughly around 400,000 yuan. The official investment estimate took into account local rent and inventory. For an 80-square-meter shop, annual rent would only be a few tens of thousands—after all, it was 2001 in a fifth-tier city. Apartment prices were still below 1,000 yuan per square meter, and even prime commercial spaces cost only a few thousand. Naturally, rent wouldn’t be expensive.

Still, given how much the location impacted business, Li Mu preferred a slightly larger shop. In later years, franchise stores often spanned several hundred square meters, but for now, most were under a hundred—investors were still cautious about the future.

A larger store meant higher rent, renovation, inventory, and staffing costs. But that wasn’t a big concern. According to online information, the entire process from initial review to store opening took about two months—possibly just over a month if renovations went quickly. By that count, the first person to open a Metersbonwe in Haizhou in his previous life wouldn’t do so for another three months.

At that moment, what he lacked was money.

Li Mu logged into his QQ account, ‘Never Say Die’, and immediately received a message from Sun Peng: “Hello, one million is really too high. I found a partner to invest. Eight hundred thousand is our absolute maximum. Is that acceptable?”

Sun Peng hadn’t exaggerated—800,000 was truly their limit. He had quietly discussed things with his long-time associate, who was very interested. Both of them disliked people like Jia Bei. If they could secure the Stone Age Overlord plug-in, they’d never have to worry about Jia Bei competing with them again.

After pooling all their cash, they barely had 700,000. They then discussed with their families, who together could scrape up just over 100,000. In total, 800,000 was all they could muster.

Still, they were confident. As soon as they acquired the Stone Age Overlord, old agents would come running like dogs after bones, and they’d soon see profits.

Li Mu considered this. Since Sun Peng had made the offer, whether or not he was telling the truth, one thing was certain: if Li Mu agreed, he’d have 800,000 in hand soon. If he pressed for more, it would only lead to endless bargaining and delays.

With that in mind, Li Mu replied, “Alright, 800,000 it is. Where shall we meet?”

“Yanjing!”

Li Mu thought about the geography. Yanjing was too far away—and it was their territory. It wasn’t safe to go there himself; better to choose a more neutral location.

So he replied, “Come to Pengcheng for the transaction.”

“Pengcheng?” Sun Peng asked quickly, “Are you in Pengcheng?”

“Yes. I’ll bring a laptop for you to test the program. Deposit the money ahead of time into a Construction Bank account; we’ll do the transfer at the bank.”

“Uh…” Sun Peng hesitated.

Even after deciding to buy the plug-in, he still had many concerns. Would the seller honor their agreement and stop using the plug-in after the sale? Maybe he’d simply rename the same code and compete with them? Or perhaps he had an even better technical solution, ready to create an even more advanced plug-in? And what if he was a scammer, with tricks embedded in the code?

Sun Peng worried about everything, and who could blame him? Eight hundred thousand was everything he and his partner had—a gambler’s final bet.

Li Mu asked, “What are you hesitating about?”

Sun Peng replied, “I’m worried you’ll compete with us in the Stone Age market later on.”

Li Mu sent back a wry laugh: “If I planned to do that, I’d have run the plug-in myself long ago, and you’d never earn a cent. The only reason I haven’t is that I look down on the plug-in business. You’ve probably studied Stone Age; with my skills, making plug-ins is a waste of my abilities. This was just something I threw together—doesn’t even count as real software to me.”

Sun Peng was convinced. If anyone else had boasted like that, he’d have felt offended, but ‘Never Say Die’ was the real deal. After their analysis of the Stone Age Overlord, they’d realized they couldn’t even grasp the core technical code or programming logic.

As a fellow techie, Sun Peng now believed him. He replied, “Alright, Pengcheng it is. Name a time—I’ll go buy a train ticket tonight!”