“What a magnificent sight—truly, this is a man’s pride!”

Feeling the powerful surge of vitality in his body, Chen Fan sprang from his bed, his movements brisk and full of youthful vigor. He pulled on his clothes in one swift motion and dashed toward the communal dry latrine at the end of the hutong, where he reveled in the simple yet unparalleled pleasure of relieving himself against the morning breeze.

For a man who had once withered away in a hospital bed, tethered to tubes, drained of dignity, and ultimately defeated by time—this was euphoria. The sheer act of standing tall, of feeling strength course through his limbs, of possessing a body untainted by decay, was enough to make his chest swell with exhilaration.

As he stepped out of the latrine, a satisfied shiver ran down his spine. Stretching lazily beneath the soft light of dawn, he took in his surroundings with a slow, knowing smile. The ancient alleyways, the familiar scent of damp earth and lingering coal smoke in the crisp morning air—everything was just as it had been.

He was back.

Back in 1980.

This was Mào’er Hutong, stretching from Nanluoguxiang in the east to Di’anmen Outer Street in the west, a narrow artery of old Beijing, spanning just over 500 meters. A place rich with history, where time seemed to move at its own pace, where whispers of the past clung to the gray brick walls.

His gaze swept across the timeworn courtyards, landing on No. 37 Mào’er Hutong, the former residence of Wanrong, the last empress of the Qing Dynasty. But Wanrong’s tragic past was of little interest to him now.

Instead, his attention was drawn to No. 45.

He slowed his steps, pausing before the entrance, where an old wooden sign hung slightly askew. The gold-painted characters, though slightly faded, still bore an air of elegance:

“Beijing Dance Troupe.”

Chen Fan’s lips curled slightly. Now this… this could be interesting.

There, amidst the low-slung Siheyuan courtyards, an incongruous multi-story building jutted into the skyline like an architectural afterthought. This was the dormitory for the Beijing Dance Troupe, a place wildly out of sync with its surroundings but famed for one very particular reason—it was full of long-legged beauties.

“One day, I’m taking one home,” Chen Fan muttered, flicking his neatly combed 3-7 parted hairstyle with a cocky grin.

But first, he had business at No. 46 Mào’er Hutong.

This sprawling, three-section courtyard had long since been divided into a crowded communal dwelling, home to over seventy people packed into a maze of rooms and alleys. Chen Fan’s family occupied a *middle courtyard*, where they laid claim to a *main house* and a *side wing*.

The moment he stepped inside, voices rang out from the doorway.

“Chen Fan! Chen Fan!”

A boy and a girl appeared at the entrance.

The girl stood tall and graceful, her delicate features full of youthful energy. Her long ponytail swayed as she moved, the remnants of sun-darkened skin betraying her recent return from the countryside. She had been sent down during the Cultural Revolution, just like countless other urban youths, and had only recently come back to the city.

Beside her, the boy looked utterly unremarkable—save for a pair of sharp, triangular eyes that gleamed with mischief.

“Zhou Xiaoying, Zhang Jianjun,” Chen Fan acknowledged them, toothbrush and washbasin in hand. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton after a night’s sleep. “What’s up?”

“We’re putting together a trip!” Zhang Jianjun grinned. “This weekend—hiking up Fragrant Hills. You in?”

“Comrade Zhou Xiaoying, your friends and yourself included are already proud members of the working class, but him?” Chen Fan gave a theatrical sigh. “Still a jobless drifter. I can’t afford to waste time hiking—I need to hit the streets and find work.”

“One day won’t make a difference,” Zhou Xiaoying countered, her ponytail swaying as she turned to face him.

“You say that because you’re not the one starving,” Chen Fan shot back with a wry smile. “There are four hundred thousand unemployed youths in Beijing right now. If I don’t hustle, how am I supposed to get my hands on the few good jobs left?”

Zhang Jianjun cleared his throat, cutting in before Zhou Xiaoying could argue further. “If he’s not coming, he’s not coming. Work’s hard to find these days—makes sense to get a head start.”

Zhou Xiaoying hesitated and sighed. “Guess we’ll have to reschedule then.”

She knew Chen Fan had a point. Finding a stable job in 1980 wasn’t easy. She had only managed to secure a position as a music teacher at the Cultural Palace because she inherited her mother’s job—a stroke of luck that made her the envy of many.

“The state-run factories and government offices are packed already,” she said after a pause. “Maybe you should check out the transport depot or the sanitation bureau—they’re always hiring.”

“Don’t talk nonsense!”

Zhou Xiaoying snapped, turning to glare at Zhang Jianjun.

“Those places are for people with nowhere else to go. You think a young man like Chen Fan should be hauling crates or sweeping streets?”

A government job—an “iron rice bowl”—was the ultimate prize. High wages, lifetime stability, and benefits that could put food on the table for generations. Anything less? A dead end.

A job in a state-owned factory or government office was a golden ticket.

For men, it meant financial security and no shortage of potential wives. For women, it guaranteed a line of eager suitors, with matchmakers practically forming a queue at the door. These were the jobs that truly mattered—stable, respectable, and promising a future.

But the transport depot and sanitation bureau? That was a different story.

These places only hired temporary workers, people willing to endure backbreaking labor for meager pay. Dirty, exhausting, and looked down upon, such jobs carried a stigma, especially among the older generation. They weren’t for respectable folk.

Beijingers had a habit of giving certain jobs ironic, almost mocking titles. Porters from the transport depot were dubbed “haul masters,” while sanitation workers were known as “sweep kings.”

These weren’t badges of honor—they were backhanded labels, a reminder that some jobs, no matter how necessary, would always be looked down upon.

They were labels of shame.

“Work is work. No job is beneath anyone. We all serve the people,” Chen Fan said with a smirk, watching as Zhou Xiaoying clenched her jaw. “Comrade Zhou, you just returned from the countryside—what happened to all that revolutionary spirit?”

Zhang Jianjun smoothly changed the subject before Zhou Xiaoying could argue back.

“Chen Fan, why don’t you try the street cooperative? It may seem like just running a market stall, but you’d get to know people from the subdistrict office. Make the right connections, and the moment a proper government job opens up, you could slide right in.” Chen Fan chuckled.

A street vendor? That was even worse than a street sweeper.

Chen Fan smirked to himself. The lengths this little weasel would go just to put him down in front of Zhou Xiaoying—what an effort.

“You know,” Chen Fan said casually, “setting up a street stall isn’t such a bad idea. You ever heard how much those guys selling trinkets near Qianmen Tower make in a day?” He lifted his hand, fingers spread. “Three or four kuai on a slow day, five or six if business is good. That’s over a hundred a month. What are you apprentice boys making? Eighteen-fifty, right?”

Zhang Jianjun’s face darkened—because Chen Fan was right. Their wages were pitiful.

“That’s barely enough for a couple of rounds of drinks,” Chen Fan continued, his tone half-serious, half-mocking. “Tell you what, you and me, we start a stall together. Give it two, three years, and we’ll be rolling in it—hell, we might even hit ten thousand one day.”

Zhang Jianjun’s mouth twitched. He glanced at his Seagull wristwatch and cleared his throat. “Yeah, well… something to think about. But for now, we’ve got work to get to.”

“Chen Fan, we’ll see you around,” Zhou Xiaoying added with a quick smile before following Zhang Jianjun down the alley. It was almost time for their shift.

“You’re not seriously thinking about setting up a stall, are you? That Zhang Jianjun is nothing but trouble—he’s messing with you.”

The wooden door let out a long, creaking groan as it swung open. Guan Yuemei stepped out, glaring at Zhang Jianjun’s retreating figure before spitting disdainfully onto the ground. “If you really become a street vendor, good luck ever finding a wife.”

She wasn’t exaggerating.

In the early ‘80s, no matter how much a self-employed vendor made, they were still seen as outcasts. To the respectable working class, they were just people who couldn’t hold down a real job, forced to scrape by on the streets. Parents would even use them as cautionary tales, scolding their children: “Look at you, fooling around all day. Keep this up, and you’ll end up selling junk on the streets like those good-for-nothings!”

Chen Fan chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax, Mom. I’m not stupid. Zhang Jianjun’s got a thing for Zhou Xiaoying—he’s just trying to screw me over. That’s all he’s good for.”

His eyes turned cold.

He had lived this life once before. Did Zhang Jianjun really think he didn’t know exactly what kind of snake he was? Always playing dirty behind people’s backs, setting up traps in the shadows.

Chen Fan had already fallen for his tricks twice in his past life. Sure, both times he had fought back and come out on top, but that didn’t make the betrayal any less bitter.

Chen Fan smirked to himself. If his memory served him right, Zhang Jianjun’s biggest opportunity in life was just around the corner. It would be perfect. He’d swoop in and snatch it away, cutting off Zhang Jianjun’s path to success before it could even begin.

“Good that you know,” Guan Yuemei muttered as she tied her apron around her waist. All of a sudden, she shot him a suspicious glance.

“You and Xiaoying have always been close. Why didn’t you go with her? Better watch out, or someone might steal her away from under your nose.”

“Mother, don’t start. Zhou Xiaoying and I are just classmates.”

“Really?” Guan Yuemei narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced. The two of them had grown up together—same primary school, same middle school, even sent to the countryside for labor reeducation together. They had returned to the city at the same time too. If that wasn’t childhood sweethearts, she didn’t know what was.

“She’s not my type.”

Guan Yuemei scoffed, rolling her eyes. Look at him acting all high and mighty. Like he’s some rare prize. Plenty of young men in the neighborhood had their eyes on Zhou Xiaoying. That said, her son did have good prospects. He was tall—at least six feet—with sharp, handsome features. A little too lean and tanned from his time in the countryside, but nothing some good food and rest wouldn’t fix.

“Then, what kind of girl do you like?”

“A beautiful one!” Chen Fan grinned.

Guan Yuemei shot him a look. “Are you blind or just plain stupid? Xiaoying isn’t beautiful enough for you? There’s not a single girl in this courtyard prettier than her!”

“Ma, times are changing! We’re in the reform era now—you think I should just settle for someone from our little courtyard? I got to set my standards high, find someone exotic, like Ashima!” he teased.

“Enough of your nonsense!” Guan Yuemei smacked his arm, exasperated. “The older you get, the more ridiculous you sound. Ashima? What, you think you’re some prince charming now? Go look in the mirror! If you aim that high, you’ll stay a bachelor for life.”

She muttered under her breath for a while before sighing and getting back to the real issue at hand. “What about work? If things really don’t work out, your father can step down early, let you take his place. We’ll just have to tighten our belts for a couple of years.”

Chen Fan waved his hands in protest. “Ma, are you trying to starve us all to death?!”

Chen Musheng, Chen Fan’s father was a fifth-grade carpenter at the state-run furniture factory, earning a solid 57.5 yuan a month. Not only was it enough to support the entire family, but he even managed to save a little every month.

If Chen Fan were to take over his father’s job, he’d only get the apprentice’s wage—18.5 yuan a month.

What could he even do with that?

It wouldn’t even cover a decent meal out, let alone build a future.

The government encouraged this kind of job inheritance—one senior worker’s salary could sustain one apprentice and two temp workers, effectively employing three jobless youths at once. A single paycheck feeding three families—it was socialism’s version of efficiency.

What about productivity?

Well, that was a different story.

There wasn’t enough work for all these extra hands, but nobody cared. Everyone just went through the motions—a little hammering here, a little sanding there, and the rest of the time? Slacking off was practically part of the system.

The government had no choice. With 400,000 unemployed young people roaming the city, tensions were running high. If they weren’t given something to do, they’d be stirring up trouble—getting into street fights, forming gangs. The authorities couldn’t afford that kind of chaos. Keeping the youth occupied, even if it meant overstuffing the factories, had become a top national priority.

But, Chen Fan? No way in hell he was going to waste his life in a factory.

It was 1980—who in their right mind would want to screw bolts onto furniture for the rest of their life and live of regret once more? That was a relic of the past. For someone like him, reborn with knowledge of the future, it would be downright embarrassing.

With the Reform and Opening-Up in full swing, there was only one truth—money talked.

Chen Fan needed to start making money. Fast.

Before anything else, he had to rebuild his strength. Years of hardship had taken a toll on his body, and if he didn’t take care of it now, he’d be paying the price for the rest of his life.

His years of “educated youth” exile had been spent in Saihanba, a desolate land of never-ending labor and relentless sandstorms—the very place depicted in the TV drama The Most Beautiful Youth. Three years of backbreaking work had left him physically depleted.

At eighteen, the damage wasn’t obvious. But time had a cruel way of collecting debts. In his past life, he never had the chance to recover, and by the time he was old, his body was riddled with ailments.

He’d ended his days in a hospital bed, a catheter strapped to his body, waiting for the inevitable.

Thinking back, his previous life had been one long streak of misfortune.

Returning to the city after re-education in the countryside, he had found himself jobless, penniless, and unwelcome. People looked down on him, and opportunities were nowhere to be found. Desperation had pushed him to do something he had never considered before—he swallowed his pride and hit the books again.

For six grueling months, he studied harder than he ever had in his life, preparing for his fourth attempt at the national college entrance exam.

This time, luck was on his side.

He passed.

Even though it was only a junior college, in 1980s China, that still carried serious prestige.

The impact was immediate—even Zhou Xiaoying’s parents, who had always opposed their relationship, finally relented.

The moment he graduated, they rushed to arrange a wedding.

After graduating from university, Chen Fan spent several years as a high school teacher. However by then, the trend was already shifting—everyone was jumping into business.

The top three most coveted careers were: taxi drivers, small business owners, and chefs. Meanwhile, the last three were: scientists, doctors, and teachers. “Fixing minds didn’t pay as well as cutting hair,” people would joke. “Building bombs didn’t make as much as selling tea and eggs.”

The job he had worked so hard to get—a result of his grueling university years—had become one of the least respected professions in the country.

It stung. Deeply.

Encouraged by Zhou Xiaoying, Chen Fan gritted his teeth and followed the wave, venturing into the business world. It took him over two years of relentless effort, but he finally built up a small, thriving enterprise.

For a while, things seemed to be looking up. Until came the betrayal. Zhang Jianjun—the man he had once trusted—sabotaged his business, causing it to collapse. To make matters worse, Zhou Xiaoying who was heartbroken and frustrated, demanded a divorce and took custody of their child and the house. The childhood love story that had once felt so eternal was now a broken fairy tale.

No matter how much he tried to turn the tables, no matter how much he fought back, there was no undoing the damage.

Now, as the memory of it all flooded back, Chen Fan’s teeth ground together in silent fury. Zhang Jianjun’s opportunity was fast approaching, and he vowed to do whatever it took to cut him off, to destroy the very foundation that had allowed him to rise.

In order to seize the chance, he knew he would first need to gather a small fortune. It wasn’t just about the money—it was about the timing, the strategy, and the quiet power that came with having resources at the ready. Only with that sum could he truly tip the scales in his favor, standing on the edge of opportunity, ready to take what was rightfully his.