Arthur scratched his head.
"Mr. Ma, you really have a big misunderstanding about Taipingzhou," he said seriously.
"The people there are very hospitable.
Last time I went to open a factory, they even gave me a few kilos of chicken before I left."
He paused dramatically.
"Oh, and they also set off firecrackers. Very festive."
Arthur tried to sell it like a seasoned scammer, but Mr. Ma just shook his head like a stubborn old ox.
No way.
He would rather pick up garbage in Watson District than step foot into Taipingzhou.
And honestly? Arthur couldn't even blame him.
Taipingzhou was originally supposed to be a high-end tourist zone, a paradise for corpo executives to waste their bonuses on sunbathing and beach parties.
Instead, it became a warzone.
The investment dried up.
The buildings decayed.
The gangs moved in.
Now even NCPD described the area with one word:
Catastrophic.
In Taipingzhou, even gang members risked getting jumped walking down the street.
People disappeared for the sake of a used knee joint.
Prosthetics ripped from corpses were openly hawked in the black markets.
If you were lucky, you only woke up without your wallet.
If you were unlucky... well, you became merchandise.
Mr. Ma tried one last desperate attempt:
"Mr. Arthur, why not move the factory to Watson District?
Land's cheaper. Safer too."
Arthur shook his head immediately.
No way. He didn't have that kind of money.
Fixing up his own house already emptied his pocket.
He couldn't afford to start over — even a cheap shell of a factory would bleed him dry.
If he couldn't move the factory, then the only option left...
Protect the workers.
Arthur thought for a moment, then said,
"How about this.
When you're in the factory, I'll hire private security to guard you.
When you're traveling to and from work, I'll arrange private transport — armed escorts, bulletproof vans. Full package."
Mr. Ma hesitated.
This was tempting. Very tempting.
Because in Night City, the real terror wasn't working for a shady boss — it was being left without any job at all.
No money meant no home.
No home meant no job.
No job meant death — slow or fast, didn't matter.
And if you had outstanding prosthetic loans?
Well, those repo men would tear your augmentations off your body before you stopped breathing.
Mr. Ma wiped his forehead and finally nodded.
"If you can guarantee security," he said, "I'll convince the others.
But it might take a little time."
Arthur exhaled a long breath, relieved.
Finally. Progress.
Sales.
Factory.
Workers.
All three problems solved.
The only remaining issues were:
Modifying the old factory's automated systems.
Securing the factory and transport.
The first part — program modifications — Lucy could probably handle soon.
The second part — security — was simple. Hire muscle.
Taipingzhou's gangs weren't suicidal.
If they saw a convoy rolling through with private security armed to the teeth, they'd find easier prey.
There was still the transportation problem though.
Buying buses? Too expensive.
Ordering from MilitaryTech? Might take half a year just to get the damn things delivered.
Arthur scratched his head in frustration.
Maybe he needed to "borrow" a few urban rapid buses... the Night City way.
One problem at a time.
Arthur turned back to Mr. Ma.
"You have three days to convince your people," he said.
"By the way... I never caught your full name. I just know you're Mr. Ma."
Mr. Ma straightened his shoulders and said proudly:
"Ma Qi."
Arthur blinked.
"...Ma Qi?"
He gave Mr. Ma a long look — up and down — like he was trying to read the man's soul.
This guy's name sounded like someone who should be rolling in eddies and respect.
Yet here he was... nearly starving to death in Night City.
Life is full of contradictions, Arthur thought.
At that moment, a kid in a baseball cap strolled into the bar.
He couldn't have been more than 15 or 16 — about the same age as Arthur's own son, David.
The tattoos on his arms said it all:
Not a corporate school kid.
Definitely a public school dropout.
Probably already halfway inducted into the Valentino gang.
Here in Heywood, this was normal.
You either joined a gang... or you got stomped by one.
"This is William," the priest said, waving the boy over.
"Your client, Arthur."
Arthur nodded, studying the kid.
William was wiry, angry-looking, with the hardened expression of a street rat.
His eyes were sharp.
His steps were firm.
Despite the bravado, Arthur could see the hurt boiling underneath.
This was personal.
Whatever William had lost — it wasn't money.
Arthur instinctively ruled out certain things.
No limp — so it wasn't a kidnapping.
No shame in his eyes — so it wasn't blackmail.
Given the way the kid carried himself, it had to be something else.
Maybe an old family keepsake?
An urn?
An old photograph?
In Night City, even ashes could be precious.
Because here, funerals were expensive.
Urns were luxury items.
A lot of people just scooped grandma's ashes into whatever jar they could find — sometimes literal garbage cans or used beer bottles.
The best cans — the ones from fancy imported coffee or natural teas — were rare trophies.
And to a desperate thief, those cans looked valuable.
There were even horror stories:
Some dumbass thief thinking he stole a gold jar — only to open it up and find... bone dust.
Congratulations. You've experienced true Night City haute cuisine — bone marrow "soup."
Arthur rubbed his temples.
Whatever had been stolen from William, it clearly meant everything to the boy.
And now it was Arthur's job to get it back.
He cracked his knuckles.
Time to work.
[End of Chapter 70: New Problem!]