Chapter 8: The Proprietress of the Black Internet Cafe

Though Chen Qiao had written rebirth novels and researched plenty, even working odd jobs across industries, he wasn’t just theorizing.

In 2009, an unremarkable year, Bitcoin emerged quietly.
Its initial value was negligible—5,000 Bitcoins cost about $25, roughly 170 yuan at current exchange rates.

In May, Bitcoin entered public trading markets with low volume, barely noticed by the masses.

As its decentralized nature and security gained recognition, more joined in.
By year-end, prices rose, breaking $1 the next year.

Buying large amounts quickly would spike prices and attract sharp-eyed opportunists.
The world never lacked clever people sniffing out opportunities.

Besides slowly buying Bitcoin, Chen Qiao planned to mine it.
Early on, each block yielded 50 Bitcoins, halving every four years—the Halving period.

At Bitcoin’s birth, mining difficulty was near zero.
A regular home computer’s CPU could handle hash calculations to earn block rewards, no expensive rigs needed.
But constant high-intensity computing would skyrocket electricity bills, especially with today’s lack of energy-saving tech.

Chen Qiao eyed the Three Gorges Reservoir area for mining—cheapest electricity, best value.
But he’d hold Bitcoins until 2017, when they’d hit $20,000, then fluctuate wildly, soaring past $60,000 amid U.S. money printing, though riddled with bubbles.

From 2005 to 2007, a bull market had investors dreaming of riches, but it was the last hurrah for China’s A-share market.

Between 2000 and 2015, buying property was the ultimate class-changer for ordinary folks.
Now was the last chance to catch the real estate train.

Then there was internet startups and the mobile internet revolution.
Android smartphones weren’t widespread yet—time to grab a ticket.

A grand blueprint unfolded before Chen Qiao, but he faced a problem: no starting capital.
Just seven yuan in pocket money.

His age was a limit too.
A kid’s voice carried little weight.
Until adulthood, he’d need to stay behind the scenes, finding a proxy.
His relatives were unreliable, and the proxy had to trust him unconditionally, not run off with the money.

The first was manageable; the second, tough.
His sister was an option, but a middle schooler herself, and Chen Qiao wanted her to have a carefree childhood.
Burdening her would defeat the purpose, though he’d need her for small favors.

Yes, his eighth-grade sister was a kid to him.
Was that a kind of sister?
Talk about role reversal.

His cousin-in-law, a tragic figure, might work.
His cousin died in a mine accident last year.
He’d met Zhang Hai Xia through a blind date.
At nineteen, she worked in a cement factory’s lab.
She’d graduated from Lanhe Town Junior High’s high school, which would close after two more years.

Her grades could’ve gotten her into a junior college or third-tier university, but her family wouldn’t fund it.
After half a year in Peng City, she returned, homesick, and got a factory job through connections.

Her father, Zhang Da Fu, rushed her to marry for an 88,000-yuan bride price—lucky, and a local ceiling.

Though just of age, some of Chen Qiao’s classmates married after junior high, though fewer than in past decades.

His cousin, three years older, settled things after one meeting.
No wedding—they never met again before his death.
Zhang Da Fu took half the bride price to the casino.
He was the guy who bet his house, drowning in debt.
His wife, fed up, drank pesticide in the vegetable field years ago.

Zhang Da Fu demanded the rest of the bride price or threatened to remarry Hai Xia.
The cousin’s family, grieving, wanted the money back.
Zhang Da Fu had none.

Caught in the middle, Hai Xia struggled.
This summer, she drank pesticide in the same field as her mother.
Chen Qiao and his sister were nearby, picking mulberry leaves for silkworms.

Raising silkworms was a hobby for many kids.
Kept in pencil cases, they’d peek at them during breaks, scaring girls.
Pupa could be sold to restaurants.

His sister loved the chubby silkworm stage and spinning cocoons but found moths gross, dirtying the case.
Chen Qiao had to toss it.

Puzzled why Hai Xia was in the remote hills, his sister saw the pesticide bottle and acted fast, carrying her down.
Chen Qiao supported from behind, easing her load.

Hai Xia was rushed for induced vomiting, then sent to Yangcheng’s No. 12 People’s Hospital, a chemical poisoning rescue center.

Timely treatment and strong follow-up saved her.
After half a month, she moved to rehabilitation.

When Chen Qiao and his sister visited, she lay weak, skeletal, clutching the white sheets, murmuring emptily, “Why save me?
Why…”

Her eyes were dead.
Had they saved her or just a husk, prolonging her pain?

She stayed in Yangcheng for work.
They reconnected when his family faced trouble—she repaid some money, promising the rest.
Their mom had covered her hospital bills.

No one saw her after she repaid the bride price to the cousin’s family, vanishing like she’d evaporated.

This time, he’d truly save her.
He’d visit her after work, talk, counsel her—keep her from the edge.
He’d felt the same despair but had his sister.
Could he be Hai Xia’s brother?

Unknowingly, he reached the illegal internet cafe.
A Xing Xing freezer stood outside.

The young owner still looked lazy, perpetually sleep-deprived.
Her daughter, with cute twin ponytails, wrote homework on the glass counter, glanced at Chen Qiao, and continued.

“Kid, alone tonight?”

“Finished my homework.”

Chen Qiao was a regular, the first to spot this shop as an illegal cafe.
When it opened, he loved checking new stores for snacks, toys, or cards—making him the coolest kid.

He noticed computers in the next room, not old CRTs but LCDs, like clutter.

“Boss, are these computers working?
Can they go online?” he’d asked.

“Should be working.”

“Let me try.”

He powered one on successfully but had no internet.
He brought game discs—Beach Landing, a confusing One Piece Monopoly, and Sword and Fairy, his favorite.
He loved the TV series, bought the DVD, but learned the game’s story differed.

The owner added desks, and Chen Qiao brought friends to play single-player games, no internet fee, just buying snacks.

His friends were close now, but after middle school, they drifted apart.
By college graduation, they only reconnected for wedding “gold coin” gifts.

His current mindset didn’t mesh with old friends.
He’d play kid for his sister but otherwise had his own goals, keeping them private.

No internet lasted a month.
Once connected, it was two yuan per hour—standard for illegal cafes.
Single-player games faded; QQ Speed, Dungeon Fighter, and 4399 took over.

Chen Qiao felt he’d helped start this cafe.
Each visit, the owner gave him a fifty-cent soda, making his friends jealous.

But it didn’t last.
The owner, an outsider by her accent, ran it a year before transferring it.
She and her daughter seemed to appear from nowhere.

“Two hours.”

Chen Qiao handed over four yuan, grabbed a cola from the freezer.

“That long?
Not scared your parents will find you?” the owner asked, raising a brow.
“Don’t smash my computers.”

“No way.
I’ll slip out the back.”

The room was clean, unlike typical grimy illegal cafes, thanks to the owner’s frequent cleaning despite her lazy vibe.

The town’s only legal cafe was the dirtiest, reeking of smoke.
This place, undiscovered by many, was a haven.

The owner didn’t advertise much.
If parents and teachers knew, kids would avoid it, fearing smashed computers.
She didn’t seem to care about profits.