[078] I only wish to have a full meal.

Shen Chengyan quickly finished his calculations in his mind and smiled. “That’s not bad—if you can make eight yuan a day, you’ll be able to eat better. You’re at the age where you’re still growing, so you must make sure you get enough nutrition.”

“Thank you, Uncle Shen. I’ll take care of myself,” Fang Chang’an replied.

Fang Chang’an hadn’t expected the first thing Shen Chengyan would mention was his nutrition. On the one hand, the warmth touched him; on the other, he couldn’t help feeling a little helpless. When his mother heard about this, she would immediately see it as a business opportunity. Yet Shen Chengyan’s only thought was whether he was eating well enough.

Of course, this had everything to do with their family’s poverty; his mother was always thinking about how to make money. Shen Chengyan, on the other hand, had probably never worried about money, always having enough to eat and wear, so he lacked that sense of urgency and sharpness.

But from Fang Chang’an’s personal perspective, this was actually a virtue. There’s a saying: “The poor scheme, the rich grow a conscience.” While it’s a generalization, it shares something with the idea that “when one’s granaries are full, one learns propriety.”

Originally, Fang Chang’an hadn’t planned on bringing up this plan so soon. But the current state of his family, especially the ten yuan from his grandmother, had struck a nerve deep inside him, so he decided to take the risk.

It wasn’t that he had a bad impression of Shen Chengyan—on the contrary, since their acquaintance, Cheng Mengfei, Shen Chengyan, and even Shen Chengyan’s mother had all left him with good impressions.

But he was no naïve child. With a soul from the future, he’d seen those who did small good deeds yet great evils. He couldn’t entirely rule out the possibility that the other party might not keep his word.

Still, Fang Chang’an wasn’t without options. The cost of this business wasn’t particularly high. Without Shen Chengyan’s influence, he couldn’t grow it big, but he could still earn a living.

But that wasn’t what he was after. With an internet-age mindset, he didn’t want to limit his vision to the radius of a single shop.

After weighing everything, he decided to take a gamble.

“There are eleven classes in the first year at our school, more than fifty students in each class—actually, more in the regular classes. Let’s say fifty per class: that’s five hundred and fifty students in the first year. The second year is about the same, and the third year has more than four hundred. So the whole school has about fifteen hundred students.”

“More than half of them are boarders—let’s say 800. In our class, because there isn’t much time after morning study, many day students don’t go home for breakfast. Out of the fifty-four students in our class, over thirty have asked me to bring buns for them every day recently.”

“In the future, some might tire of eating buns, but the canteen is only an occasional option. There’ll still be plenty who choose buns again.”

“It’s not realistic to expect all fifteen hundred students to buy at our class’s rate, but a quarter, or even a fifth or a sixth, is possible.”

“The past few days, I’ve brought about seven buns per person, on average. Actually, it should be a bit more, since first-years eat the least.”

“If we go with a fifth, that’s three hundred students—seven buns each, that’s two thousand one hundred buns.”

“Our town has No. 1 Middle School, No. 3 Middle School, and the private Haitian Junior High. No. 1 has a high school division as well, though they’re in the city. But No. 1 is a closed campus—boarders aren’t allowed out and can only eat in the canteen. Their canteen is likely better, so buns won’t be as competitive there.”

“No. 3 and Haitian are similar to our school. Haitian has even more students, but as a private school, they probably provide food and drinks for students, so let’s count a little less there.”

“No. 1 has a lot of students—the number of potential customers shouldn’t be less than No. 3 or Haitian. If each school sells two thousand buns in the morning, that’s eight thousand buns altogether.”

“At a two-cent price difference, that’s a hundred and sixty yuan profit per morning—four thousand eight hundred a month.”

“If the business really gets that big, we won’t be just earning the difference. We could rent our own shop, hire people to make and deliver buns.”

“I did a rough calculation of the raw materials—the profit should be at least five cents per bun. That’s four hundred yuan a day, twelve thousand a month.”

“Even if we only get half the customers we expect, that’s still six thousand a month.”

Six thousand yuan a month wasn’t much by future standards—you’d need six or seven years of scrimping and saving to buy a basic BMW and finally have the right to be called a pauper.

But at this time, the starkest comparison was the price of housing in Yunlong City: in the future, the average would surpass twenty thousand, but now it was less than three thousand per square meter!

Fang Chang’an’s words were, of course, just talk for now. The biggest problem wasn’t convincing students to buy buns—it was persuading the school to let you sell them.

The canteen bosses had paid for their spot. If you sold the students’ breakfasts elsewhere, the canteen would never agree.

This was where Shen Chengyan’s value lay.

After finishing his explanation, Fang Chang’an watched the expressions of the two people in the study.

Shen Mo blinked her eyes, looking completely lost, but her expression was one of admiration, even awe—a perfect embodiment of “not understanding, but knowing it’s impressive.”

Shen Chengyan looked only slightly less stunned, clearly shaken by the “grand” blueprint a twelve-year-old had just painted.

Still, he was in his late twenties. Even if not worldly-wise, he’d seen enough not to be easily fooled.

Thinking it over, he found each point reasonable, the logic sound, nothing amiss.

He’d also thought about the issue of the school not allowing competition with the canteen, assuming Fang Chang’an was a little naïve and had overlooked it.

But if Shen Chengyan had no other talents, this was one thing he could actually handle.

As long as he could clear this main hurdle, everything Fang Chang’an described was entirely possible.

And as for how the discussion had shifted from “Fang Chang’an has an idea, let’s hear it” to “I’ll try to do it myself,” Shen Chengyan hadn’t yet realized.

Noticing his expression, Fang Chang’an added, “There’s one more important meaning and purpose to all this.”

Shen Chengyan, seeing his earnestness—so serious at such a young age—couldn’t help but smile, yet he still asked seriously, “What is it?”

“Huh?”

Shen Mo thought she was being called, shook off her confusion, blinked, and looked questioningly at her uncle.

Shen Chengyan paused, then couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “I’m asking Fang Chang’an what he means, not you, Shen Mo.”

“Oh.” The little girl, realizing her mistake, pouted, but she found it funny, and couldn’t help but laugh. Seeing Fang Chang’an laughing too, she nudged him with her foot under the table.

After Shen Chengyan finished laughing, Fang Chang’an said, “The most important thing is that, with competition, the school canteen will never again dare to serve students dirty or spoiled food.”

Shen Chengyan, who had just stopped laughing, was taken aback.

“The reason the school canteen makes money is because students have no choice. Because there’s no choice, even if the food is terrible, even if they don’t wash the vegetables, even if they sell a few bland, dry potato slices for thirty or fifty cents… students still have to buy it.”

“But if students have options, and the canteen wants people to keep eating their food, they’ll either have to lower prices or make the food tastier and cleaner.”

“Good quality or low price—you have to choose one. There’s no other way.”

Shen Chengyan was silent for a long time, and for the first time, he looked at Fang Chang’an with a serious and respectful gaze. Fang Chang’an didn’t shy away, but lifted his head, meeting his eyes with a mixture of nervousness and hope, facing him openly.

After several seconds, a smile slowly appeared on Shen Chengyan’s face. “You want your uncle to do this business?”

A smile flickered across Fang Chang’an’s face but quickly faded as he replied cautiously, “I’m afraid you can’t—you’d better have someone else front it.”

Shen Chengyan smiled, “Your teacher Cheng isn’t cut out for this.”

He considered for a moment. “This isn’t a small matter. I’ll have to discuss it with your teacher Cheng before I decide.”

Fang Chang’an nodded eagerly, full of anticipation.

Shen Chengyan had been watching Fang Chang’an’s expressions all along. After a couple of seconds, he smiled again, reached out to pat Fang Chang’an’s head, and said, “Alright, now go study. Don’t spend all day daydreaming.”

“Okay.”

Fang Chang’an lowered his head over his book, turned a couple of pages, glanced at Shen Chengyan, and seemed about to say something, but in the end said nothing and looked back at his book.

After ten seconds or so, he turned again, again hesitated, then dropped his gaze once more.

The third time, Shen Chengyan turned to him, smiled kindly, and asked, “What is it? If you have something to say, just say it—no need to be shy with your uncle.”

Fang Chang’an glanced at him, then said quietly, “Uncle Shen, I’m not just daydreaming, I…”

He lowered his head, his voice even softer. “…I just want to have enough to eat.”

Shen Chengyan was once again stunned. He looked down at this small twelve-year-old boy, dressed in clean but worn clothes and cloth shoes, head bowed, his words tinged with grievance—and Shen Chengyan felt as if a giant hand had squeezed his heart so hard he could barely breathe.

“Dirty and spoiled things thrown in the pot for students to eat… even when the food is terrible, the vegetables aren’t washed… no other options…”

The words Fang Chang’an had just spoken echoed in his ears again, finally distilling into that faint sentence: “I just want to have enough to eat.”

It was as if one childish voice after another whispered in his ear—boys, girls—each one weak but piercingly sharp.

Shen Chengyan took a long, deep breath, reached out to gently ruffle Fang Chang’an’s hair, and said as gently as he could, “I understand. I was just joking with you. Don’t take it to heart.”

“Really?”

Fang Chang’an looked up, his eyes a little moist, but his face showing a hint of happiness.

Shen Chengyan nodded emphatically and smiled, “You’re so young, yet you already have such thoughtfulness and heart. I’m very glad, truly! Don’t worry, I will seriously consider this matter.”

Fang Chang’an nodded as well. “Mm!”

The two of them exchanged a look. Suddenly, they heard someone sobbing nearby and turned at the same time.

There sat the little girl at the table, wiping away tears, the tissue in her hand soaked through, her long lashes dewy, her fair cheeks streaked with tears. She reached out and tugged at Fang Chang’an’s sleeve, her eyes red, and choked out, “Fang Chang’an… from now on, why don’t you come home with me for dinner every day? Would that be okay?”