Chapter 37: Peace Hotel

Night falls, and the city’s prosperity suddenly erupts.

They say that in Shanghai, the daytime belongs to every hardworking laborer, but at night, only the cramped rental rooms belong to them. This is because the night air in Shanghai is thick with the scent of money; only if you are wealthy is it the dazzling, decadent "Magic City," the legendary "Paris of the East" where the songs never cease.

In the Huangpu District, at the intersection of the Bund and Nanjing Road, stands a building both unique and iconic to Shanghai: the Peace Hotel. The North Building, originally the Cathay Hotel, was built in 1929, while the South Building, formerly the Palace Hotel, was completed in 1908. In 1956, the two were merged and renamed the Peace Hotel. In the old days, it was said that even if you committed a crime that shook the very heavens, once you stepped inside the Peace Hotel, neither the police nor the underworld would dare touch you—a testament to the power of those behind the scenes.

In the 21st century, though the Peace Hotel has lost some of its former glory, it remains a must-visit landmark for tourists in Shanghai.

As a charcoal-grey BMW M3 pulled up to the entrance of the hotel parking lot, Tao Yuang, dressed in a sharp suit, alligator leather shoes, and a Rolex, exuding the air of an elite, pulled out a hundred-yuan bill and waved at the valet. The valet was also formally dressed in a suit and trousers; he was young, perhaps seventeen or nineteen, and stood about 1.72 meters tall.

He trotted over, bowing his head slightly. "Do you need valet service, sir?"

"Yes. Park the car, then bring the keys to the Jiuxiao Pavilion, room 06."

"Very good, sir." The valet took the cash and slipped it into his pocket.

Positions like a valet at the Peace Hotel are hard-won, secured only by outcompeting countless others. Generally, a hotel valet’s daily earnings don't dip below 300 yuan, and with generous high-end clients, making thousands in a single day is not uncommon. Aside from hotel valets, golf caddies are another lucrative path. Both share a common trait: they orbit a wealthy clientele who truly never blink when spending money.

"Let's get out, junior brother." Tao Yuang looked at Zhang Yang in the passenger seat. He had dropped the "junior brother" title in favor of just "junior," a move meant to shorten the distance between them.

"Right." Zhang Yang unbuckled his seatbelt, checked the rearview mirror, and slowly opened the door.

Despite studying in Shanghai for four years, he had never stepped foot in the Peace Hotel. His family background was modest at best: his father was a taxi driver, and his mother ran a small shop, with a combined net profit of about 7,000 yuan a month. In their hometown, that would be considered upper-middle class, but in Shanghai, a household income of only 7,000 yuan was undeniably impoverished.

When Zhang Yang chose to major in Investment, it was because his high school teacher from Beijing had told him that all the money in this society—and the world—was in the financial sector. If one could make a name for themselves there, it was a guaranteed way to transcend one's social class. From that moment on, Zhang Yang was determined: he would not only walk out of the mountains himself, but he would also bring his parents with him.

...

The two arrived at the North Building of the Peace Hotel. The architecture was Gothic, 77 meters tall with 11 floors, most notable for its green copper-sheathed roof and granite exterior walls.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Do you have a reservation?" the receptionist at the door asked with a smile as they approached.

"Jiuxiao Pavilion, room 06. Tao Yuang."

The attendant checked the walkie-talkie to confirm with the front desk. As Shanghai is a hub of commerce and the Peace Hotel is a premier destination for tourists, dining there requires an advance reservation. After a brief pause, the attendant gestured for them to follow, smiling, "Mr. Tao, welcome to the Peace Hotel. This way, please."

He opened the door and led them into the private room.

The Jiuxiao Pavilion was located on the 11th floor, the highest in the hotel. The room lacked the gaudy opulence one might expect, favoring a minimalist luxury style. It spanned about forty square meters, with a massive rotating dining table capable of seating twenty or thirty people. It was clear: Tao Yuang had a favor to ask.

Zhang Yang looked at the vast room, noting there were only two of them. "Isn't this a bit extravagant for just the two of us?"

"It's just pocket change," Tao Yuang waved off the concern.

After dark, the booking fee for the Jiuxiao Pavilion was 899 yuan, excluding the cost of the meal. Its value lay in the private balcony, which offered a breathtaking view of the Oriental Pearl Tower and the beauty of the city skyline.

"What would you like to order, gentlemen?" The manager arrived to take their order personally, as was standard for the Jiuxiao Pavilion.

Zhang Yang was no novice; he didn't rush to order. "We'll look over the menu first. You go ahead and attend to other matters."

"If you need anything, please press the bell," the manager said with a polite smile before leaving and closing the soundproof door.

"Brother, just say it. Why did you ask to see me? Otherwise, I won't be able to eat this meal in peace," Zhang Yang said, stating his position clearly. He knew the adage: eat someone's food, and you'll be beholden to them.

Seeing this, Tao Yuang stopped beating around the bush and explained everything about Li Zhenrui’s plan to mentor him. "That’s the situation," he said, then added before Zhang Yang could speak, "So, I want to buy out your market research reports. Name your price."

"So that's it." Zhang Yang realized. Li Zhenrui had mistaken the market reports Zhang Yang wrote for Tao Yuang's work and intended to promote him as a star fund manager. This dinner was a negotiation for the rights to his research.

Zhang Yang shook his head and refused directly. "I'm sorry, senior, but I don't support a buyout. I've already built a subscriber base and invested in marketing. I hope you understand."

He had been sharing his trading strategies on online forums specifically to build a subscription base for his reports, hoping to secure a stable income. If he had 500 subscribers at 60 yuan a month, that was 30,000 yuan. What if it were 5,000, 50,000, or even 500,000? This was no exaggeration; in 2009, China had 130 million stock investors. In his past life, when he worked at Bridgewater Associates, his research column had 200,000 monthly subscribers, providing him with a massive secondary income. It was precisely because this cake was so large that it drew the jealousy of "parasites" within the firm, eventually leading to his downfall after he refused to share the spoils.

"I’ll give you 20,000 a month to produce reports exclusively for me. How about that?" Tao Yuang offered.

20,000 a month, 240,000 a year—what fresh graduate could resist such a temptation? But unfortunately, he had asked the wrong person. Zhang Yang smiled calmly. "20,000 is a decent sum, but for a full buyout, it's far from enough."

"However," he added suddenly, "if you're just looking to secure the company's resources for your own growth, I have a compromise."

"What kind of compromise?" Tao Yuang asked eagerly.

Zhang Yang collected his thoughts and said calmly, "Co-authored adaptation."