At the age of thirty, Chen Feng understood one thing: people are not carrying the burden, they are the pole. One end is a hospital bed and the other is a cradle. In the middle are twenty-six years of mortgage payments, a job that could be replaced at any time, a six-and-a-half-year-old daughter, and four words from his ex-wife - "Friday, Civil Affairs Bureau."
He served in the army for two years, and after retiring, he sold charging piles with a basic salary of RMB 3,880. His father fell down at the construction site and was paralyzed in bed. The surgery fee was 24,000 yuan short. He went through the address book of 237 people and finally sold the Shanghai watch left by his grandfather.
The company was about to enter the A round, and the leader pushed over the confirmation form: the actual number was eighty-one, but it was written as one hundred and sixteen. If he signed it, he would get the option, and his father's medical expenses would be covered for the rest of his life; if he didn't sign it, he would be the stupidest person in the company. Chen Feng said: I will sign eighty-one, but I will not sign one hundred and sixteen.
Two months later, the company was uprooted. And he started from a garage in an urban village, an old plaque with the word "credit" written on it, a retired teacher who came down from the mountain, and a sum of 500,000 that "invested in people", and erected the first stake named Chen at the entrance of the night market.
From a pile to a net, from the siege by giants, the rupture of the capital chain, the anti-takeover, to the day when the bell rings - he only believes in one stupid truth: things buried underground will see the light sooner or later.
This is a novel for everyone who is still on the road. Those who keep running will eventually learn to slow down, because there is someone running for you on the road ahead.
