Is there a USB drive at my door Let me go check.

Tang Xin didn’t think it was that big of a deal.

Especially since it was just the beginning—was there really a need to be so concerned?

But sensing Young Master Cao’s seriousness, she had no choice but to accept the arrangement.

Fortunately, there were plenty of "white gloves" at home.

Or rather,

if Tang Xin needed them, countless people would willingly become her white gloves.

She could easily live like Young Master Cao, doing nothing all day and casually ordering others around.

And Young Master Cao was genuinely happy.

Though he had dreamed of descendants, even outliving his own children, those were just dreams.

This, however, was real.

And the genes were excellent.

Not to mention the [Divine Genealogy] obtained from the system’s god-tier treasure chest.

This thing was practically like having a second system—a "prosperous lineage" system.

The rewards from the Divine Genealogy were substantial.

Aside from lifespan, there was also luck.

As the family expanded, with more genetic branches intertwining and supporting each other, future generations would only grow stronger.

Each descendant would inherit 30% of the patriarch’s luck and lifespan.

But everything in this world comes with a price.

What is gained must eventually be repaid.

When the children grew up, forging their own destinies and establishing their own branch families, they would feed a portion of their luck and lifespan back to the main lineage.

The more branches, the greater the feedback.

The stronger the branches, the more potent the return.

Such was the power of the Divine Genealogy.

Perhaps centuries later, the accumulated luck from these branches would reach an unimaginable magnitude.

So,

what lay ahead for Cao Cheng was simple: expand the family tree.

……

Such joyous news, yet it couldn’t be shared.

Too many haters lurked in the shadows.

The child was too young.

Too vulnerable to curses fueled by envy.

Superstition or not, it was better to err on the side of caution—for peace of mind.

But Young Master Cao was someone who loved to share. If he couldn’t share the joy of parenthood, he’d simply share joy itself.

After all, he was in a splendid mood.

Consider yourselves lucky.

After a month-long absence, Cao Cheng finally logged back into his Weibo account.

Faced with an avalanche of notifications,

he shook his head with a light sigh. "Ah, the world truly can’t function without me."

"Look at this, just look."

"Talk about ‘long-awaited.’"

Beside him, Tang Xin stifled a laugh. "You’re so full of yourself."

"Full of myself? Look at how many messages—" He tilted the laptop screen toward her.

Tang Xin glanced and huffed. "Yes, and every single one is calling you ‘hubby.’ The nation’s heartthrob, aren’t you?"

Cao Cheng chuckled.

No explanation. No rebuttal.

Tang Xin wasn’t the type to get jealous over something so trivial.

Besides,

even if Young Master Cao had an appetite, he wouldn’t stoop to "eating fan."

Unless the fan was famous. Or well-connected.

After a moment’s thought, Cao Cheng began typing.

Transforming into a keyboard warrior.

A true hero fights for the people—with keystrokes.

"Recently made a bit of pocket change. Feeling good, so I’ll share the joy. Also, here’s a tip for a future money-making opportunity. Even if it doesn’t profit you, it won’t cost you. Believe it or not… your loss!"

The tone was casual, conversational—no riddles, no vagueness.

Except for one thing:

He didn’t specify what the opportunity was.

Instantly,

a tidal wave of frustration surged across the nation.

"There are two kinds of people I despise most: those who speak in half-truths, and—"

"???"

"Damn it, you’re truly Cao the Thief’s disciple—just as infuriating! Aren’t you afraid of getting beaten up during the holidays?"

"Hahahaha…"

"HUBBY’S BACK! sobs"

"Why the hell are you crying?"

"It’s called tears of joy, you uncultured swine."

"Hubby went to make money this month? You’re already rich! No wonder I’m poor—I finally understand why."

"Sigh. If someone richer than me is hustling this hard, is there even a point to my efforts?"

"Uh…"

"Cao, I advise you to tread lightly."

"Spit it out. Don’t leave us hanging."

"I don’t want to curse during the holidays. Don’t test me."

……

"HAHAHA!" Tang Xin trembled with laughter.

Cao Cheng grinned too. The emotional backlash was substantial.

Capitalizing on the trending topic—"Youngest Tycoon’s Mysterious Disappearance"—still burning on the hot search, this move sent engagement skyrocketing.

Even the media jumped in.

First, speculating where Young Master Cao had vanished to.

Second, theorizing where he’d earned his so-called "pocket change."

(No one actually believed it was small change. If it made a tycoon this cheerful, it had to be a fortune.)

Third, dissecting his cryptic "future money-making opportunity."

The hype was real.

Everyone knew Young Master Cao was the Eastern Stock God!

Sure, outsiders called him the "Financial Bandit"—a crude nickname—but none could deny his prowess.

When he hinted at a profitable venture, even seasoned financiers and CEOs leaned in, ears wide open.

Whether they truly believed or just wanted fresh perspective, his words carried weight.

That was credibility.

But alas…

That day, Cao Cheng went radio silent again.

He was busy packing for his return to Zhonghai.

The journey had involved so much shopping that even a RV couldn’t hold it all—mostly small gifts for family.

Thousands of kilometers traversed.

Between beds and boutiques.

Two days passed.

Online chaos escalated. Emotional outrage peaked.

Some comments were downright vicious.

Then, on the third day,

Cao Cheng finally arrived in Zhonghai, stepping into his new, modestly sized home.

He posted:

"Apologies. Was in the Gobi Desert days ago—spotty signal. Posted and then got cut off. Just made it home. Thanks for the love and concern. heart"

An excuse for the silence.

Believable or not, courtesy demanded an explanation.

He couldn’t outright admit he’d been toying with everyone—that would’ve spiked emotional backlash but eroded credibility.

This was all part of the long game.

Even now, his next move aimed to test obedience—deepening trust among followers, converting skeptics.

A setup for what was coming two years later.

When the time came, he’d need an army. Never underestimate retail investors.

Remember how Chinese aunties once battled Wall Street over gold shorts?

Now, with wealth widespread, a flawless leader could move markets at will.

Name a rise, and it would soar.

Predict a fall, and it would crash.

But such power couldn’t be abused.

Reserved for critical moments—to show foreign sharks the might of a people’s tsunami.

So everything now served one purpose:

To cement Young Master Cao’s credibility.

Strategy and emotional dividends, hand in hand.

The fans grew anxious.

“What’s Young Master Cao doing in the Gobi Desert? He must’ve lost weight, wuwuwu…”

“Who cares about that? Hurry up and tell us how to make money in the future!”

“It’s been three days, and you still haven’t said anything?”

“Get on with it.”

“The New Year’s almost here—I don’t want to curse.”

“So frustrating.”

“I’m seriously pissed right now, ready to throw hands.”

“I see what’s going on—this Cao guy is doing this on purpose.”

“Unfollowed.”

“…”

Another wave of collective frustration spread.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that Cao Cheng posted his third update.

The content read:

“Just double-checked my earlier logic—no issues there. For the next six months, I won’t be touching the secondary market. We’ll revisit this half a year from now.”

This statement carried weight.

The moment it went live, the tone shifted dramatically.

Some clueless women chimed in:

“What’s the secondary market?”

“Are you serious or just pretending?”

“I’m new here—genuinely don’t know.”

“Google it yourself.”

“…”

“So Young Master Cao’s saying we shouldn’t touch stocks for the next six months? Meaning… a crash?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“This is basically an open-book exam—I’m liquidating tomorrow.”

“No way? The market’s been on fire lately, and it’s only at 2400 points—how much lower can it go?”

“Suit yourself. I’d rather play it safe—I’m out. I’ll buy back in six months. I trust him.”

“Same.”

“Me too. Young Master Cao came from stock trading—he’s never been wrong about this stuff.”

“Exactly. I followed him back before real-name verification was a thing. He’s been spot-on every time.”

“Not just ‘spot-on’—he’s never missed.”

“True. This Cao guy might not be as handsome as me, but when it comes to the secondary market, I’ll admit defeat.”

“Pfft—delusional much?”

Most fans trusted him.

Only a handful of newcomers, unaware of Young Master Cao’s track record, remained skeptical.

Some even thought the fans were brainwashed.

This was real money—how could they just blindly follow someone’s word?

And even if he was a billionaire, that didn’t make him infallible, right?

If he could really predict the market, why would he share it? Why help others profit? Why give warnings?

Was this some scheme to sell courses?

Then again, a billionaire wouldn’t need course money—but he also had no obligation to help.

As for the haters, a small fraction who knew Young Master Cao well immediately believed him. Those holding positions started preparing to sell.

Hate him all you want—but no one turns down a chance to save their money.

Avoiding losses didn’t mean they’d stop trashing Cao.

Beyond the fans, financial professionals were panicking.

Especially those who’d made moves but hadn’t exited yet—their ideal profit window hadn’t arrived.

They’d planned to cash in on retail investors.

But now, with Young Master Cao’s statement, their plans were in jeopardy.

This was about their own losses.

So the moment Cao Cheng spoke up, a fund manager couldn’t hold back and posted:

“Some people aren’t who they used to be. Think before you speak—don’t just blurt out whatever comes to mind. You’ve got no proof, and the fallout is irresponsible.”

“One sentence from you could crash entire markets. The fragile confidence we’ve built might collapse because of your influence.”

“Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if you’re a mole.”

“So here’s my advice: shut your mouth unless you’ve got something real to say.”

“Oh, and for the record—this is my personal take—the market’s fine. I’m not selling tomorrow. I’m buying more. I’ll even post screenshots.”

“One last thing: the market isn’t your playground. You don’t get to dictate reality.”

Though no names were mentioned, everyone knew who this was about.

The media instantly pushed it to headlines.

Multiple institutions endorsed, supported, and reposted it.

Meanwhile, haters accused Young Master Cao of being a traitor, a saboteur.

Slapping him with the label of “hating his own country’s success” was fair game.

The beauty of language was that both sides could sound reasonable.

Call it concern for retail investors.

Or call it jealousy toward the market’s rise.

But Cao Cheng didn’t bother explaining.

He just posted another update:

“Huh. Think there’s a USB drive at my doorstep? Let me go check.”

“…”

“…”