Chapter One: The Wind Rises in 2009

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Shanghai Metropolitan University of Finance and Economics.

Dormitory building for Investment Studies majors.

Zhang Yang turned on the tap at the dormitory washbasin, scooped up the icy water, and slapped it onto his cheeks, then quickly raised his head.

The young man in the mirror had handsome features and a lean, athletic build. The white-lettered T-shirt he wore was slightly yellowed at the collar.

It was no exaggeration to say his looks easily qualified him as the most attractive guy in the department.

“Splash, splash, splash—”

Zhang Yang scooped up more water, slapping both sides of his face until they reddened slightly.

Only when he was certain this was not a dream, but truly a rebirth, did he stop.

Yes.

Zhang Yang had been reborn.

Just ten minutes ago, he was still a fund manager at Bridgewater, one of the world’s top asset management firms, responsible for wealth management among Chinese Americans in the US. He was also a well-known analyst and economist in financial circles.

But just moments ago, a missile struck the tail of the helicopter he was in, breaking its dynamic balance and sending it crashing down.

When he thought he was about to die, he suddenly opened his eyes to find himself back in 2009, before he’d ever gone abroad.

The first half of 2009 was Zhang Yang’s final semester of university.

That spring, China’s “Four Trillion Stimulus Plan” was in full swing. An unprecedented wave of infrastructure swept across the country, putting millions of unemployed workers back to work.

Japan announced the third phase of its “Seventy-five Trillion Yen Economic Revitalization Plan,” investing around fifty trillion yen into infrastructure and public welfare.

America, the epicenter of the subprime crisis, took a different approach. It did not announce specific investment figures, but simply let the Federal Reserve print money around the clock.

All nations scrambled to escape the shadow of the subprime crisis.

In his previous life, Zhang Yang had accurately foreseen a coming global economic boom, so he decisively set out for Wall Street.

As for why he didn’t stay and make his mark at home, it was mainly because the domestic stock market lacked the complexity and financial tools of Wall Street.

There’s a saying in the investment world: “The domestic stock market protects small investors best—but also restricts them the most.”

To maximize his interests, Zhang Yang chose to fight on Wall Street.

But he never expected that after managing billions in assets for Bridgewater, he would end up discarded like a spent tool.

The old adage proved true: “Those not of our kin cannot be trusted.”

As a Chinese man, Zhang Yang could never truly integrate into the Jewish circles. Only by striving at home could he safeguard his own well-being.

“Dorm leader, what are you spacing out for?”

“Heading to class, dorm leader.”

Two young men, one stocky and one slender, entered the balcony. They were Zhang Yang’s roommates—the stocky one was Xu Jiafeng, the slender one Chen Chuan.

Zhang Yang was the dorm leader of Room 308. The others usually addressed him as “dorm leader,” but occasionally called him “dad” or “papa”—only when he brought them food.

After greeting him, the two headed into the restroom on the right side of the balcony.

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“What class are we supposed to attend?” Zhang Yang shook off his thoughts; the debt owed by Bridgewater would be repaid a hundredfold in the future.

“Securities Investment Analysis,” Xu Jiafeng replied without hesitation.

As Chen Chuan relieved himself, he added, “The class reps say Old Wang is up to something. Not sure if it’s true.”

“Old Wang” referred to the instructor for Securities Investment Analysis—Wang Xingbang.

“Up to something? What kind of thing?” Xu Jiafeng was puzzled.

“Who knows? As long as I don’t get held back another year…” Chen Chuan snorted.

“And if you do?” asked another roommate entering the balcony. He was Wang Liu, with dyed brown hair and silver-framed glasses, looking scholarly.

“If I do, don’t force me to kneel and beg him not to hold me back.” Chen Chuan chuckled.

Looking at these three faces—strange yet familiar—Zhang Yang felt a surge of emotions.

In his previous life, after going abroad, their contact diminished, perhaps because everyone was busy. A few years later, they lost touch completely. He never thought he’d see them again.

…

After all four had finished, they left the dormitory and walked toward the First Teaching Building.

March was rainy season; Shanghai had just seen a heavy downpour. The campus roads on Wudong Road were still covered in puddles, the air mingling the scent of earth and flowers.

Unlike high school’s fixed classrooms, university classes were held in rotating venues, requiring students to find their assigned room each session.

Usually, the counselor would organize the schedule a week in advance and send it to the students by email.

All four were seniors—“old hands”—so they easily found their lecture hall.

Inside, the front row was almost empty.

From the second row onward, students sat in their own small groups.

The biggest difference between university and high school was that learning shifted from class collectives to smaller circles.

There were over a hundred people in the hall; Zhang Yang knew fewer than ten by name.

But if you asked him to name twenty high school classmates, he could grit his teeth and do it.

“There are seats over there,” Xu Jiafeng pointed to the left of the second row.

“Let’s go,” said Chen Chuan.

The four found empty seats and turned their attention to the multimedia podium.

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Three people stood at the podium: their instructor Wang Xingbang, and two representatives from Huaxin Securities.

As the mellow sound of the class bell rang, Wang Xingbang picked up the attendance sheet and, as usual, began roll call.

“Dong Lulu.”

“Here.”

“Meng Juncai.”

“Here.”

…

“Xu Jiafeng.”

“Here.”

One by one, the students answered as their names were called. Senior year was different from the previous three—failing a core subject could delay graduation, so skipping class was rare.

“Zhang Yang.”

“Here.”

“Expected attendance: 122. Actual attendance: 122. Excellent—no absentees.” Wang Xingbang put away the sheet, glanced at the man and woman beside him, and continued:

“Today’s lesson won’t cover textbook material. Instead, Tao Yu’ang and Yue Shuxue—two fund managers from Huaxin Securities—will assign you your internship project.”

“Let’s welcome them with applause!”

The hall erupted in thunderous applause.

Tao Yu’ang, in a white shirt and about thirty years old, came to the microphone and greeted the students, “Dear juniors, it’s an honor to return to my alma mater and meet you all.”

Applause again.

Huaxin Securities was the largest securities firm in the country, managing assets in the trillions.

Anyone who could enter Huaxin was the cream of the crop.

Once the applause subsided, Tao Yu’ang explained his purpose: “As graduation approaches, I was once like you—uncertain about the future.”

“After years of hard work, your Senior Tao and Senior Yue now have the ability to shelter others. So, on behalf of Huaxin Securities, we’d like to invite you to participate in a simulation challenge.”

“We invite everyone to join the forty-five-day ‘Huaxin Simulation Trading Competition.’ This is a nationwide event—fair and impartial. The top ten performers by return will be recommended for internships at Huaxin Securities!”