"What can you do, outsider? This is Texas. You're not going to turn the world upside down."
The cowboy sneered at Robbins Garcia, a smug grin plastered on his face. He didn't bother to hide his disdain—Texans could be proud, sure, but these people were something else.
Jiang Hai had to admit it: the locals here were... difficult.
Racial and regional prejudice aside, there was an overwhelming sense of hometown superiority, especially among these cowboys. A bit of pride in one's roots was fine, but this? Jiang Hai couldn't stand it.
"I told you—Texans are all talk."
Jiang Hai stood up, clapped Robbins Garcia on the shoulder, and faced the group. At his words, the expressions of the cowboys instantly shifted.
"Alright then," said one of them, stepping forward with an arrogant glint in his eyes. "Let me show you how it's done."
They couldn't resort to violence here—it would get them disqualified from the event. So instead, they'd show off their knowledge and skill, make these outsiders understand just how little they knew.
"The place where you saw helicopters herding cattle—let me guess. It's flat, right? Not much grass, wide open, and pretty hot."
He looked straight at Jiang Hai. Jiang Hai wanted to scoff, but had to admit the man's guess was accurate. Du Famen's ranch was exactly like that—an oasis-turned-plain with sparse grass. The land was expansive and, as expected, scorching.
Jiang Hai nodded slightly. He hadn't mentioned those details earlier, so the cowboy clearly had some knowledge.
"These are ideal conditions for helicopter herding. The open terrain means nothing traps the sound of the choppers. It's not as loud as you think. Plus, those rich enough to use helicopters usually install sound-absorbing steel barriers around their ranches. They channel the sound underground. So, the noise? It's just a bit louder than using trucks. The cattle can handle it."
Jiang Hai thought back—yes, the helicopters at Du Famen's ranch didn't seem much louder than the one at his own. Still annoying, but not unbearable.
Seeing Jiang Hai deep in thought, the young cowboy smirked and continued.
"The key advantage of helicopters is speed. With such vast pastures, cattle scatter quickly in search of food. If you let them roam, they get lost—or worse, die of thirst or stress. Helicopter herding lets you group them up fast, guide them to water, and manage them easily. Five helicopters can handle a million head of cattle. Just a dozen aerial cowboys. If you used regular hands? You'd need hundreds, maybe thousands. Imagine the cost!"
Jiang Hai glanced at Robbins Garcia, who gave a thoughtful nod. Jiang Hai didn't grasp every technical detail, but it sounded convincing. Garcia, more experienced, could tell the cowboy wasn't wrong.
"Understand now, amateurs?" the cowboy sneered, clearly enjoying himself.
"You've got a point, young man," Garcia said, calmly lighting a cigarette. "But you forgot one critical thing—these cattle need to develop marbling. As I said earlier, even minor stress affects that. Excessive noise or rushed herding reduces fat content and increases muscle. How do you plan to solve that?"
The cowboy clicked his tongue in disdain. "Please. Only amateurs talk like that. Marbled beef requires intensive care. What I described? That's large-scale production. You want marbling? Forget helicopters. Uncle, you're dreaming."
Everyone knew how expensive wagyu beef was—infamous for its marbling. Breeds and genetics were one thing, but breeding methods were another. Sure, anyone could import the cattle, but that didn't mean they'd achieve the same quality.
Top-grade wagyu was the result of strict care: massages, red wine, stress-free environments. And the labor costs? Astronomical. Even if the beef sold for a premium, the profit margins were slim—far slimmer than large-scale ranching.
If marbled beef were that profitable, everyone would be doing it. The reality was that few could afford the time, cost, or consistency.
So when Jiang Hai and Garcia mentioned raising marbled beef, the cowboy couldn't hide his contempt.
"Amateurs," he snorted. "No point talking to them."
Jiang Hai smirked and said coolly, "Let's go, Garcia. No use arguing with people who've never seen the world."
That lit the young cowboy's fuse.
"You calling me inexperienced? I've been on ranches since I was six. That's 18 years now! I even won first place at last year's Texas Cowboy Competition. And you say I haven't seen the world?"
Jiang Hai raised an eyebrow. He was genuinely surprised. Winning that competition wasn't easy—it did suggest skill. Unfortunately, it didn't help the cowboy's attitude.
"So you're twenty-four," Jiang Hai said calmly. "Didn't your father teach you how to speak to your elders?"
The cowboy's face twisted in fury. "What did you say, bastard?"
"I said you clearly weren't raised right," Jiang Hai replied, stepping forward, his voice ice-cold.
"You yellow monkey! You're looking for death!"
The racist slur snapped something in Jiang Hai. His expression darkened.
"You white pig—let's see who's looking for death."
The room ignited.
The other cowboys—also white—leapt from the bullpen, fists clenched. They didn't care about the rules anymore. They wanted a fight.
But before any of them could reach Jiang Hai, Connorson Peters moved like lightning. Despite being white himself, he didn't hesitate. With a solid punch, he decked the lead cowboy in one blow.
Bang!
The man hit the ground hard. The rest stopped dead, stunned. Connorson, barely 1.85 meters tall, had a lean, muscular build from years of ranch work—but that punch made them freeze.
Before anything else could happen, security in uniform arrived, alerted by the surveillance cameras.
"What the hell is going on?" the lead security guard shouted, already frustrated.
He didn't need to ask. He knew how things worked around here—racial tensions ran high in Texas. The signs at the event clearly prohibited discrimination, but enforcement was another matter. Locals expected people of color to submit. Outsiders like Jiang Hai didn't play by those rules.
"These outsiders called us white pigs!" one cowboy shouted, hoping to turn the tide.
The guard blinked, then turned to Jiang Hai.
"And what about your 'yellow monkey' comment?" Jiang Hai replied coolly.
The security guard's face twitched. He knew exactly what had happened.
"This is above my pay grade," the guard muttered. "Do you want to press charges?"
That quieted everyone.
The cowboys didn't want the police involved—they'd started the fight, and the cameras wouldn't lie. As for the verbal abuse? No proof. No recordings.
Jiang Hai considered it too. If they were in Winthrop, he'd have called the cops immediately. But this was Texas. He was here for the competition—he didn't want to risk being disqualified over a brawl.
So he shot the cowboys one last glare, then turned and walked back to his cowshed. They shouted a few parting insults, but didn't follow.
The security guard sighed in relief and walked off. The cowboys watched Jiang Hai leave, seething.
They weren't used to this. No one talked back to them in Texas.
"We can't let this go," the cowboy who got punched said, rubbing his bruised cheek. "Not like this."
"What do you want us to do?" someone whispered. "There are cameras."
"They're here to compete, right? Fine. Let's make sure they don't win anything. Call up the other teams. We'll make damn sure they leave empty-handed."
The others nodded grimly. They didn't see anything wrong with that.
As for Jiang Hai?
He didn't care about their scheming. From the start, he hadn't come here to fight these cowboys.
His ambitions were far greater than that.
To be continued…