For some people, it's important to make money together—in harmony.
But for others, making money alone is just as good—maybe even better. They don't need consensus. They make decisions for themselves.
Take Dubai, for instance. Whether it's the tourism industry or oil, the royal family has the final word. No debates. No democracy. No interference. No messy procedures. Everything begins and ends with them.
They don't share benefits—they take them. That's just how they operate.
What holds true for oil... also holds true for beef.
Since they had a deal with Jiang Hai, the cattle—and the feed—were theirs. Plain and simple. Now that the secret had been leaked, it felt like someone had stolen money straight from their pockets. Of course they were furious.
As Du Famen gave his orders, his men sprang into action. Meanwhile, back at their desert ranch, Akita Shingo stared in disbelief at the test reports in his hands.
From the beginning, he hadn't believed that Jiang Hai's grass could really produce marbled beef. To him, it was nonsense.
No sane cattle breeder would believe it.
Take Wagyu, for example. Raising cattle with perfectly marbled beef requires extreme care—sometimes even a one-to-one ratio of caretakers to cattle. Every step is calculated: exercise, pace, route, posture. They drink red wine to relax. They get daily massages to help fat integrate into muscle tissue just the right way. Only through this meticulous care can one raise top-tier Wagyu, earning the prestigious A5 rating—the absolute gold standard in the beef world.
Then suddenly, Jiang Hai appears, saying, "You're doing it all wrong. Just feed them my grass."
Who would believe that? After years of painstaking effort, someone dares suggest they can achieve the same results just by feeding grass? It sounded as ridiculous to Akita Shingo as the miracle pills from China that promise to cure all ailments—it had to be a scam.
But the real issue was... Du Famen believed it. That was humiliating.
So Akita had been trying to expose Jiang Hai ever since.
Late last month, Jiang Hai's first batch of feed was delivered. Du Famen ordered 200,000 specially selected cattle to begin the trial.
As the ranch's chief overseer, Akita naturally gained access to the grass. Behind the scenes, he persuaded a royal attendant—tasked with monitoring Du Famen—to secretly send samples to various testing labs around the world.
Labs in Japan, Korea, the U.S., and across Europe received them. Not because Akita didn't trust Dubai's own testing centers, but because he couldn't accept the results. He needed outside confirmation—or so he told himself.
The royal attendant he convinced was no ordinary employee. He was planted there to watch Du Famen. After all, before the current Sheikh took power, Du Famen had once been in line for succession. His rank was high, and he had inherited considerable wealth. Keeping tabs on him was... politically prudent.
Du Famen knew this and didn't resist. He had no interest in power. He preferred business. Having a monitor nearby gave the Sheikh peace of mind—and Du Famen peace to operate freely.
Unfortunately, the attendant didn't know much about cattle. Between the arrogant Chinese Jiang Hai and the humble, agreeable Akita Shingo, he trusted the latter—and agreed to the plan.
But that single decision nearly cost him his life.
Du Famen couldn't kill him, of course.
But the moment this leak was reported to the top, the consequences would be grave. A financial loss of tens of billions of dollars wasn't something a minor surveillance officer could explain away.
"This... this is impossible! There's no way this grass is that nutritious! These results are wrong!" Akita Shingo shouted, flipping through multiple reports with trembling hands.
They had come from the labs he trusted most—in Japan and South Korea. But the results matched Dubai's tests exactly. All of them confirmed the grass's extraordinary properties.
That didn't mean Jiang Hai's feed was amazing. No, to Akita, it meant every single testing agency in the world was broken. It had to be a mistake. He just couldn't accept it.
Bang!
His door suddenly burst open. Armed Dubai soldiers flooded the room. Akita stared at them in confusion.
He recognized these soldiers. According to Du Famen, they were stationed at the ranch for protection. After all, the desert had its dangers.
But clearly... they weren't here to protect.
"Mr. Akita," one of them said sternly, "you are temporarily detained on suspicion of commercial espionage. Until you are handed over to Dubai police, you are not to leave our sight. For your own safety."
Akita Shingo was stunned.
That night, Dubai was anything but peaceful.
At around 2 a.m., a police helicopter descended on the ranch. Akita Shingo and all his Japanese colleagues were taken into custody and flown to Dubai's central station on charges of industrial espionage.
Their future now rested with their homeland. The question was—would Japan pay to get them back?
Though Dubai acted quickly to recover the leaked forage, only about thirty samples were retrieved—mostly from Europe.
European labs, with their longstanding skepticism toward Asia—be it China, Japan, or Korea—had put off analyzing the samples. They shelved the task in favor of other work, missing the chance to witness a new breakthrough in cattle nutrition.
Meanwhile, labs in Asia and the U.S. had completed their tests—and were shocked by the results. Especially Japan and Korea. Now, they were looking for any opportunity to contact Jiang Hai...
On Jiang Hai's end, however, life was quiet.
The chaos in Dubai? None of his concern.
He spent the afternoon manning his exhibition booth. That evening, he celebrated the day's success with Cheryl and Pra Walton. Sure, their victory had been a little... disgusting. But it was also deeply satisfying.
Just thinking about Roland Shalid's face yesterday made Jiang Hai grin from ear to ear.
Covered in feces, vomiting and defecating at once—it had been a masterpiece of humiliation.
But Roland Shalid? He wanted to die.
After fleeing the scene, he had spent the entire day showering. Literally the entire day. His skin was raw from scrubbing. His hair was nearly gone. And still... he felt filthy.
His stomach wouldn't stop churning. It was a cycle of shower–toilet–shower–toilet.
By 10 p.m., he looked like someone who had been poisoned, run a marathon, and been trampled by cattle—all at once. His face was pale, lips cracked, eyes bloodshot. He looked like an extra from a zombie movie—and needed no makeup for the role.
Barely holding himself upright, he staggered to his bed and collapsed. He hadn't eaten all day. He'd been running to the toilet nonstop. Just remembering the morning made him retch.
"Mr. Roland, are you okay? Should I call a hospital?" his female assistant asked hesitantly.
He shook his head. He wasn't sure he could make it to the hospital.
"Did you find out what happened?" he asked weakly, eyes narrowed.
"Find out what?" she replied, puzzled.
Roland scowled. Was she always this dim?
"Oh, the diarrhea case," she added quickly, realizing what he meant. "The lab results came back. It had nothing to do with the bottled water. The remaining water tested clean—no bacterial contamination, no harmful chemicals, nothing suspicious at all."
Roland's expression froze. He had been certain Jiang Hai was behind it. He was ready to file charges if the evidence lined up—but now... no evidence?
"This is f***ed up," he muttered through clenched teeth.
"We also found Willy Barton," she continued. "He said he doesn't remember anything. He was pushing the cart, someone hit him from behind, and the next thing he knew—it was afternoon."
Roland's expression twisted. "That bastard... it was him. It had to be him!"
But without evidence, what could he do? This was America—a country built on law, rights, and due process. He couldn't just frame Jiang Hai. If he tried and failed, he'd be the one in trouble.
That was the worst part.
He knew Jiang Hai was behind it. He just couldn't prove it. And that powerlessness was eating him alive.
"Tomorrow—no, tonight—gather all our cowboys," he growled. "Tomorrow, we're flooding Jiang Hai's booth with manure."
He couldn't take legal action, so he'd go the dirty route—literally.
But as he clenched his teeth in fury, he suddenly gagged. There was a foul taste in his mouth again.
"Ugh... I need to brush my teeth again." He stumbled toward the bathroom, while his assistant—hesitating—went off to relay his orders.
Meanwhile, Jiang Hai had already anticipated retaliation.
That night, he met with the exhibition organizers and spent $200,000 to bolster security around his booth. He didn't care about the cost—he had money to burn, and he wasn't going to let Roland get the upper hand again.
The organizers gladly accepted the payment and deployed 40 security guards to Jiang Hai's section. They understood the stakes. And Jiang Hai made it clear—he wouldn't be outbid.
If peace wasn't an option, then let the battle begin.
The next morning, after Jiang Hai and his team led the cattle into the exhibition hall, the security detail also arrived.
Jiang Hai put Bell in charge of the guards and waited—ready for Roland Shalid to show up.
But Roland didn't come.
Someone else did.