Chapter 119: Rashomon Gate

“Sigh, buddy, stealing a meal isn’t easy, you know? Not only do you have to see them off to the car, but you even have to accompany them part of the way.” Someone was being dramatic again—after all, they were too young to just pull up their pants and walk away.

“Cut, that’s a wrap for this shot. Keep this energy up for the next group.”

With a loud crack, a booming sound echoed. “Damn, wrap it up, wrap it up.”

Just as they were getting into the groove, the heavens decided to interfere. Whether it was rain or snow, filming was impossible.

London would never be Hollywood, and the weather was a major reason why. In this era, without digital editing, lighting had to be perfect.

Three days of relentless gray skies and rain had truly tested the young actress’s endurance; she had no choice but to study those indescribable things day and night.

Whether she’d learned the art of seduction well remained unknown, but in action films, there was no room for unnecessary takes. It was a craft honed through practice.

Still, as filming continued, everyone noticed obvious progress—it seemed the director had been teaching her well.

Well, this damned weather might have been a blessing in disguise, though the cost was high. Otherwise, they could have filmed for months.

Someone was shameless enough to say, “Say what you want, but that’s life. Staying cooped up at home making money when the weather’s bad is foolish; letting loose is the way to go.”

A week of British cuisine nearly made William White sick. He couldn’t understand how John Bull, with his uncoated tongue, could drink red wine—was it all just for show?

Texas cuisine was already dark fare, but here it was even more absurd. With the tight shooting schedule, who had time to eat French food daily?

Later, London wouldn’t have so many British dishes—probably because they simply couldn’t keep it going.

British food was the worst in Europe, no contest. They couldn’t even get the salt right, so you couldn’t expect much culinary excellence.

Strangely, their desserts were quite satisfying—maybe because they didn’t have to worry about sugar content. The flavors were indeed delightful.

William White’s crew was quite popular in London. The gentlemen here were far more polite than Americans. Although fees were charged, there was something about it that felt genuinely pleasant.

London’s nightlife was excellent. Whether it was soul-wrenching rock or the trendiest disco clubs, as the city lights flickered on, London swiftly shed its daytime facade, effortlessly swallowing old rigidity and conservatism.

Nightclubs in America were a different story—so finicky, with some of the strictest regulations worldwide. You had to be 21 to drink, and before then, you could only have soda at bars—if they even had soda.

It was baffling. Why could someone marry at 16 but only drink at 21? What kind of logic was that? And some states even allowed 12-year-olds to marry.

Honestly, these folks were quite eccentric. If this happened in the Middle Kingdom, they'd be sent straight to the firing range.

Amid the deafening music, William White was briefly transported back to his reckless days. The temptations of the night were overwhelming, and he was burning with desire. Thankfully, he’d recently spent a lot of energy; otherwise, he wouldn’t have held up.

A gulp of ice wine dulled those feelings. As reason took the upper hand, the world suddenly became clear.

The work in London wasn’t over yet. He had to stay sharp. Even if he chose to let loose, the job had to be done.

Early morning in Hyde Park, a group of a dozen or so were running. Curious onlookers were unsurprised—perhaps it was just some wealthy individual jogging.

Victoria Harbour, Hyde Park—these seemed to be the most overused place names worldwide. John Bull was truly lazy; couldn’t he pick a new name?

Preserving this green space in central London wasn’t easy. Elsewhere, it might have been turned into a gated community, off-limits to the public.

In Europe or America, you couldn’t do that. Public parks or beaches would never be replaced by villas. Private beaches could only exist in remote areas. Developing your own land was fine; occupying public resources was not.

London’s shoot was nearing its end. A ten-day outdoor schedule had stretched to fifteen days. Schools had reopened, and he had to return to report back.

Though William White wasn’t in the U.S., his legend lived on there. The Hunter family was causing chaos, driving silver prices up to fifty dollars an ounce.

A last gasp?

Maybe.

Then they started playing dirty. The message was clear: if you dare to mess with the Hunters, at least a dozen banks would collapse alongside them.

The beleaguered Federal Reserve was scrambling to find guarantor banks for the family. Without sufficient collateral, guarantors and exchanges began forcibly liquidating positions.

Despite his grudges against the Hunters, William White didn’t support such tactics—they were legally baseless.

No matter how rotten the Hunter family was, they operated within the law, unlike America’s shameless regulators. This was Pandora’s box; if they pulled it off once, they could do it again.

America’s wealthy elite were baffled. The feud between the two families wasn’t a secret in high society. Now, those speaking out in support were actually their greatest enemies. What a melodramatic twist.

“Pfft, let them go to hell. The real issue is that today they can bleed the Hunters dry, but tomorrow it could be me—or you. That’s absolutely unacceptable.”

“Yeah, I thought you were off your rocker,” said Little Bushu, clearly unimpressed.

“George, tell your old man exactly what I said. I don’t believe he doesn’t care.”

“Is it really that serious?”

“Sigh, I can beat them in business without outside help.”

“Got it. I’ll pass on the message. Don’t make any statements for now.”

“Damn, you owe me one.”

“Alright, alright, you win. I owe you.”

William White was naturally worried; he still held half a gold short position. If this bloodletting became routine, he wouldn’t have a chance.

“Ha, so the kid has his fears. Interesting.”

“Dad, do you mean he has great stakes in this?”

Old Bushu looked at his son speechlessly. Both were fools, yet the gap was vast.

“He’s warning some people: don’t go too far, or you’ll die a miserable death.”

“Damn, he dares threaten those old bastards?”

Ignoring his son’s curse, Old Bushu calmly said, “Some people’s greed is disgusting. William White isn’t the only one unhappy. One wrong move, and it’s all over. Of course they’re scared.”

“Is he really that powerful?”

“In less than ten years, he’ll be America’s nominal richest man. What do you think?”

The current richest family was being crushed and bled dry. The successor had every reason to be feared. This was outright robbery.

As a traditional nouveau riche family, the Hunters were no pushovers. They understood William White’s intentions.

But what could they do?

They had to accept the favor or be shameless.

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