I searched and fought in America.

(Just wanted to let everyone know that I'm going to revise the article. I added a plot to the previous chapter, and I plan to make major changes to the content. To be honest, I'm just riding the wave of the American kill line phenomenon.)

However, since I have chosen to write about this subject, I should show the characteristics of the American cutoff line, and show America's corruption, despair, and the struggles of the lower classes.

I didn't design the protagonist as a homeless person because everyone is writing about that. Indeed, being homeless is a very suitable profession, but if everyone writes it this way, it will eventually become homogenized and plagiarized. So I made the protagonist another ruthless underground professional.

I wanted to approach the subject from this angle, showcasing America from different perspectives. However, I realized I was going off-topic. The protagonist starts off as the leader of hundreds of gangs, which isn't ideal. So, if you want to see more details, you can wait until tomorrow. I'm staying up all night to revise it.

As he spoke, Rosen looked at Morris, who looked away and chose to remain silent; his attitude was the best proof of his words.

"He loves his daughter so much, you must have taken out a loan to treat her illness."

Moreover, judging from his appearance, he doesn't seem to have taken any enhancement drugs. He's an excellent medical sample.

A person who owes money but didn't take any enhancement drugs, tsk tsk tsk, what will be the outcome?

The daughter died of a heart attack, becoming the best sample for the hospital to study heart disease.

The father, grieving his daughter's death, might choose suicide, or he might be tortured to death by the gang as a warning to others.

Rosen's voice was low, as if he saw his own fate reflected in the other person.

It's not that he's never sold scrap before; before he became that strong in combat, he went around collecting scrap.

Haha, collecting recyclables isn't that easy!

He once witnessed two homeless men pulling guns at each other over a soda can that could be exchanged for three cents.

One of them was shot in the abdomen and could only watch helplessly as the other person took the can. For homeless people, even a minor injury can mean certain death.

He used to not understand why they didn't dare to fire on the gangs that exploited them, or on the bloodsucking capitalists, even though they had guns!

On the contrary, they can easily draw their guns and shoot those who are just as pitiful as them, or even worse off!

The more Rosen said this, the more his eyebrows drooped.

Those who achieve great things do not concern themselves with trifles. He was already the top leader of a gang, and he was no longer in the same social class as those homeless people.

He has a system, he has a bright future, he is rich enough, and as long as he has enough power, this damn country will be his paradise.

He shouldn't have sympathy for these people; it could harm him.

However, as Rosen watched the direction Rihis had left in, his fingers tightened slightly.

He felt as if his heart was on fire, burning painfully, and he couldn't seem to ignore it or not care.

When these hardships happen to him, he will feel genuine sympathy and compassion.

"Ugh."

Rosen sighed self-deprecatingly. He had seen many such hardships before, but perhaps because he had always been struggling to protect himself, he didn't have any particular thoughts about them.

Now that they have power and influence, their first thought is to change the status quo and bring peace and prosperity to the country.

Perhaps this is a common trait among well-educated students from the University of Tokyo; given the opportunity, who wouldn't want to save the world...?

Further on is the Iron Claw Gang's most profitable workshop: the renovation workshop.

This place is responsible for reprocessing or repairing the scrapped vehicles that are collected. Some of the repaired cars are sold as second-hand vehicles, while others are used as specially modified vehicles.

The workshop was very noisy at this time, with the sounds of various tools rising and falling.

Rosen walked up to a workbench where a white mechanic was sweating profusely as he modified an old Ford Mustang.

He was trying to adapt an old turbocharger to an engine.

The white repairman sensed someone approaching and was already annoyed. Just as he was about to reprimand someone, he looked up and saw that it was his own father. He was so frightened that he quickly put down the wrench and bowed respectfully.

"Father!"

Rosen waved his hand, signaling him to continue.

He stood by and watched the white mechanic repair the entire intake system process.

After the other party finished working, Rosen slowly clapped his hands and commented, "The technique is very skillful, and the welds are very stable, but if this car is modified in the way you are now, it won't sell for a high price."

Caesar paused for a moment, looking at Rosen with a puzzled expression, while the white repairman's face also became somewhat embarrassed.

He was quite confident in his skills, but since it was the Father who spoke, perhaps God had given some instructions.

Rosen pointed to the turbine, which was almost too big to fit into the engine bay, and said with a smile, "Yes:"

"It's like putting the heart of a twenty-year-old into an eighty-year-old man."

His heart was beating strongly, but the old man's blood vessels couldn't handle it, and his lungs were short of breath; he felt like they would burst after just a few steps.

He picked up a wrench and pointed to the connection between the radiator and the exhaust pipe:

"Look here, you're only thinking about how to blow the air in and pressurize it, but you haven't considered how this hot air will come out."

The radiator is too small, and the water circulation is slow. Driving this car on these terrible roads in our Ronnie neighborhood, the coolant temperature spikes off the charts halfway through an overtaking maneuver. It's usable, but not practical.

The white repairman scratched his head, thought about it carefully, and felt that what the Father said made a lot of sense; it was spot on. He felt a little embarrassed.

"Father, most of the parts we have here are makeshift, and the heat sinks are indeed old parts from before..."

"No need to change to something new, just try a different approach."

Rosen bent down, deftly removed the radiator fan cover, quickly adjusted the blade angle with pliers, and then pointed to the intake hose on a scrapped truck next to him.

"Connect that thick tube and do a lateral drainage."

Don't let the hot air swirl around in the engine compartment; vent it directly under the wheel arches.

Then, Rosen walked to the back of the car and kicked the swaying suspension.

"And this, you've added so much horsepower, when you start, the front of the car lifts up, all the power is in the wheels, and in the end it will just slip and wear down the tires. What the customer wants is a feeling of being pushed back in their seat, not just standing still and smoking."

Rosen pulled two thickened old springs from the junkyard and threw them directly on the ground.

"Weld these two rods to the rear axle support bracket to create a rigid connection for reinforcement."

This way, the car won't lift its head when starting, and all the power can be applied to the road.

The repairman listened with wide eyes. He had been doing this for so many years, always thinking about how to add parts, but he had never thought of such a "homemade" fine-tuning.

Rosen took the welding torch, pushed up his mask, and sparks flew everywhere.

In less than ten minutes, he re-welded and reinforced the stress points on the rear axle. Then, he got into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"Buzz—!"

The deep, resonant sound of the engine echoed through the factory, and the absence of other noises actually gave it a powerful presence.

Rosen released the accelerator, jumped out of the car, and looked at Caesar:

"How much did this car cost before?"

Caesar replied hesitantly, "About three thousand dollars, depending on luck."

"Now," Rosen tossed the wrench back into the toolbox, "take it to the underground racetrack in the North District, priced at twelve thousand dollars."

Tell them this car can run all night without the engine failing, and that a comparable car would cost at least $30,000. One test drive, and they'll be willing to pay.

The mechanic touched the newly welded chassis, and the doubt in his eyes completely disappeared, replaced by fervor.

Caesar pondered for a moment, and a green glint suddenly appeared in his eyes.

If every recycled junk car could be handled in this way, the Iron Claw Gang's profits could probably increase three to five times!

"Father, you are truly the embodiment of God, omniscient and omnipotent!" Caesar exclaimed excitedly.

Rosen patted Caesar on the shoulder:

"I can't do it all by myself. I'll write down what I know in a book and let everyone in our gang learn from it."