HLM – Chapter 172 The Relocating Māori Clan

Wang Bo carried the soup pot down and unveiled the steaming, aromatic stew. It was finally ready. He ladled a bowl for each person in the room to taste. “It’s been a while since I cooked, so I might be a bit rusty. Please be forgiving if it doesn’t taste good.”

Charlie sourly muttered, “If you know it’s not going to taste good, why even bother?”

Wang Bo responded with a big, theatrical eye-roll and said, “Listen here, Charlie. I was talking to Miss Mo, asking for her understanding. As for your opinion? Sorry, not interested. If it’s not good enough for you, don’t drink it.”

Mo Yuning accepted the small bowl with a charming smile and blinked her large eyes as she said, “Don’t call me Miss Mo. Just call me Ah Ning. That’s what my grandparents used to call me.”

Wang Bo smiled and nodded but didn’t say more.

Just then, the domineering CEO, Bartier came down the stairs with his son. Catching a whiff of the beef stew, he eagerly asked, “Hey, Wang, my dear friend—what deliciousness have you prepared this time?”

Wang Bo replied, “It’s meat soup. Come have some with little Bartier.”

“Gladly.”

Bartier wasn’t particularly craving soup—he was more interested in piquing his son’s curiosity and encouraging him to try some.

Young Bartier was indeed interested in the meat soup, though mainly because he wanted to feed it to Little Wang, the liger.

Mo Yuning clearly recognized Bartier—or at least had seen him before. She was visibly surprised to see the domineering CEO and asked instinctively, “Mr. Bartier Good?”

Bartier gave her a nod and a polite smile, then turned back to Wang Bo and said, “Dinner looks extravagant tonight. What’s the occasion?”

Wang Bo explained the day’s donation drive in town. Upon hearing it, Bartier didn’t hesitate. He took out a check, scribbled some numbers, and handed it to Wang Bo. “My son and I are also residents of this town. You forgot to come to us.”

The check had five zeros—100,000 New Zealand dollars. While not an enormous sum, it was a fortune compared to the hundred or two that most residents had donated.

Wang Bo tucked the check away with a sigh and said, “So people really do prefer hanging out with the rich. Old Bartier, if you ever run short on friends, remember to keep me in mind.”

That evening, the gloomy sky turned more overcast, but thankfully there was no rain. Since the earthquake, it had rained several times in this area.

Wang Bo and his crew carried soup, fried rice, and fried chicken and fish to the convenience store. Outside, colorful lights flashed across the open space, and deafening music pounded out—though Wang Bo had no idea what genre it was.

The townspeople had already been notified about the evening’s party, and by now most had arrived. A group of men were barbecuing and drinking beer, while the women danced to the beat.

Wang Bo and Bartier opened the soup pot and handed out bowls to warm everyone up. It wasn’t exactly cold, but it was winter after all, and a little warmth went a long way.

Zhuang Ding stared hungrily at the soup from the side. Wang Bo filled a large plastic bowl and set it down in front of him. Instantly, several fluffy “prince” creatures darted over, pushing and shoving with their tiny heads gathered around the bowl, happily slurping away.

The sight delighted the commander, who stretched out his wings like a lazy cat, puffed out his chest, and said gleefully to Zhuang Ding, “Ahhh, you get nothing, suck it!”

Zhuang Ding raised a massive paw, ready to swat a few of the little fluffballs. But then the Queen glided over like a ghost, fixing him with a firm, unwavering stare.

Rottweilers are typically considered medium-to-large dogs, known for their robust builds and strength. But compared to a Mastiff, they were practically adorable fluff toys.

Zhuang Ding was still only half-grown, yet already more than twice the size of the Queen. If a fight broke out, he could probably pin her in one move. Still, he didn’t act aggressively—maybe because they both had a “Pet Heart.” He remained fairly friendly toward her.

But Wang Bo didn’t buy it. He believed Zhuang Ding was just putting on an act, with one goal: to hook up with the Queen!

The real purpose of Wang Bo’s party was to let everyone mingle and get to know one another. So he didn’t prepare any speeches—just let people chat freely as they pleased.

He was chatting with British soldier-dad Benjamin Johnson when Hani came over with a young white man, shouting, “Wang! Got something to discuss—come with me!”

Wang Bo shouted back, “Don’t yell, damn it! I’m not deaf!”

“What?! Are you a girl or something?! Speak up! Music’s too loud—I can’t hear shit!”

“Fackin’ squid!!”

The white guy Hani brought along was named Sanders. He was planning to open a culturally themed lodge in the town to attract artistic travelers along Highway 8.

Since he wanted to open a cultural lodge, Sanders had some knowledge of various global ethnic groups—and his best knowledge was of the Māori, because his girlfriend was Māori.

Hani brought him to Wang Bo with a message: “Mayor, my girlfriend’s from Wanderer Town—you know, the place that’s now in ruins. Many Māori are planning to relocate to other Māori towns, and her family is considering that too. But they’re also open to settling somewhere else.”

Wang Bo immediately understood the implication and realized why Hani had brought him.

Hani knew one of the town’s biggest development challenges: population shortage. It was clear he hoped Wang Bo would find a way to attract this Māori group to their town.

But Wang Bo had his reservations. His impressions of the Māori weren’t exactly positive. The loan sharks who scammed him when he first came to New Zealand were Māori, the recent cattle and sheep thieves were Māori, and they were notoriously lazy and gluttonous. He didn’t want a group like that in his town.

Hani understood his concerns and took Wang Bo into the convenience store under the pretense of grabbing beers. Once the door was closed, he said seriously, “I suggest you bring in a group of Māori. It’ll benefit the town enormously.”

Wang Bo was skeptical. “Benefit? Sorry, I’m not seeing it.”

Hani explained, “Trust me, Mayor. Our town needs a certain number of Māori residents. One, they’re highly territorial. If they consider the town their home, they’ll help maintain local order.”

“Two, Māori are the toughest bastards in New Zealand. The government and corporations hate dealing with them. So when we need someone to do the dirty work—like protesting certain government policies—there’s no better candidate than the Māori.”

“Three, Māori love spending money. They love to party and enjoy life. With them here, we can keep more tourists in town for longer. That’ll make the place way more vibrant!”