"I might need to take a break for a while, so I'll leave the little ones here in your care..."

Old Mr. Fox, dressed in waterproof coveralls, looked at the horse's head extending out of the stable, gently patting its cheek, feeling a bit nostalgic.

He said goodbye to each of the horses here, then went to check on his cattle, and arranged the work for his employees for the upcoming period.

Mainly taking care of these animals.

Old Mr. Fox was once a farmer, and only later did things change, but no matter what, his blood always held a love for farmer life.

That's how people are: when they're poor, any work they do is seen as killing their true nature, as oppressive and a sign of social injustice.

Look at the wealthy, surrounding themselves with high-end furniture, wearing neatly, drinking coffee that the poor can't afford, discussing topics that might be intense but certainly dull.

They do nothing, yet can enjoy money and all the pleasures it brings. What can the poor do?

They can only deal with horse dung, cow dung, and dog dung!

But once people have money, the work they once saw as a great persecution becomes a sentiment, an aspiration, an attitude!

Old Mr. Fox came to the city because he didn't want to spend his life among animals and manure as a farmer.

But now that he has money, he feels that the farmer's life suits him better.

After temporarily stepping back from Fox Film Corporation, he spends every day on his farm taking care of these animals. If it weren't for the fact that people on the farm know he's a wealthy man, many might not believe he truly is.

This is life: to the rich, life is enjoyment; to the poor, life is suffering.

All because of money.

After arranging all the work, he returned to the washing area, removed his waterproof coveralls, sprayed disinfectant, and then left the feeding area.

On the farm road outside the feeding area, there were three cars with the Federal Tax Bureau's emblem and acronym, along with some workers who were clearly special agents.

This day wasn't unexpected; for most who dabble in shady areas, no one knows whether accidents or the government will arrive first.

The tax bureau showing up at the door is actually much better than some forgotten someone showing up with a gun.

Old Mr. Fox didn't panic at all; he calmly extended his hands and looked at a special agent standing at the door, "Do you need to handcuff me?"

The agent shook his head, "This is just to assist in the investigation, Mr. Fox. You don't need to be restrained, get in the car!"

Old Mr. Fox smiled and entered the car, clearly feeling many changes—changes brought by money, social influence, and status.

If it were before, he would likely be pinned to the ground by three people, with one possibly pressing against his trachea or chest to reduce his air intake, limiting oxygen to prevent his body from mustering explosive strength to resist arrest.

But now, no handcuffs are needed.

The car quickly left, and there was no significant change in the farm; although old Mr. Fox had gone inside, young Mr. Fox was still around, and no one thought this would become a reason to shake the "Fox Clan's business."

"Did one of you just mention 'assist in the investigation'?" Sitting in the car, old Mr. Fox curiously asked, jokingly adding, "Assist you in investigating myself?"

These people suddenly showed up at his farm and told him he needed to go with them, of course, after verifying their identities. At this point, he was a bit confused whether the 'assist in investigation' was just a phrase or something else had happened.

He needed to know something in advance so he could be prepared.

But none of the people in the car answered him, the atmosphere was quite heavy, and then old Mr. Fox noticed something else—they were not on the route to the city.

The road from the farm to Sabin City was one he took many times, not saying he could get there with his eyes closed, but at least he wouldn't mistake it.

But this was not it; the car had just turned at a junction it shouldn't have. The road they turned onto led to the Intercontinental Highway, not to Sabin City.

Seeing this, he didn't panic. Years in the gray areas had given him far richer experience than the average person. He looked at his two companions, whose sense of superiority and stink was unmistakable, so where was the problem?

He decided to try testing them, "Hey, I say, this isn't the road to Sabin City."

Still no answer, which made old Mr. Fox a little less calm than before; these people were from the State Tax Bureau.

The Federation's tax system is roughly divided into three levels: the first is called federal tax, the second is state tax, and the third is local tax. The complexity of the tax collection methods means that most ordinary people cannot figure them out in their lifetime.

That's why accounting is such a booming industry in the Federation.

It's quite amusing to say that more than half of the Federation's people don't know how to correctly report their income. This sounds fun and also proves how chaotic and complicated the Federation's tax system is.

If it's not necessary, it's generally not easy to come into contact with Bail Federal's state-level tax agency.

If you do come into contact with them, it means the matter at hand is not easily resolved, because when it reaches the level of the State Tax Bureau, their power has already exceeded people's concept of "civil service."

Simply put, the local Tax Bureau is roughly equivalent to the little henchmen standing at the forefront of a crowd during a conflict, brandishing their arms and shouting at the other side.

Seemingly standing at the forefront of the crowd, in reality, their use of force during law enforcement is limited.

The State Tax Bureau is different; they are the real core force, like those with iron sticks and machetes standing towards the front in the crowd.

Once a conflict erupts, these fierce people can directly rush to the battlefield and deliver the most severe blows to their opponents!

Their power to use force is much higher than that of the local Tax Bureau, and their authority is also greater in tax crime investigations.

Further up is the Federal Tax Collection Center and the Federal Tax Bureau. There are five tax collection centers in Bail Federal: southeast, southwest, south central, and north. They are the most formidable force and, if necessary, can directly launch a small "military operation" to ensure the smooth collection of taxes.

As for the Federal Tax Bureau, also known as the Federal Tax Administration Bureau, if not for the constraints of federal law and the constitution, it might partly replace the functions of the Ministry of Justice, also known as "the most unsettling agency."

This time, it is the State Tax Bureau coming to arrest Mr. Fox. It seems they have officially initiated the tax investigation mechanism, which also made Mr. Fox lose the motivation to continue talking and begin conserving his energy with closed eyes.

He is very clear that once they reach the place, these people will not just have a nice chat with him because of his old age. If they don't get what they want, they will definitely resort to torture.

Reserving energy now ensures he lasts longer.

The convoy did not stop all the way, directly driving back to the office location of the York State Tax Bureau.

Looking from the outside of the State Tax Bureau, it is not special, resembling a structure shaped like "冂", with the front being the gate facing the main avenue of the city, and the back being a gray-white office building, with the tallest point being only five stories high.

The middle is a parking lot, with some single-story buildings on both sides, looking very ordinary and unremarkable, yet many people's futures were destroyed here.

While parking, Mr. Fox also saw two armored vehicles with "York State Tax Bureau" printed on them. The machine guns on the armored vehicles seem to tell everyone probing here that this is not an ordinary place.

After half a day and night of travel without any rest time, just as Mr. Fox got off, he was "invited" by these people to a place which should be an interrogation room.

The whole room has no windows, only a metal door, and inside is a table and two chairs, all wrapped in rubber on the outside and fixed to the ground.

He first entered, waited for a while, and then a middle-aged man in business attire walked in.

This guy has a dark stubble face — a term used to describe people with a particularly thick beard; if shaved clean, their entire chin shows a sort of dark bluish color.

"Fox...Mr. Fox!" He walked up to Mr. Fox, lowered his head and glanced at the file in his hand, seemingly looking for Mr. Fox's name.

In fact, he knew who Fox was, but he still did this to show a superior attitude, a kind of imposing manner.

Mr. Fox nodded, "Yes, that's me."

The guy opposite grinned, "Very good, Mr. Fox, do you know why we are meeting here?"

Mr. Fox shook his head, "I don't know."

"No, you know!" The dark stubble face gently shook his head, like nodding, while also scanning Mr. Fox up and down.

"Look, you are not young, and it seems you are living well, should not have suffered much, right?"

"We don't need to deceive each other here and conceal anything. We brought you here because we have some evidence about you, and you should not naively think you can escape our investigation."

"Before everything is beyond redemption, talk about what you did, we will keep our dignity, and you will have a good ending, what do you think?"

Sitting opposite to him, Mr. Fox also shook his head, "I really don't know what you are talking about; I haven't missed a penny of the tax I should pay."

The dark stubble face casually pulled out a few documents from the file, placed them on the table and pushed them forward, "Take a look at these things, do they look familiar?"

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