# 喵的0002号奴隶 #slavehome
第二个故事，我叫他——
**🇰🇭 破产的继承者。**
English version is after the image.
第一次见这位少爷，我只觉得他不像这个时代的人。
衣服和发型都怪得要命，整个人和周围格格不入。
偏偏手腕上戴着一块一眼就知道价值不菲的表。
直到认识快两年，上到第八、九次课，他才突然告诉我他的故事。
**他是前柬埔寨华人首富家族的唯一孙。**
按照他后来讲给我的家族故事，他的曾爷爷，是那个年代真正闯南洋闯出来的人。
路是土的，码头是抢的，牌照是拿命换的。
华人在湄公河边站稳，靠的不是名片，是把一条货路从无做到只进不出。
米、酒、建材、运输、贸易、别人不敢碰的特许——
曾爷爷一桩一桩咬住，再一桩一桩变成自己的生意版图。
运输要经过他。
货要经过他。
生意想在柬埔寨做大，也绕不开他们家。
有钱有势的人后来想见他一面，不是赏脸，是巴结。
宴席上甚至要先问：
**今晚那位来不来？**
不来，这桌都不算开过。
钱多到什么程度？
不是「很有钱」。
是——
**花不完。**
曾爷爷自己都花不完。
宅邸、仓库、贸易、运输，还有足以让整个商圈换口气的现金，堆在手里像潮水。
他妈妈小时候，就是在这样的钱堆里长大的。
住着城堡一样的宅邸。
司机、佣人、珠宝、宴席。
从睁开眼开始，看到的就是普通人几辈子都摸不到的生活。
那时候大概没人想得到：
**曾爷爷自己都花不完的钱，后面几代人，真的能替他花完。**
这种巨富家族，好像总逃不过一种诅咒。
后来家族的大量财富传到了女性后代手里。
钱很多。
花得也很快。
而这些从小锦衣玉食的女人，在选择男人的时候，却一次又一次走向了与自己的出身完全相反的方向。
她们没有选择另一个旗鼓相当的豪门继承人。
反而选择了和自己生活条件、社会位置相差悬殊的普通男人。
像公主没有选择王子。
而是从城堡下面，
挑中了一个属于自己的仆人。
她有钱。
她把他带进自己的世界。
而那个男人依附她、陪伴她，也很难真正成为这个家庭里掌控财富的人。
这样的选择，像一个轮回。
一代，又一代。
曾爷爷留下来的财富越来越薄。
后代却越来越习惯一种不需要自己重新创造财富的人生。
直到传到这个少孙身上。
他当然没有穷。
祖辈剩下来的东西，依然足够让他比大多数普通人衣食无忧。
但他已经没有曾爷爷那种从零开始、出去闯一个世界的能力了。
他最叛逆的时候，也曾经不愿意听家里的安排。
于是跑出去，想像普通人一样打工。
结果坚持了两个月。
**彻底逃了。**
跑回家以后，他说：
这辈子都不可能再出去打工。
普通人每天都在经历的工作、压力、服从和疲惫，对他来说，却已经足够成为一次巨大的精神创伤。
所以他就停在了这里。
祖辈的钱还没有完全消失。
但祖辈那种重新赚回一切的能力，在他身上已经看不到了。
然后，他遇见了我。
有时候我觉得他对我的效忠，很像一只刚睁开眼睛的小鸭子。
认定了。
就跟着了。
甚至不太在乎我到底给不给他回应。
我对他并不好。
忽冷忽热，用完就走，很多时候甚至懒得理他。
可他还是一次又一次回来。
在香港，他找我上的课最多。
给我的课费，也是最多的。
这个没落豪门留下来的少孙，自己已经没有多少东西可以像曾爷爷一样拿出去征服世界了。
可他手里剩下来的那一点生存空间，
他还是愿意一点一点割出来给我。
所以我后来觉得，他身上最有意思的，从来不是「首富之后」这几个字。
而是曾爷爷当年拼命闯南洋留下来的东西，
绕了这么多代，
最后还有一小部分，
以这种方式，
落到了我的手里。
这是《一千零一夜仆》的第二个故事。
**0002 🇰🇭 Fallen Heir**
从一个曾经什么都不缺的家族，
写到一个只剩下祖辈余温的少爷。
---
# Here’s the English version
## Mew's Slave #0002
The second story—
I call him:
**🇰🇭 The Fallen Heir.**
When I first met him, I thought he looked like someone who didn't belong to this era.
His clothes were strange. His hair was strange. Everything about him seemed disconnected from the world around him.
And yet, on his wrist sat a watch that was obviously expensive.
It looked almost like something inherited from another generation—something that had somehow survived long enough to end up on him.
It took nearly two years and eight or nine sessions before he slowly told me about his family.
That was when I learned:
**he was a descendant of a family once described to me as one of Cambodia's wealthiest Chinese families.**
According to the family history he later shared with me, his great-grandfather was one of those men who truly built his fortune by venturing into Southeast Asia.
The roads were dirt.
Ports were fought over.
Licenses could decide fortunes.
For Chinese merchants trying to establish themselves along the Mekong, a business card meant nothing.
What mattered was whether you could build a trade route from nothing—and make others depend on it.
Rice.
Liquor.
Construction materials.
Transportation.
Trade.
Concessions others were afraid to touch.
Piece by piece, his great-grandfather built his business empire.
Transportation passed through him.
Goods passed through him.
And according to the stories passed down in the family, anyone who wanted to become somebody in Cambodian business eventually had to know who his family was.
The wealthy and powerful wanted to meet him.
Not because they were doing him a favor.
They wanted his favor.
At certain dinners, the first question was supposedly:
**“Is he coming tonight?”**
If he wasn't,
the table barely mattered.
How much money did they have?
Not simply “a lot.”
It felt—
**impossible to spend.**
Even his great-grandfather couldn't spend it all.
Mansions.
Warehouses.
Trade.
Transportation.
And enough cash to make entire business circles breathe differently.
His mother grew up surrounded by that world.
A mansion like a castle.
Drivers.
Servants.
Jewelry.
Banquets.
From childhood, her normal life was something most people could work several lifetimes and never touch.
Back then, nobody probably imagined one thing:
**Money that one man couldn't finish spending could still be finished by the generations after him.**
Perhaps that is the curse of enormous family fortunes.
Much of the wealth eventually passed to the women of the family.
There was plenty of money.
And plenty of spending.
Yet these women, raised in extraordinary privilege, repeatedly chose men from worlds far removed from their own.
Not another powerful heir.
Not another prince.
Instead, men whose social position and way of life stood far below theirs.
Like a princess who doesn't choose the prince—
but looks down from the castle
and chooses someone who can belong to her.
She has the money.
She provides the life.
She brings him into her world.
And he depends on that world.
The pattern repeats.
One generation.
Then another.
The fortune becomes thinner.
But the habit of living without having to recreate that fortune remains.
Until eventually,
it reaches him.
He isn't poor.
What remains of the family wealth is still enough to give him a life more comfortable than most people will ever have.
But the ability his great-grandfather possessed—to start with nothing and build an entire world—seems to have disappeared somewhere along the way.
During one rebellious period, he tried to leave the family's arrangements behind.
He tried to live like an ordinary person.
He got a normal job.
He lasted two months.
**Then he ran.**
He went home and declared:
He would never work a normal job again.
What millions of ordinary people simply call life—work, pressure, obedience, exhaustion—had become something he could barely tolerate.
And that's where he remains.
The old money hasn't completely disappeared.
But the old ability to create it has.
Then he met me.
Sometimes his loyalty reminds me of a duckling opening its eyes for the first time.
Once it decides whom to follow,
it follows.
It doesn't seem to matter very much whether I give him attention in return.
I haven't treated him particularly well.
Sometimes warm.
Sometimes cold.
Sometimes I use him and disappear.
Most of the time, I barely acknowledge him.
And still,
he comes back.
In Hong Kong, he has taken more sessions with me than anyone else.
He has also paid me more in session fees than anyone else.
This descendant of a fading fortune may no longer possess enough to conquer a world the way his great-grandfather once did.
But from whatever space remains for him to survive,
he is still willing to carve pieces away
and give them to me.
Eventually I realized that the most interesting thing about him was never the words:
**“descendant of a tycoon.”**
It was that something his great-grandfather fought to build in Southeast Asia,
after passing through all those generations,
somehow,
in one final tiny stream,
ended up
in my hands.
This is the second story of **The Servant of the Arabian Nights.**
**#0002 🇰🇭 The Fallen Heir.**
From a family that once seemed to have everything—
to an heir living on the fading warmth of what his ancestors left behind.