My Chinese name is Liang Ho, and my English name is Antony, a "gopher" based in Shenzhen, China, specializing in helping people obtain business licenses.

Ten years ago, fresh out of college, I stumbled into a license agency with no clue what I was doing. Back then, my days were spent shuttling between the industrial and commercial bureau and the tax office, submitting documents, standing in lines, and picking up licenses for clients. Shenzhen summers are brutally hot—sometimes I’d spend entire days in government service halls, my clothes drenched in sweat.

For the first two years, I worked like a robot, blindly following orders. Then one day, a client’s application was rejected three times because his paperwork wasn’t in order. Frustrated, he paced around, saying every day of delay meant burning money on idle office rent. That night, I stayed late until 9 p.m. helping him reorganize the documents, then queued up early the next morning. When he finally got his license, he patted my shoulder and said, “Kid, you’re reliable.”

That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t just a delivery job. I was handling the first "passport" for many entrepreneurs’ dreams.

Later, I went from a clueless newbie to the company’s workhorse, processing registrations for over 500 businesses across tech, F&B, trade—you name it. Some clients became friends, referring new business as their companies grew. But over time, I noticed problems: to secure more orders, the agency would promise clients "guaranteed approval," only to backtrack when issues arose. Tasks that should take three days were dragged out to justify charging rush fees.

Last summer, I met Uncle Zhang, a man in his 50s trying to open a small restaurant. He didn’t know how to use a computer, let alone fill out forms. I spent two nights teaching him how to prepare the documents and didn’t charge a dime. When my boss found out, he scolded me for "wasting time on small clients." That evening, I walked to Shenzhen Bay, staring at the glittering office towers across the water, and decided to go solo.

Now, I run my own tiny studio. No fancy office, but I reply to every client instantly. No "100% guaranteed" empty promises—just upfront honesty about risks. My fees might not be the cheapest, but you’ll know exactly where every penny goes.

Recently, after helping a young ‘95er named Xiao Chen get his license, he asked, “Why did you even explain every clause of the company bylaws to me?” I thought for a moment and said, “Because ten years ago, sweating in those government halls, I realized—you’re not handing me a stack of papers. You’re handing me the starting point of your dream.”