Chapter 481: Precaution Before the Storm

December 24, 1996, Christmas Eve.

Over Victoria Harbour in Hong Kong, an aircraft like a silver arrow pierced the low‑hanging clouds and slowly landed at Kai Tak Airport.

At the runway's end lay the sea; as the plane touched down, the side windows revealed Kowloon Walled City's dense lattice of windows glowing amber in the dusk, like a moldy honeycomb of coal.

Inside the cabin, Li Ping'an set down the financial report in his hands and rubbed his brow.

The three‑hundred‑page report recorded astronomical figures— it chronicled the chessboard he had laid across the global capital markets over the past eleven years, now reaching its final move.

Outside, Hong Kong's lights gradually flickered on; the city, soon to be returned, seemed restless on Christmas Eve, the air suffused with the turn‑of‑the‑century mix of anticipation and dread.

"Boss, Zhou Zong is already waiting," the flight attendant whispered.

Li Ping'an nodded, rose and smoothed the collar of his dark‑blue Zhongshan suit. At sixty‑five, with years of martial practice and the nourishment of Spirit Spring Water, his back remained as straight as a pine, his gaze sharp enough to cut through darkness.

The cabin door opened, and Hong Kong's damp, cool air rushed in, carrying the harbor's distinctive salty scent.

Zhou Wenbin stood at the stairwell, his black wool coat wrapped tightly, a satellite Telephone in hand, speaking in a low voice.

Seeing Li Ping'an descend, he hurriedly hung up the Telephone and briskly walked forward.

"Boss, the funds have begun to recirculate." His voice trembled with uncontainable excitement. "The last batch of Japanese real‑estate projects was liquidated last week—$53.7 billion, all transferred into offshore accounts."

Li Ping'an's steps faltered briefly as he looked up at the night sky.

Tonight there were no stars, only a thick cloud layer hanging low enough to seem to press against the tip of the Bank of China Tower.

"Let's go, get in," he said, pulling open the car door.

The black Rolls‑Royce sped out of the airport, racing along the Eastern District corridor.

Outside, Hong Kong Island's skyscrapers formed a steel forest, and behind each illuminated window someone might be anxiously calculating assets, assessing risk, and weighing stay or departure.

Zhou Wenbin pulled a laptop from his briefcase; the screen's cold light illuminated his tired yet excited face.

"Since the 1985 Plaza Accord, the twelve real‑estate funds we placed in Japan and the thirty‑seven equity portfolios have all been fully liquidated."

His fingers flew across the keyboard, "Average return… 872 %."

He paused, as if letting the figure settle in the air.

"Additionally, the U. S. tech‑stock portion—Microsoft, Apple, Intel, Walmart, Dell—these five targets were built up after the 1987 market crash, held for nine years, yielding a total profit of $81.1 billion."

Li Ping'an listened quietly, his gaze drifting toward the neon streaking past outside.

The Rolls‑Royce passed through Causeway Bay, where a massive Christmas tree at the entrance of Times Square glittered with gaudy light.

Crowds squeezed beneath the tree, mostly young couples whose faces radiated holiday anticipation, wholly unaware that the clouds of a financial storm were already looming.

"So," he began slowly, "how much cash do we have on hand?"

"$134.8 billion," Zhou Wenbin reported, his voice trembling slightly. "All of it is highly liquid cash and short‑term government bonds. Including Wanxiang Group's own net assets, the total exceeds $150 billion."

One hundred fifty billion.

In 1996, China's foreign exchange reserves were $105 billion.

That means the funds personally controlled by Li Ping'an exceed the entire nation's foreign exchange reserves.

That fact cast an almost sacred silence over the carriage.

The car entered the Mid‑Levels and stopped before an unassuming villa.

It was Wanshang Bank's "safe house" in Hong Kong; outwardly it resembled the surrounding billionaire mansions, but three underground levels housed state‑of‑the‑art communications gear and security systems.

When Li Ping'an bought the place, Zhou Wenbin thought it unnecessary—now he understood that some matters truly need to be plotted in the dark.

In the second underground conference room, three people sat around a long table.

Besides Li Ping'an and Zhou Wenbin, there was a man in his fifties wearing a gray jacket, his hair peppered with gray, his gaze steady as a deep pool.

He was Chen Jianghe, Li Ping'an's brother‑in‑law, head of Wanshang Foreign Trade Company, and one of the few core members aware of the entire scheme.

"Brother." Chen Jianghe stood, a map in hand, "In Southeast Asia the situation has worsened. The Thai baht has depreciated 15 % this month, international hot money is gathering; the next target may be the Philippine peso, then the Malaysian ringgit."

On the map, red pen circled several countries: Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, and South Korea.

"What about Hong Kong?" Li Ping'an asked.

"Hong Kong is the final target, and also the hardest bone to gnaw."

Zhou Wenbin continued, "Because we have foreign exchange reserves, and… mainland support. But the Soros crowd won't give up easily; they're already building short positions in the Hong Kong dollar."

Li Ping'an walked to the map, his finger tracing the circled nations.

He had been to those places over the past decade‑plus: Bangkok's congested streets, Jakarta's sweltering port, Kuala Lumpur's soaring twin towers, Manila's dilapidated slums… the faces reveling in economic growth, the blindly optimistic investors, the bubbles blown up by foreign capital.

Now the bubble is about to burst.

"When will all our funds be in place?" he asked.

"The Japanese money is already in accounts in Switzerland, the Cayman Islands, and the Virgin Islands."

Zhou Wenbin said, "The U. S. portion must be transferred in batches to avoid regulatory attention. All should be in place by the end of March next year at the latest."

"Too slow," Li Ping'an shook his head. "I want to see $80 billion in Hong Kong by the end of January. The rest must be in place by the end of March."

Zhou Wenbin opened his mouth, seemed about to speak, but simply gave a firm nod: "Understood."

"Now for the second matter," Li Ping'an returned to his seat. "Wanxiang Group's listed companies in Hong Kong are preparing to delist."

The sentence exploded like a bomb in the conference room.

Chen Jianghe jerked his head up. "Delist? Brother, we have three listed companies in Hong Kong, with a combined market cap over HK$20 billion. Delisting now would mean loss…"

"It's not a loss, it's protection."

Li Ping'an cut him off. "If a financial crisis erupts, Hong Kong stocks will be at least halved. International hot money will bite every valuable share like sharks. If we stay in the market, we'll either be shorted or have to spend huge sums to defend the price."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the two.

"Delist, privatize, safeguard the quality assets. When the storm passes, relist—then we'll be market‑saving heroes, not the lambs being slaughtered."

Zhou Wenbin quickly calculated in his head: "The three listed companies each have about 40 % of shares floating. To privatize at current valuations would require HK$8 billion."

"Buy it with the money earned in Japan."

Li Ping'an said, "In the name of Wanshang Bank, establish an acquisition fund. Starting tomorrow, quietly raise capital; once our stake exceeds 50 %, we'll issue a full‑scale takeover offer."

"But this would cause market panic…"

"So we must act quickly." Li Ping'an's fingers tapped lightly on the table. "From Christmas Eve to New Year's Day, the stock market is closed for four days. Those four days are our window. On the first trading day after the holiday, we will announce the privatization plan outright, catching everyone off guard."

His gaze held a hunter's calm.

"Remember, this is not a retreat, but a strategic shift. The money we save by delisting will be reinvested in Hong Kong tenfold, even a hundredfold— but that will be after the storm, when we rebuild on the ruins."

At eleven p. m., Zhou Wenbin began making Telephone calls.

The first Telephone was placed to Tokyo, using code words to instruct the Japanese team to launch the cross‑border transfer of the final batch of funds. Over $50 billion, split into dozens of tranches, routed through hundreds of shell companies, flowing silently into Hong Kong's financial system like a stream merging into the sea.

The second Telephone was placed to New York, ordering the U. S. team to accelerate the clearance of tech stocks. Apple, Microsoft, Intel… stocks held for nearly ten years must be sold out within three months, without stirring the market. This requires precision akin to a surgical operation.

The third Telephone was placed to Singapore; the Wanshang Bank Southeast Asia branch had been working overtime for two weeks straight, monitoring every fluctuation of the baht, ringgit, and rupiah.

Each large transaction, each central‑bank intervention, must be compiled into a briefing within ten minutes and sent back to Hong Kong.

Then they began drafting documents—the privatization plan for the listed companies, the charter for the acquisition fund, and, most critically, the filing materials for the Hong Kong Stock Exchange and the Securities and Futures Commission. Legal clauses must be rigorous, commercial logic clear, timing precise.

Li Ping'an walked alone to the villa's rooftop terrace.

The Hong Kong night breeze carried a chill, ruffling his silver‑white hair. From here one can overlook the entire Victoria Harbour, the skyscrapers on both banks resembling massive candlesticks, their lights burning like candles.

This city, once the brightest jewel on the British crown, is now about to return home.

What he must do is, before the homecoming, shield her from the approaching storm.

In the distance, the outline of the Tsing Ma Bridge flickered in the night. It is the core project of the new airport, opened to traffic only in '98, yet its towers now stand like a giant's arms, ready to embrace the arrival of a new era.

Li Ping'an recalled the scene in 1985, hearing about the Plaza Accord at the Imperial Hotel Tokyo.

He was forty‑five then, Wanxiang Group had just begun, holding only a few tens of millions of RMB. Yet with the foresight of a time‑traveler, he knew Japan was about to plunge into the euphoria and collapse of a bubble economy. So he mortgaged his previously acquired gold, bringing over $3 billion, and stormed into Tokyo like a gambler.

Buy land, buy buildings, buy stocks.

Five years—that's enough.

At the end of 1989, the Nikkei Index peaked, and Ginza land prices hit ¥100 million per square meter. Li Ping'an began a staged withdrawal, silent as the receding tide. The Japanese firms that took over, the optimistic Euro‑American funds, were still dreaming of a "Japan First" fantasy.

In 1990, the bubble burst.

And he had already left with a hundred‑fold profit.

"Boss."

Zhou Wenbin's voice came from behind, hoarse from a sleepless night.

"The preliminary plan is ready. Three listed companies, total market value HK$21.4 billion. Privatizing at a 20 % premium requires HK$25.7 billion, about $33 billion USD. Japanese funds can cover it comfortably."

Li Ping'an turned around: "How will the market react?"

"In the short term there will definitely be volatility," Zhou Wenbin said frankly. "Especially the small retail investors who chased the trend will criticize our tactics. But in the long run… when the financial crisis hits, they'll realize this is protecting them."

"Not enough," Li Ping'an said. "Give every small shareholder a choice—cash out at market price plus 20 %, or exchange for Wanshang Bank preferred shares with an 8 % annual yield, convertible to ordinary shares at market price after five years."

Zhou Wenbin was stunned: "Boss, that interest rate is too high, and there's risk…"

"That's why we must give a choice," Li Ping'an walked back inside. "Those who trust us can weather the storm together and share future glory. Those who want a safe pocket can cash out, owe no favors. In business, we must uphold principle."

He paused, looking out the window.

"Moreover, in five years Wanshang Bank's share price won't be what it is today."

He said it calmly, but Zhou Wenbin sensed the enormous weight behind the words.

Five years later, Hong Kong has already returned, the financial crisis is a thing of the past, and if Wanshang Bank can become the anchor in this storm, its value…

…is incalculable.

On Christmas Day, the Hong Kong stock market was closed.

But undercurrents stirred in the financial circle. Traders from several major investment banks were urgently recalled to analyze recent anomalous trading data of Wanxiang‑related stocks. Fund managers called each other, speculating what this mainland giant was plotting.

At three p. m., an anonymous report began circulating in a small circle.

The report claimed Wanxiang Group was mobilizing funds on a large scale, possibly involving overseas asset liquidation. Its headline was startling: "The company may be preparing to withdraw from Hong Kong."

Panic began to spread.

Although merely rumor, at this sensitive moment any ripple is magnified.

Several funds holding Wanxiang shares had already preset sell orders in their trading systems—on the first day after the holiday, if the price falls more than 5 %, they will liquidate unconditionally.

What they didn't know is that this panic is exactly what Li Ping'an wanted.

Because panic drives the price down.

The lower the price, the cheaper the privatization.

At five p. m., Li Ping'an received a Telephone.

It was from Beijing.

"Li Lao, I hear you're moving funds?" The voice on the other end was gentle yet carried undeniable weight. "The scale isn't small."

Li Ping'an gripped the microphone, standing upright: "We are preparing. A financial storm is coming; Hong Kong needs ammunition."

The other end was silent for a few seconds.

"How much is needed?"

"I have $150 billion here," Li Ping'an said. "But to hold Hong Kong, we may still need state support."

A longer silence followed.

Then the voice said, "Understood. Speak when you need us."

The Telephone was hung up.

Li Ping'an slowly lowered the microphone, a thin sheen of sweat on his palm.

He knew what this Telephone meant— the state had taken notice of his actions, tacitly permitting, even supporting them.

That made the burden on his shoulders even heavier.

December 26, Boxing Day.

Chen Jianghe, carrying the full proposal, flew to Beijing. He was to meet the relevant departments, file the privatization plan, explain the use of funds, and seek policy backing. This is a crucial step—if the mainland does not support it, all plans could fall apart.

Zhou Wenbin then began the final step of the fund transfer.

In the VIP lounge of HSBC's Hong Kong headquarters, he met the Asia‑Pacific President. The other party was a British‑Chinese man named Zheng, in his fifties, with sharp eyes.

"Mr. Zhou, this transfer of yours… the amount is too large," President Zheng said, looking at the numbers on the computer screen, his fingers unconsciously tapping the desk. "We need to know the purpose."

"Investment," Zhou Wenbin said simply. "I'm optimistic about Hong Kong's future, so I'm bringing overseas capital back."

"But the timing…"

"The timing is perfect," Zhou Wenbin smiled. "President Zheng, you should know better than I do that international hot money is gathering. If Hong Kong can't hold, HSBC will be the first to suffer. And now someone is willing to put real gold and silver on the line for Hong Kong—do you want to block it?"

President Zheng's pupils contracted slightly.

He, of course, knew what the Soroses were doing. As a banker, he understood the destructive power of a financial storm better than anyone.

If the Hong Kong dollar were to fall, Hong Kong's banking system could collapse, and HSBC's century‑long reputation would be destroyed in an instant.

"This money…" he asked with difficulty, "will it go into the stock market?"

"A portion will," Zhou Wenbin replied calmly. "We intend to privatize several listed companies. The rest will be placed in Wanshang Bank as a Reserve Unit to stabilize the market."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, traffic in Central wove like a tapestry, pedestrians hurried. The city's splendor was like a delicate sugar coating enveloping a bomb that could explode at any moment.

"President Zheng, after 1997 Hong Kong will still be Hong Kong," Zhou Wenbin turned, "but the financial map may have to be redrawn. Do you prefer to leave with the old owner, or stay and draw this picture together with the new owner?"

The question was blunt, even a bit cruel.

President Zheng's expression shifted repeatedly, and finally he let out a long sigh.

"The transfer procedures, I will personally supervise."

December 31, the last day of 1996.

Li Ping'an stood on Victoria Peak, overlooking the full view of Hong Kong. On both sides of Victoria Harbour in the night, preparations for the New Year's fireworks display were underway.

Workers bustled at the pier, tourists had already claimed the best viewing spots, and the TV station's broadcast trucks lined up.

In seven months, Hong Kong will go home.

And the road home is destined not to be peaceful.

Zhou Wenbin walked over, holding a satellite Telephone.

"Boss, President Chen called from Beijing on a Telephone—the plan has been approved. The relevant departments agree in principle, provided it doesn't cause severe market turbulence or harm minority shareholders, and they support our privatization."

Li Ping'an nodded, saying nothing.

"Also, word from the United States: the Soros quantum fund has completed its first round of attacks on the Thai baht. The Bank of Thailand is holding firm, but its foreign‑exchange reserves are depleting rapidly."

"How long can it hold?"

"At most three months."

Three months.

Li Ping'an calculated in his mind. Three months later would be April 1997. Then, as Hong Kong's handover entered its final countdown, international hot money would swarm like sharks smelling blood.

What he needed to do was, before then, build a dam and stockpile ammunition.

The fireworks began.

The first burst shot upward, exploding in the night sky into a golden canopy. Then the second, the third—red, blue, green, purple… The whole Victoria Harbour was lit as bright as day, the explosions echoing through the valleys like distant thunder.

The crowd cheered, embraced, and welcomed the new year.

They didn't know this might be the last revelry before the storm.

Li Ping'an turned and walked down the hill.

"Tomorrow the market opens," he said to Zhou Wenbin, "follow the plan."

"Understood."

"Remember, act quickly, strike hard, but keep a low profile. We are not raiders; we are guardians. Let everyone see that stance."

"Got it."

The car descended the mountain road, leaving the brilliant fireworks behind.

1996 ended.

And a war without gunpowder had just begun.

Li Ping'an closed his eyes, and the image that rose in his mind was the barren plain of his Henan hometown in 1942. Then he owned nothing but his life and an unwillingness to concede.

Now he possessed 150 billion US dollars, a massive enterprise, and tacit state approval.

But at his core he remained that boy who would not give up.

He must win this battle.

For Hong Kong, for the nation, and for… those Chinese who refuse to bow in the torrent of history.