Chapter 362: Yesterday I Talked with the Devil, Today I Negotiate with an Angel!

Five minutes later, the red encrypted phone finally stopped its screech.

The office fell into a dead silence even more terrifying than before.

Everyone seemed to have their bones pulled out, collapsing in place, breathing in huge gulps as if they had just struggled out of deep water onto shore.

Military Intelligence Section 6.

The badge was like an invisible brand, deeply etched into everyone's mind, radiating a scorching heat.

Lu Qingjun leaned against the desk, his complexion as pale as paper, eyes vacant, muttering unconsciously, "It's over… this time it's really over…"

David Cohen crouched in the corner, hugging his head, his gold‑rimmed glasses askew; the financial prodigy from Wall Street felt for the first time that his brain and knowledge reserves were utterly insufficient. He repeated the same line, "This isn't finance… this is war… no, this is a sacrifice of an empire…"

Li Junjie remained perched on the floor, watching Lu Qingshan's unnaturally calm silhouette, feeling as if he were not on William King Street but at the foot of Olympus, gazing up at a deity toying with mortal gods.

Amid the mercury‑like stillness, another ordinary office phone suddenly rang with a crisp, pleasant chime.

At this moment, the sound seemed especially jarring and… absurd.

Ye Ning was the first to react; she practically sprinted forward on instinct, answered, and after less than ten seconds, her whole body went rigid there.

She covered the handset, turned slowly, and the flushed face, reddened by fervor, displayed an extreme, dream‑like expression.

"Boss…"

Her voice was a little airy, carrying an unreal tremor.

"It's… it's the Prime Minister's Office… Chief Secretary, Mr. Allen."

"He wishes to schedule a time to come in person… to visit you, to discuss procurement matters."

Clang.

This time it wasn't a person who fell, but the crystal cup Lu Qingjun clutched slipped to the floor and shattered. He seemed oblivious, slowly sliding into the sofa behind him, as if repeatedly struck by an invisible current, his whole body numb.

A second earlier, Military Intelligence Section 6, representing the state's coercive machine, had issued a death threat.

The next second, the Prime Minister's Office, representing the state's administrative core, called to request a visit.

He looked at his brother, the man leisurely sipping tea, his gaze now filled with endless bewilderment and subversion.

He suddenly understood.

When everyone thought he was dancing on a cliff, he was actually walking in the sky.

David Cohen sprang up from the floor, straightened his glasses with one hand, rushed to the still‑dazed Li Junjie, and grasped his shoulders, shaking him hard.

"Kid! See it? See it? This is art!" He spat wildly, his expression manic, "What's extreme pressure? Military Intelligence! This, damn it, is the world's highest‑level, most primal power curriculum!"

Lu Qingshan finally set down his teacup, glanced at the wall clock, then instructed Ye Ning:

"Tell Mr. Allen I appreciate his efficiency."

"Tomorrow at ten a. m., I'll wait for him in the office."

Ye Ning's pupils shone terrifyingly bright; she nodded heavily, turned and replied.

Lu Qingshan rose, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, who were slowly recovering from shock yet still fervent; his voice was low, yet it instantly quieted the excited office.

"Notify everyone: tonight's celebration party is cancelled."

He paused, surveyed Ye Ning, David, Lu Qingjun, and Li Junjie—the core members—and a cold curve lifted his mouth.

"Now, let's hold a brief meeting to arrange tomorrow's 'hospitality protocol.' Our guest is about to arrive at our door."

He walked to the massive floor‑to‑ceiling window, overlooking the city below that once was the world's center, his voice becoming resonant and clear.

"I will make all of London know that we not only sell goods, we also set rules. And tomorrow is when we announce the first rule."

He turned, extending three fingers.

"Remember three points. First, we don't discuss price; we only discuss attitude. Their attitude determines the price they must pay."

"Second, we don't take pounds; we want hard assets that can cripple their industry and finance. I'll make them understand that to buy from us they must first learn to cut flesh."

"Third, and most important, starting tomorrow we are not sellers, they are not buyers. They are partners pleading for us to rescue their war machines. Their posture must be correct—who is host, who is guest—so they know from the first second they step inside!"

…

The next day, 9:50 a. m., 81 William King Street.

The trading hall, once as noisy as a battlefield, was now so quiet that a pin could be heard dropping. Everyone wore their most presentable attire, yet could not hide the mix of excitement and tension on their faces. They resembled soldiers about to march in a parade, standing upright, their eyes involuntarily flicking toward the red encrypted phone, as if it were not a communication device but a bomb with its safety removed.

Lu Qingjun paced restlessly, occasionally adjusting his expensive tie, then rushing to the floor‑to‑ceiling window, anxiously peering down, muttering, "Are they here yet? Why haven't they arrived? Could they suddenly change their minds and send a squad of royal guards to seize us?"

"Relax, my friend." David Cohen patted his shoulder; though his own palms were sweating, his words carried the seasoned tone of someone who's been there, "You have to get used to the boss's rhythm. Yesterday was a call with the devil, today a negotiation with an angel. It's all routine, routine."

Li Junjie, the son of Chairman Li, had completely shed his elite school aura. He clutched a notebook tightly, its pages densely filled with the three principles Lu Qingshan mentioned last night; his complexion was pale, yet his eyes shone astonishingly, like a medical student about to perform his first human dissection, filled with fear yet unable to suppress a thirst for knowledge.

Ten o'clock sharp, to the second.

Ye Ning's cold voice sounded outside the top‑floor office, "Boss, the guests have arrived."

The doors slid open silently, and two figures stepped inside.

Leading the way was Prime Minister's Secretary Allen, his complexion slightly pale, his eyes showing obvious reverence and unease. Behind him followed a man in his fifties, tall and impeccably groomed.

He wore a deep‑gray three‑piece suit, perfectly tailored, with not a wrinkle as he moved. His face was gaunt, eyes sharp as an eagle's, jawline taut, exuding the innate, unspoken authority of someone long in high office.

He was the British Empire's Vice Prime Minister, James Reed.

Reed's gaze did not linger a moment on the nervous faces in the trading hall; it was like a lion surveying its territory, indifferent to antelopes. His eyes pierced straight through the crowd, finally locking precisely on the innermost figure—a silhouette of an Oriental man standing before the world map.

Lu Qingshan turned slowly, his face expressionless, gesturing a polite "please" to invite them into the top‑level office.