Chapter 364: One Sentence That Tears the Vice Prime Minister

Just as Lu Qingshan seemed to ask a casual, nonsensical question to his assistant Ye Ning, the "Rationality" string in the office snapped and broke.

Time seemed frozen at that moment.

The tick‑tock of the expensive German grandfather clock on the wall rang clearer and more piercing than ever, like a cold scalpel that, in utter silence, sliced each person's nerves with precise strokes; the air thickened like glue, even the wisps of steam rising from the teacup seemed to hang suspended in mid‑air, forming a bizarre tableau.

Boom!

Lu Qingjun felt his soul violently ripped out of his heavenly spirit cover by a massive force, then forced back in; the world before his eyes twisted, spun, and finally shattered into countless bizarre fragments. He clutched the sofa armrest so hard his nails cracked, piercing the leather and oozing blood, yet he felt no pain. What he sensed was not shock but a vertigo and weightlessness as if standing on the edge of a ten‑thousand‑foot cliff while the ground beneath him crumbled.

Argentina?

Daybreak?

These two words, heard alone, are unremarkable.

But when they came from Lu Qingshan's mouth, at this time, in this place, addressed to the Vice Prime Minister of the British Empire, they became a black lightning capable of cleaving the heavens and tearing reality!

The England‑Argentina tension is a core secret of Downing Street! The war‑preparation plan has only just been unified internally by the female Prime Minister called "Iron Lady" and her few top cabinet aides! Apart from the handful of people in that secret conference room, no one in the world could possibly know!

Yet now, this Oriental man, in a tone as casual as discussing the weather, lightly tossed the bomb capable of igniting the global political landscape onto the negotiation table.

This is not a probe, not a guess.

It is a verdict!

He told everyone present, especially James Reed— I know all your hidden cards, even earlier than the generals about to set out.

Pat.

A light sound.

It was the Parker gold pen in Mr. Allen, the Prime Minister's Chief Secretary's hand, which slipped from his suddenly pallid, nervously trembling fingers and fell onto the expensive Persian carpet, producing a dull thud. He went rigid, cold sweat instantly soaked the back of his high‑end shirt, clinging to his skin, icy and bone‑chilling. He felt as if he were not in the top‑floor office on William King Street, but in the underground of the Kremlin Palace, hearing the other side recite his own nuclear code.

And the front‑line James Reed, whose face was taut from anger and political performance, collapsed completely in that instant.

It was a collapse more terrifying than any exaggerated expression. First, his eagle‑sharp gaze instantly lost focus, the depth of his pupils no longer reflecting Lu Qingshan's figure but an endless abyss called Fear. Then, the muscles of his clenched jaw began to twitch uncontrollably at high frequency, the political smile at the corner of his mouth stiffened, shattered, like a mirror struck by a heavy hammer, finally turning to ash.

He instinctively tried to take a deep breath to steady his mind, but found his chest constricted as if bound by an iron band, each inhaled breath edged with a blade that cut his lungs with a painful sting. In his mind flashed the scene from yesterday afternoon, Prime Minister the Iron Lady tapping the map with her finger, emphatically stressing "must spare no cost". That cost, it turned out, had already been clearly priced in the hand of this Oriental man before him!

All political rhetoric, all moral accusations, all imposing momentum, before Lu Qingshan's light‑hearted question, were like paper‑thin walls, washed away in an instant into splinters, leaving no residue.

He felt he was not facing a merchant.

But a devil perched in the clouds, having written the script in advance, then watching with relish as they struggled and schemed…

Humiliate a great nation? Ignite a war that cannot even begin?

Reed let out a mournful, bitter laugh in his heart.

It turned out that from start to finish, he himself was the pretentious, hopping, ridiculous clown. The other side wasn't there to humiliate anyone, nor to spark a dispute over money and goods.

He came… to decide the outcome of the war!

Lu Qingshan did not rush to speak; he didn't even glance at Reed again, but lifted the slightly cool tea before him and took a gentle sip. The porcelain cup struck the saucer, emitting a crisp "ding", in the dead silence of the office no less than a funeral bell tolling on Reed's heart.

Then, as if talking to himself yet also explaining to everyone in the office, he said: "Calculate the time difference; Buenos Aires should now be past seven in the morning. A perfect time for generals on a balcony, drinking coffee, reviewing the attack plan."

"You… ho…" Reed's Adam's apple rolled violently; he tried to say something to salvage the situation, but found his throat as dry as the Sahara Desert, each syllable grinding his vocal cords like sand, finally forcing out only a hoarse, wind‑box‑like gasp.

Lu Qingshan finally let his gaze settle back on him, his eyes calm yet piercing. A cold curve lifted the corner of his mouth as he slowly spoke, delivering the deadliest blow: "Mr. Reed, it seems we can now reach a new consensus on the word 'Sincerity'."

"My God… he… he…" In the corner, David Cohen could no longer suppress his inner madness; he seized the already terrified Li Junjie beside him, eyes flashing, and in a dream‑like tone mingled with fear and ecstasy growled, "He's not speaking to us… he's speaking to history! He used a Quotation Sheet to lever a war! He… he is a monster! A monster in a suit!"

Li Junjie trembled all over, his gaze shifting from shock to… reverence. The education he had received since childhood, all the business logic his father taught him, was today crushed by this man in the most barbaric, direct manner. All the game‑theory and market‑economics models in his mind collapsed instantly, replaced by the vague yet majestic silhouette of the man before him.

He finally understood why Li Jiasheng, the figure who could summon storms on Hong Kong Island, had once been driven to a hysterical roar by a few words over the phone.

Because they simply were not on the same plane.

While Li Jiasheng was still fretting over the gains and losses of a single city or pond, Lu Qingshan had already made his move under the starry sky.