Chapter 371: Inviting a Deity Is Easy, Sending One Away Is Hard!

The office door closed again, and Jacob Rothschild's gentle yet subtly sharp figure, together with the heavy pressure he brought, were shut out.

Lu Qingshan stood alone by the window, downing the remaining brandy in his glass in one gulp. The spicy liquid slid down his throat, bringing a burst of scorching warmth and igniting an even deeper war intent.

In the restaurant downstairs, the atmosphere was so lively it seemed to be pre‑celebrating a great victory. David Cohen was gesticulating wildly as he described to Lu Qingjun and Li Junjie the epic‑level storm he felt when Jacob Rothschild had just appeared.

"Hey, you know what? The moment that old man walked into the hall, I felt the air turn into pure gold—breathing even a single breath would have to be charged by the ounce!" He exaggeratedly waved his knife and fork. "When the boss talks to him, that's not negotiation, that's two gods arm‑wrestling on Olympus while we mortals can only pick up the coins they drop at the foot of the mountain! And that Vice Prime Minister just now didn't even deserve the right to fetch his shoes in front of him!"

Lu Qingjun felt his blood boil with pride, while Li Junjie buried himself in his notebook, scribbling furiously, eager to record every exaggerated description from David so he could later analyze word by word the top‑tier game theory he had never encountered.

At that moment, Ye Ning's figure appeared at the restaurant entrance, her expression as calmly as always, yet her arrival instantly quieted the din inside the restaurant.

"Mr. Lu, please go up."

The three immediately set down their knives and forks, their hearts skipping a beat in unison, and hurried after Ye Ning back to the top‑floor office.

They pushed the door open and found Lu Qingshan already back behind the tea table, calmly wiping the Zisha Tea Set with a clean tea towel, as if the recent meeting with the head of a world‑class financial family, which had just witnessed an empire's humiliation, were merely a trivial interlude during tea.

"Brother, that… Rothschild…" Lu Qingjun's Adam's apple bobbed as he couldn't help but ask.

Lu Qingshan didn't even lift his head; his movements flowed like clouds, and he lightly cut in, "One Wellington steak per person—will that fill the three of you?"

David Cohen immediately puffed out his chest and shouted, "Boss, for your cause I can fight three more rounds at any time!"

Li Junjie's face flushed slightly as he whispered, "I'm full, thank you, Mr. Lu."

At that moment, the office door was knocked again, the sound more hesitant and feeble than any before.

Ye Ning walked over to open the door, and standing outside were, once again, James Reed and his secretary Allen.

But the James Reed standing there now was a far cry from the swaggering, overbearing Vice Prime Minister of yesterday. He had changed into a dark suit that looked like a borrowed costume, hanging loosely on his gaunt frame. His complexion was grayer than the sky outside the office, his eye sockets sunken and blood‑shot, as if he hadn't slept for days. His gait was unnervingly stiff, each step seeming to drain the last of his strength, as if the floor beneath him were not a pricey Persian rug but shards of the empire's dignity. Behind him, Allen resembled a frightened rabbit, head down, lacking the courage to even glance into the office.

David Cohen's eyes bulged, and he instinctively lowered his voice to Lu Qingjun, "My God, why is he back again? Forgot his hat? Or came back to ask the boss for a parking receipt?"

Lu Qingshan finally set the tea towel aside, slowly lifted his eyelids, and looked at the two gaunt, soul‑drained men at the door. A faint curl appeared at the corner of his mouth as he spoke in a leisurely tone, as if chatting with an old friend he hadn't seen in ages.

"It's quite lively today."

The plain remark struck James Reed like an invisible whip, making his body tremble imperceptibly, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, his lips moving for a long moment yet no word could come out.

Finally, Secretary Allen mustered his last courage, pulled several thick documents from his briefcase, and in a hoarse, raspy voice said, "Mr. Lu, per the memorandum, we… we have brought the formal contract."

"Please sit," Lu Qingshan gestured to the sofa opposite, the one that Reed had used as a battlefield yesterday and that today served as his Judgment Seat.

Ried sat like a puppet stripped of all bones, mechanically. Allen fumbled, spreading the contracts one by one on the tea

Ye Ning stepped forward, took the contracts, and carefully checked them page by page.

The office was terrifyingly quiet, only the rustle of turning pages could be heard. Lu Qingjun and David stood in the corner, daring not to breathe. They watched the empire's Vice Prime Minister, who yesterday had towered and directed the realm, now sit like a prisoner awaiting final judgment, silently, his hands clenched on his knees, not daring to move a muscle.

"Boss, no problem," Ye Ning said after checking, placing the contracts and a Parker gold pen before Lu Qingshan.

Lu Qingshan picked up the pen, not even glancing at the contract contents, and without any hesitation, he flamboyantly signed his name at the end of each contract. That composed elegance contrasted starkly with the dead‑pan despair of the James Reed opposite him.

Then Ye Ning pushed the signed contracts in front of Ried.

Ried looked at the document that decided the fate of three century‑old trading houses, the direction of a war, and even the future layout of London Financial City; his outstretched hand trembled uncontrollably, violently. He tried twice before he could barely grasp the cold steel pen.

The pen tip hit the paper with a strained, grating scrape. He signed slowly and forcefully, as if not writing his own name but using every ounce of strength to carve a tombstone of disgrace for the fading glory of the empire of the setting sun.

After signing the final document, Ried seemed drained of all spirit, collapsing into the sofa, his gaze vacant.

The transaction, officially completed.

Lu Qingshan took his own contract, casually set it aside, and lifted his tea cup again, as if preparing to see the guests out.

However, James Reed did not rise immediately. He remained silent for a full minute, as if gathering his last reserves of strength. Finally, he slowly lifted his head, his cloudy eyes fixed dead‑stare on Lu Qingshan, like a dying lone wolf.

"Mr. Lu," his voice rasped like an old bellows, "the transaction is complete, the empire will honor its commitment. But I must remind you."

He paused, each word seeming to be forced out through a blood‑streaked gap in his teeth.

"London doesn't welcome people like you. You've already taken enough; a smart person knows when to quit while it's still good."

Those words were a final warning, and the last gasp of a loser trying to preserve a dignity that had long since vanished.

The air in the office instantly solidified again.

Lu Qingjun's heart rose to his throat, nervously watching his brother.

Lu Qingshan, however, seemed not to hear him; he simply stared at the floating tea leaves in his cup, and after a few seconds calmly lifted his eyes, his gaze settling on Ried's gray‑washed face with neither contempt nor mockery, only a detached calm as if looking down on ants.

"Mr. Reed, you know, there's a saying back home."

"Inviting a deity is easy, sending one away is hard."

He set down the tea cup; the bottom struck the tea tray with a crisp "tap," like a gavel falling. He rose slowly, paced to the massive World Map, and lightly tapped the name "London" with his slender finger.

"Moreover, I'm not here as a guest."

He turned, his gaze sweeping over the now‑pale Ried and Allen, over the stone‑frozen Lu Qingjun, David and Li Junjie, his voice light yet booming like thunder in each ear.

"I'm here to be the host."