Chapter 377: The Essence of Finance: Emotional Pricing!

In the conference room, the air seemed to have been sucked out.

"Short Selling?" David Cohen's voice sounded as if an invisible hand were choking his throat—sharp and thin. "Boss, could you say that again? I might have been overly happy just now, and my ears are hallucinating."

Lu Qingshan ignored him, his gaze calmly sweeping over everyone.

Lu Qingjun's mouth opened wide enough to fit an egg; he didn't know what a forward contract was, but he understood the two words "Short Selling"—it meant betting that the United Kingdom would lose. Going against the British Empire? That's more than a hundred times crazier than the arm‑wrestling with Jardine Matheson on Hong Kong Island back then.

Li Junjie's pen tip hovered over his notebook, a drop of ink quietly spreading. His brain was running at overload speed, trying to grasp the incomprehensible logical chain behind the order. Short Selling? At a time when the world was celebrating and Iron Lady's public support had peaked? It's like a person standing before a tsunami and claiming they can push the wave back.

"Boss, this isn't a question of risk magnitude," David finally regained his voice. As a professional trader, he instinctively began to analyze, "This is suicide! The market's expectations are now one‑sided; everyone believes the Royal Navy will, just as it did a hundred years ago, easily crush the Argentinians. By shorting now, we're using our own money to fight the global consensus. No matter how deep our capital pool is, it will be torn apart instantly by market sentiment!"

He gestured with both hands, trying to make Lu Qingshan grasp the horror: "Each of our short positions will be instantly swallowed by countless buy orders! We're essentially sending money to the entire London Financial City! They'll go crazy laughing!"

"They laugh because they don't care about those fourteen missiles," Lu Qingshan's voice was low but clearly rose above David's agitation.

He walked up to David and extended two fingers.

"Two questions. First, if a Flying Fish Missile sinks a British warship, what will the market do?"

Sweat beaded on David's forehead. He didn't need to think; a trader's instinct supplied the answer: "Panic. An instant panic will pierce the market. The pound will plunge, defense stocks will crash. But... that's just an 'if'; war has countless possibilities..."

"Second question," Lu Qingshan interrupted him. "What if the sunk vessel isn't an ordinary warship but the most expensive, best‑anti‑aircraft new destroyer, the Sheffield?"

"Sheffield?" David was stunned; he'd heard the name before—it was the pride of this special mixed fleet, the face of the Royal Navy.

"Boss, how did you know..."

"I don't need to know," Lu Qingshan turned, looking back at the map. "I only need to make the market believe this could happen."

He raised his hand and, on the map, drew an invisible attack arc from Ushuaia Base to Ma Island.

"War is fought on Information Asymmetry. Now, capital worldwide backs the United Kingdom because they believe in the empire's lingering glory. As for us," he tapped the intelligence on Flying Fish Missiles on the table, "we trust mathematics."

"Fourteen missiles equal fourteen chances. Each launch is a roulette bet for the London Financial City. And we are the only players who know in advance how many Fatal Slots are on the wheel."

The conference room was dead silent.

David Cohen's breathing grew heavy. He stared at Lu Qingshan's not‑so‑tall silhouette and felt he was facing not a businessman but a devil holding a script. What he was doing wasn't investing or gambling; he was pre‑setting prices for an impending disaster.

"I... I get it..." David's voice trembled, but his eyes ignited with a manic glow. "God... I get it! We're not fighting the market; we're creating a market! A new market built on panic! When everyone thinks they're buying a guaranteed winning ticket, we've already sold the outcome in advance!"

His emotion flipped 180 degrees from terror to frenzy. He seized Li Junjie beside him and shook him hard: "Crazy! This is insane! I love this feeling! Junjie, write it down quickly—what do we call this? 'God‑view Arbitrage Method'? Or 'Prophet Harvest Model'?"

Li Junjie was rattled, but his pen steadied like never before, racing across the paper to write: "The essence of finance is not value discovery, but... emotional pricing."

Lu Qingjun still heard it in a haze, but he read the atmosphere. He walked to Lu Qingshan's side and nodded vigorously: "Brother, whatever you tell me to do, I'll do!"

"Security."

"Ready," Li Zhi'an stepped forward, his expression calm throughout, clearly one of the first to grasp the key point.

"The position‑building plan is yours and Ye Ning's. Remember, be like mercury—silent and unseen as you infiltrate. Before the name 'Sheffield' spreads worldwide, I don't want anyone noticing our positions."

"Understood," Ye Ning and Li Zhi'an exchanged glances and replied in unison.

"Alright," Lu Qingshan clapped his hands, "everyone go prepare. For the coming week, the Trading Hall will be our battlefield."

The order issued, the whole team sprang to life like a precision war machine.

In the Trading Hall at Weilian Wang Dajie 81 Hao, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The prior clamor and euphoria vanished, replaced by a stifling, extreme calm. Hundreds of traders were split into a dozen‑plus teams, each handling a highly specialized niche. They no longer watched the market's ups and downs; they acted like the most patient snipers, lying in wait across every corner of the market for orders.

David Cohen became the frontline commander; his trademark roar was gone, replaced by a deep, low voice delivering second‑by‑second orders to each team via internal lines.

"Team A, monitor British Aerospace's stock and at 2:15 PM, when European market liquidity is at its weakest, place a sell order for 50,000 shares. Right, no more—just a drop like a single drop of water."

"Team C, over in New York, use our newly registered offshore company account to buy one‑month‑to‑expiry pound put options. Note, you must take the opposite side against the German Bank folks—they're the greediest and most unsightly, perfect for covering us."

"Team F, head to the gold futures market. Use the gold from our Zurich Vault as collateral to open a long position. Yes, go long gold! When the market panics, gold is the sole safe haven. We need to steer the ship in early."

Each order, routed through encrypted lines, streamed to the major exchanges in London, New York, Zurich, and Tokyo. Xinghan Group's massive capital was broken into countless tiny streams, silently flowing into the global capital sea without stirring a single ripple.

The market still sang and danced. In the news, commentators enthusiastically dissected the Royal Navy's glorious history, forecasting that the likely war would conclude within weeks with a respectable victory. The pound remained firm, and defense stocks kept climbing.

No one knew that a massive net spanning the globe was slowly unfurling in the darkness.

Top‑level office.

Lu Qingshan didn't stay in the Trading Hall. He stood alone before the huge World Map, a warm cup of tea in his hand.

Ye Ning walked in and placed a freshly compiled report beside him.

"Boss, the first‑phase positions are all set. In total we used Margin of 30 billion pounds, leveraged five‑fold; our current short‑position market value now exceeds 150 billion pounds."

That figure would make any central bank sit up and take notice.

Lu Qingshan merely nodded, his gaze still fixed on the map. His finger lightly traced the blue expanse of the South Atlantic.

"Where is the fleet?"

"According to the latest navigation intel, the main fleet has crossed the Equator and is steaming at full speed toward the Ascension Island supply base. In at most three days it'll enter the range of Argentina's shore‑based aircraft."

"Three days..." Lu Qingshan repeated softly.

He set down the teacup; its bottom struck the table with a crisp chime, like a chess piece landing on the board.

"Notify everyone: from now on, all personnel work a 24‑hour rotation."

He turned, gazing at London's countless lights outside, his voice calm yet bearing a coldness that pierced history.

"Prepare to commence."