Chapter 378: Century‑Scale High‑Stakes! The £350 Billion Short‑Seller

London time, 3 a. m.

The Trading Hall at Weilian Wang Dajie 81 Hao was brightly lit, as bright as day.

The air was filled with a strange scent—the greasiness of cold leftover pizza, the burnt bitterness of concentrated black coffee, and the adrenaline secreted by hundreds of people under extreme mental tension—all mingling into a smell of war.

The hall was dead silent, save for the low hum of server rack cooling fans and the rapid, rain‑like "tap‑tap" of keyboards being hammered.

Each trader resembled a statue nailed to a chair, eyes blood‑shot, staring rigidly at the waterfall of data streaming before them.

Three days.

A full seventy‑two hours, and here there was no distinction between day and night.

When tired, they lay on the cot for two hours; when hungry, they grabbed a sandwich from the table and shoved it in. Everyone was like a clock‑wound machine, crazily running on the brink of collapse.

The top‑floor office.

Lu Qingshan stood before the massive floor‑to‑ceiling window, overlooking a sleeping London. The city's financial heart was being turned upside down by him at this moment.

"Boss."

Ye Ning's voice came from behind, carrying an unmistakable weariness. She had been working nonstop for over forty hours, the dark‑blue circles under her eyes no amount of heavy foundation could hide.

"Our short position has already reached a massive £150 billion. The market is starting to notice; although they don't know it's us, several huge capital flows have begun to enter, trying to stabilize the market. If we add more, our movements will be completely exposed."

Her words were professional and calm.

It was a reminder to Lu Qingshan that their covert operation had reached its limit. One step further, and they would shift from snipers to shock troops, facing the market's full counter‑attack.

Lu Qingshan did not turn back; he simply gazed at the reflected lights on the distant Thames River and spoke lightly.

"Where's the fleet?"

"Three hours ago, the vanguard reached Assumption Island. The main fleet is expected to arrive within twenty‑four hours; after completing final resupply, it will head straight into the Ma Island combat zone," Li Zhi'an's hoarse voice said from beside him.

Lu Qingshan extended a finger and, on the cold glass, lightly traced a route from Assumption Island to Ma Island.

"That means, at most four more days, and they'll meet the Argentinians' Super Military Flag Attack Aircraft at sea."

He turned, his gaze landing on Ye Ning's slightly gaunt face.

"Four days later, everything will be too late."

His voice was soft, yet it made Ye Ning's and Li Zhi'an's hearts drop suddenly.

Too late?

Late for whom?

For them, or for the United Kingdom?

"Ye Ning," Lu Qingshan walked to the conference table, his fingers lightly tapping the surface, "I don't want a ceiling."

Ye Ning's pupils suddenly contracted.

"Boss, you mean…"

"Use all the remaining gold in the Zurich Vault as Margin," Lu Qingshan said evenly, as if stating a trivial matter. "I want you, within the next twenty‑four hours, to slam out £200 billion of short orders, sweeping the market completely, with no ceiling."

"Sss—"

Even Ye Ning and Li Zhi'an, veterans of countless storms, couldn't help but gasp a cold breath.

£200 billion! No ceiling!

Add the previous £150 billion, and the total position will reach £350 billion!

That's a figure that could bankrupt any moderately developed nation outright!

"Boss, this… this is no longer short selling," Ye Ning's voice trembled, "It's a declaration of war! A war against the entire London Financial City, against the Bank of England! They will spare no expense to tear us to pieces!"

"Then let them come."

Lu Qingshan pulled out a chair, sat down, poured himself a cup of tea that had gone cold, and drained it in one gulp.

"Relay my orders downwards."

Ye Ning stared at Lu Qingshan's bottomless eyes, every plea stuck in her throat. She knew that when the boss spoke in that tone, it was a divine decree, an unchallengeable final command.

She took a deep breath, turned, and left the office.

One minute later, the dead silence in the Trading Hall was broken again.

Ye Ning's cool voice, via the internal broadcast, reached every trader's ears.

"Boss's order: activate the 'Storm' contingency. All teams, note, lift the Margin ceiling, target £200 billion. Repeat, target £200 billion!"

"Boom!"

The entire Trading Hall erupted as if a deep‑water bomb had been dropped, instantly blowing the pot.

"What? £200 billion? Crazy?"

"My God! This is trying to punch a hole through the sky!"

"It's over, it's over, I feel my heart stopping…"

After the brief commotion came an even more terrifying exhilaration.

Everyone's eyes reddened.

They knew they were part of an unprecedented Financial War; after all, no one had ever engaged in a financial war of this scale. Their enemy was the last dignity of the empire on which the sun never set.

And their commander was that Eastern man.

"What the hell are you just standing there for! Didn't you hear the boss's words!" David Cohen kicked his chair aside, leapt onto the table, stripped off his shirt to reveal a muscular chest, like a raging bull, swinging his arms and roaring, "Fire! Fire for me! Shoot every bullet we have out!"

"Knock the British Aerospace stock price to pieces for me!"

"Short sell the pound! I'll make the queen's portrait weep!"

"Buy all the put options! Keep buying until the exchange's servers crash!"

"Team A! Team B! Team C! Where are your orders? Why haven't they gone through! Are you embroidering? Smash! Use money to smash for me!"

The whole Trading Hall went completely mad.

Countless massive sell orders rained down like a sudden meteor shower, striking the calm London Financial Market hard.

One minute, ten billion.

Five minutes, eight billion.

Half an hour later, when a five hundred‑billion‑pound short position flooded the market like a torrent, the opponent finally reacted.

"Report! Boss! A mysterious fund has entered!" a team leader shouted hoarsely, "They're eating our orders! Every sell order, as soon as it's posted, gets swallowed whole by them!"

"FXXK! It's a seat from Switzerland Union Bank! And Barclays Bank! Are they crazy? This is blatant market support!"

David Cohen stared intently at the stubbornly resisting K line on the main monitor, his eyes nearly splitting.

Each time they placed a trade, the other side lifted one. Their funds engaged in the most primitive, bloodiest strangling on the market. Prices and exchange rates rode a roller coaster, plunging one second and being forced up the next.

It's a battle of deities.

Every second, billions of funds evaporate and vanish within it.

The atmosphere in the Trading Hall was tense to the extreme, as if even the air had turned into a viscous solid.

One hour later.

"Mr. David... our funds... are about to run dry..." a trader reported, pale‑faced and trembling.

They threw down five hundred billion, and the other side forcibly swallowed five hundred billion.

That mysterious force was like a bottomless pit, unfathomably deep.

David Cohen was drenched in cold sweat. He leapt off the desk, stumbling into the top‑floor office.

"Boss! We can't hold! Their firepower is too fierce! It's the Bank of England! They must be behind a consortium supporting the market! We... we might lose!"

In the office, Lu Qingjun and Li Junjie also wore death‑pale faces, their limbs ice‑cold.

They're gambling against a nation!

Lu Qingshan acted as if he hadn't heard, calmly standing, walking to Li Junjie's side, and picking up the notebook on his desk.

On Li Junjie's notebook, only one line of text was written, followed by a huge question mark.

"Opponent's position: Bank of England? National credit?"

Lu Qingshan took the pen, and calmly wrote two characters after the question mark.

"Yes, so what?"

He returned the notebook to the stunned Li Junjie, then turned his gaze toward the soaking‑wet David Cohen.

"David, do you think national credit can stop a missile?"

David Cohen was startled.

Lu Qingshan ignored him, instead picking up the desk's internal phone and connecting to the Trading Hall.

His voice was low, yet broadcast clearly to everyone's ears.

"I am Lu Qingshan."

The noisy Trading Hall fell silent instantly.

Everyone looked up toward the ceiling speaker, as if listening to a deity's will.

"I know you're tired and scared."

"But I want to tell you, victory has never been won on a smooth, sunny road."

"It is born in the darkest, most oppressive moment before the storm arrives."

He paused, his voice exuding undeniable coldness and resolve.

"Now, wager all our remaining gold."

"I want you to drive the bayonet into the heart of the Bank of England."

"Tell them, on my poker table, there are no draws."