Chapter 379: The board is set, just waiting for the South Atlantic Ocean wind!

Lu Qingshan's voice fell, and on the other end of the phone was a death‑like silence.

The line "Drive the bayonet into the heart of the Bank of England" struck like a black bolt of lightning, shattering the aura of every person in the Trading Hall.

Fear?

No, that's no longer fear.

It is the kind of terror that grips a mortal the instant they are told they are about to slay a god—its soul ripped clean out and then flooded with endless, extreme, maddening shivers.

"Listen… did you hear?"

A young trader's lips trembled as he looked at his colleague, his eyes clouded with bewilderment.

"Heard…"

His colleague's voice sounded as if forced through clenched teeth; he gripped the mouse tightly, his knuckles emitting a light "click‑click" from the strain.

"Fuck!"

A roar, like a thunderclap, jolted every lost soul awake.

David Cohen's eyes burned crimson as he burst out of the top‑floor office, charging like a fully enraged bull onto the central command platform of the hall.

"Are you all deaf!"

He roared hoarsely, his voice warped beyond recognition, like a ruptured bellows.

"The boss's order! Didn't you hear!"

"We're not Short Selling!"

"We're giving this damn empire a funeral!"

He snatched an unopened bottle of whiskey from the table, bit off the cap with his teeth, downed two large gulps, then poured the remaining liquid over his own head with force.

The amber liquid streamed down his tangled muscles, flashing an eerie glow under the lights.

"The last gold! All of it! Put it all on the line!"

"Hit it!"

"With money! Bury the Financial City of London alive!"

"Open fire!!"

"Boom—"

The suppressed madness, at its limit, detonated completely at this moment.

The entire Trading Hall fell silent; not a single voice remained.

Only the near‑shattering "snap‑snap" of keyboards and a series of beastly, throat‑deep growls persisted.

If before they were snipers lurking in the dark,

now they are a band of suicide troops bearing explosives, charging the enemy's main position!

"Barclays' protective funds have resurfaced! They're posting a fifty‑billion buy order at the 3.2 level!"

"Knock it down!" David's voice was void of any feeling.

"Swiss Union Bank's seat has moved too! They've erected a wall on the pound exchange rate!"

"Smash it!"

"Boss! They… they seem to know what we're doing! In the Futures Market they're reverse Long Buying gold, trying to eat our Margin!"

"Then be faster than them! Harder!" David cackled wildly, "Tell them the Zurich Vault belongs to Lu!"

Order after order of astronomically large sell orders, no longer a stream but a dam‑bursting flood, surged into the market with a reckless, all‑or‑nothing fury.

On the main monitoring screen, the K-line Chart representing the pound exchange rate and the defense industry index displayed an unprecedented, brutally fierce pattern.

It was no longer mere volatility, but a blood‑splattered tug‑of‑war.

Whenever Xinghan Group's massive short positions gouged a bottomless chasm in the index, another equally suffocating mass of capital would rain down from the sky, forcibly pulling the index back from the brink.

Up, down.

Up again, down again.

Each tremor meant hundreds of billions of capital turning to ash.

All of London's Financial City shivered in this silent stranglehold.

Everyone knew that two invisible giants hovered over the Thames River, wielding money as weapons in an endless, unending war.

Top‑floor office.

Lu Qingjun's face turned death‑pale as he stared at the heart‑pounding K line on the screen, feeling his heart about to leap out of his throat.

"Brother… how much does this… cost…"

He now realized that the gold he saw in the Zurich Vault before was truly only a "small portion."

Li Junjie could no longer write.

His hand trembled violently; the notebook held only chaotic scribbles and ink spots, resembling a map bombed by artillery.

His brain had completely given up any logical analysis of what lay before him.

Because this had surpassed commerce, finance, even the realm of war.

It was a miracle.

It was the kind of mighty force, found only in mythic epics, that shakes an empire with wealth.

Lu Qingshan did not look at the screen.

He simply stood before the World Map, his gaze fixed on the deep‑blue expanse of the South Atlantic Ocean.

He was like the most patient player, having placed the final, most lethal move.

Now, he only needs to wait.

He waits for the opponent on the other side of the board, stepping into the fatal position he himself laid out.

Time passes, minute by minute, second by second.

One day.

Two days.

Three days.

In the Trading Hall, more than twenty traders, exhausted mentally and physically, have been carried to the rest area.

The remaining people have all reached their limits.

David Cohen's throat can no longer speak; he can only use gestures and eyes to command this brutal battle.

Just as everyone feels they are about to be boiled alive, a trace of change appears for the first time on Li Zhi'an's perpetually tense face.

He strides to the main monitoring screen, staring intently at an inconspicuous data window.

"Too slow…"

He mutters in a hoarse voice.

"David, look here," he says, pointing at the screen. "Barclays Bank's response time is slower by 0.3 seconds. Their order volume is ten percent less than before."

This trivial change is completely imperceptible to ordinary eyes.

But to these top traders, it is no less than spotting the first ant hill on a thousand‑mile dam!

David Cohen lunges forward, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the number.

"They're… their ammunition is about to run out?"

Li Zhi'an does not answer, but whirls around sharply, looking toward the top‑floor office.

He knows the opponent's ammunition is not depleted.

A nation's credit is limitless.

But what makes them hesitate is not money.

It is Fear.

It is the seed of Fear the boss planted three days ago, called "Flying Fish".

"Report!"

Ye Ning steps out of the office; her complexion is pale, yet her eyes shine astonishingly.

She scans the Trading Hall, which now resembles a drawing of hell, and though her voice is soft, it reaches every ear clearly.

"The boss's order."

Everyone instinctively stops what they're doing and lifts their heads.

"Mission accomplished."

"A total short position of 350 billion pounds has been fully established."

"Everyone, rest in place."

Silence.

Dead silence.

Then, someone—unknown—collapses into a chair, letting out a sigh of relief that borders on a sob.

Soon after, one after another, everyone collapses.

They are like soldiers who have fired their last bullet, collapsing in their trenches, unable even to move a finger.

Did we win?

We don't know.

All they know is that they survived.

Ye Ning ignores the crowd in the hall, turns, and walks back to the top‑floor office.

Lu Qingshan still stands by the window, as if he has held the same posture for three days and three nights.

"Boss, we've played out all the cards," Ye Ning says, a tremor she herself hasn't noticed in her voice. "Now, we can only wait."

Wait.

Waiting for a missile whose launch is uncertain.

Waiting for an attack that may or may not occur.

Waiting for a miracle capable of moving a 350‑billion‑pound wager.

It is the craziest and most illogical gamble they have ever made in their careers.

Lu Qingshan slowly turns.

There is neither victorious joy nor gambler's tension on his face.

He is as calm as a bottomless lake.

He glances at the clock on the wall.

Then he picks up the internal phone on the desk and dials Li Zhi'an's direct line.

"Zhi'an."

"Boss," Li Zhi'an's voice on the other end sounds utterly exhausted.

"South Atlantic Ocean, how's the weather now?"

There is a few‑second silence on the other end, as if he doesn't understand why the boss asks.

But he replies immediately: "Report, boss, according to the latest weather satellite map… the waters near Ma Island will be clear for the next twelve hours, weather sunny, sea conditions fine, visibility… extremely high."

"Is that so?"

Lu Qingshan puts down the phone, and at last a faint, inscrutable smile curls his lips.

What a... perfect day for hunting.