Chapter 384: The Bell Rings, the Opening Avalanches, London Is Bathed in Blood!

London time, seven a. m.

In the Trading Hall at Weilian Wang Dajie 81 Hao, the lights blaze, bright as daylight. The air is suffused with an extreme, oppressive silence, as if awaiting the brief, suffocating calm before a storm.

A night's rest has not loosened the taut strings in the air; rather, it is like a bow drawn full, waiting for the release. Traders sit at their stations, their screens pitch black, only the time in the lower right corner ticking mercilessly.

No one speaks, only the rising and falling deep breaths, the soft clink of coffee cups being set down, and the "click‑click" of finger joints being cracked. Everyone knows that in an hour this place will become the bloodiest slaughterhouse built of money and code.

David Cohen dons a brand‑new white shirt, even a tie, as if he were heading to a grand awards ceremony rather than a battle. He stands on the command platform at the front of the Trading Hall, holding the briefing on the "Sheffield" vessel, like a judge about to read a verdict, his sharp gaze sweeping each young face.

The top‑floor office.

Lu Qingshan stands by the window, watching a red double‑decker bus glide slowly through the dawn‑lit street; London's morning still carries a hint of mist, yet beneath the calm, currents stir.

Ye Ning and Li Zhi'an stand behind him, each holding a thick dossier listing today's "hunt" targets, every name representing a core industry of the British Empire.

"Boss, there's an hour until the market opens," Ye Ning's voice breaks the calm, edged with unmistakable tension. "The BBC, five minutes ago, confirmed on the morning news that the 'Sheffield' destroyer has been sunk. The Prime Minister's office will hold an emergency press conference at ten a. m."

"Understood," Lu Qingshan says without turning his head, merely whispering three words. A little over an hour is enough for panic to ferment across London and all of Europe, brewing an unprecedented financial tsunami.

He glances at Lu Qingjun and Li Junjie, upright on the sofa, their eyes darkened yet spirits high, each cradling a notebook, ready to record this day destined for the history books.

"Brother, why do I feel more nervous than when we first went to the countryside to seize assets," Lu Qingjun rubs his hands, his Adam's apple bobbing, mouth dry.

Li Junjie adjusts his glasses, his eyes behind the lenses shining terrifyingly, the pupils reflecting the numbers flickering on the screen: "Brother Qingjun, we're not seizing assets; we're witnessing a miracle. Boss, this is reshaping an empire's map with money!" His fingers fly across another Terminal, instantly calculating share ratios.

The wall clock's hour, minute, and second hands move toward alignment in a heart‑pounding rhythm.

Exactly eight o'clock.

The London Stock Exchange's opening bell rings on schedule.

"Clang—"

The bell sounds like a signal, bearing an ancient, weighty force.

In the Trading Hall, every black screen lights up instantly.

One second of dead silence.

Immediately after, as if the gates of hell were flung open, streams of blood‑red waterfall cascade from the tops of all screens, falling vertically with a thunderous crash! The exchange's system detects abnormal volatility; the Circuit Breaker Mechanism alarm sounds for half a second before being drowned by a harsher system overload alarm, shrieking and tearing the air.

"Boom!"

The entire market, without hesitation or struggle, avalanches the moment trading opens!

The K line representing the FTSE 100 draws an unprecedented, perfectly vertical line downward! It's not a decline; it's a free‑fall collapse!

"Halt! British Aerospace opens flat‑lined! Sell orders locked at three billion! Oh my God!" a trader shouts hoarsely, voice trembling.

"Rolls‑Royce plunges forty percent! Still falling! It's the Queen's carriage supplier! Crazy!"

"Barclays Bank, Lloyds Bank… the entire banking sector has collapsed! The trading system is lagging, orders can't even be placed! I hear the neighboring broker's cries!"

"The British pound‑US Dollar rate has slipped below 1.7! Still falling! 1.68! 1.65! God, it has no floor! It's about to pierce the Earth's core!"

Panic.

Extreme panic.

Countless sell orders flood the system like madmen, ignoring price, only seeking escape from the sinking ship. The exchange's system, overwhelmed by the sudden surge, stalls for over ten seconds; countless traders pound the keyboards to no avail.

In the Trading Hall, everyone is left speechless by the spectacular, brutal scene, only the continuously refreshing blood‑red numbers on the screens mercilessly announcing an era's collapse.

"Everyone's just watching the damn show!"

David Cohen's roar, like a thunderclap, awakens everyone. He yanks the tie off his neck, hurls it to the floor, eyes blood‑red, veins bulging on his forehead, like a bull enraged to the core, arms flailing wildly.

"Buy!"

"Convert all our money into their stock! Remember the boss's words: anything that can't be moved, I want it all!"

"Team A! British Aerospace! Devour every sell order on the halt board—leave none! Use one hundred billion pounds to buy! Keep buying until it's suspended!"

"Team C! Target Barclays! Aren't they touted as the British Empire's most solid bank? Buy them until they bear the Lu name! I'll have them renamed Lu!"

"Team F! Rolls‑Royce! Aircraft engines! The Queen's carriage! Now at bargain price! Stock up! As many as possible! I'll buy all the Queen's carriages!"

"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

The order is given; the pack of wolves that have been starving all night lunges out. Keyboard clatter rains down again, but this time it's not a desperate sell‑off, but an aggressive, savage devouring.

If others on the market are panic‑selling, the Xinghan traders are conducting a cold‑blooded acquisition with a near‑predatory stance. Every purchase order carries Lu Qingshan's will, precise and efficient, like the Grim Reaper's scythe, reaping the once‑imperial wealth.

Huge purchase orders strike precisely at the most battered, market‑cap‑evaporated core assets. They act like the most efficient Sweeper, sweeping every piece of "trash" discarded by panic into their own vaults, leaving nothing behind.

Each successful acquisition silently declares that a new financial overlord is quietly rising atop London's ruins.

Only thirty‑five minutes after opening, Ye Ning's voice comes over the internal channel: "Report, boss, British Aerospace has purchased seven percent of the free‑float shares, becoming the largest shareholder aside from the government. Barclays Bank, four percent. Rolls‑Royce, nine percent. Initial capital deployed, three hundred eighty billion pounds."