Chapter 386: The Prime Minister's Trusted Aide Arrives to Discuss the

Downing Street.

Inside the Prime Minister's residence, the atmosphere was as oppressive as a sealed tomb. The air was filled with the burnt taste of a fine Cuban cigar that had been smoked to the end, and an invisible, sour, rot‑like scent called despair.

Vice Prime Minister James Reed's complexion was ashen, his meticulously groomed blond hair now looked like a clump of withered grass; he was a lost soul sunk deep in an expensive Chesterfield sofa, like a melting wax figure. In the precious crystal ashtray before him, cigar remnants piled up like a tiny tomb, and a few that he had only taken a single puff of were nervously crushed out of existence.

Just half an hour ago, the Prime Minister (female), always known as the Iron Lady, threw a stack of faxes stamped with front pages of major newspapers around the world at his face as if discarding trash. The edges of the paper scraped his cheek, leaving a trivial red mark that felt as hot as a branding iron.

"James, look at these!" Her voice was ice‑cold, without a hint of warmth, and the look in her eyes—one Reed had never seen—was as if she were staring at a mortal enemy. "You have made me, and the entire British Empire, the laughingstock of the world!"

The Times front page: "London Fall Day! The Eastern Dragon's Financial Lightning War!"

Wall Street Journal front page: "The Sinking of Sheffield and the Dusk of an Empire"

Asahi Shimbun front page: "The War of Money: Who Is the True Victor of the South Atlantic Ocean?"

Each headline was like a hammer, smashing his dignity and political future to pieces.

Then Prime Minister's Chief Secretary Allen Green, a perpetually smiling, seemingly harmless, eternally unflappable archetypal English gentleman, entered, and in his trademark gentle and courteous tone asked him to temporarily go home to rest, pending further notice.

"Rest", what a respectable word. Reed knew that his political career had sunk, together with the destroyer named "Sheffield", into the cold, dark depths of the South Atlantic Ocean, never to rise again.

"Allen…" Reed lifted his blood‑shot eyes, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing a rusted iron plate; he was like a drowning man, futilely clutching at the last straw, "That Eastern man… that devil… he… what does he actually want?"

Allen stopped, turned back, his smile still warm and proper, but the blue in his eyes held no warmth, as if appraising a piece of furniture about to be discarded. "Mr. Reed, I think what he wants is the 'price' you previously threatened through Mr. Wilson, demanding he pay."

The sentence was like a dagger tempered with ice, piercing Reed's heart with precision.

Having said that, Allen no longer paid attention to the man, now limp as mud; he gave a slight bow, turned, and walked into the Prime Minister's Office. He knew it was not the time to hold a failed man accountable, but to meet that Eastern devil and, one by one, humbly renegotiate the pearls that had been forcibly pried from the Empire's Crown.

……

As the old empire's heart of power struggled in rot and despair, a new sun rose at Weilian Wang Dajie 81 Hao.

In the Trading Hall, snores rose, traders sprawled in all directions, sleeping crookedly; the air mixed the greasy scent of pizza boxes, sweat, and the burnt smell of spent adrenaline, like the wreckage after a wild party. David Cohen clutched an empty liquor bottle like a baby, curled under the command platform, his face wearing a lecherous grin, muttering nonstop: "Buy… buy Rolls‑Royce… give the boss as a car… long live the boss…"

In the top‑level office, the scent of sandalwood became rich and tranquil again.

Lu Qingshan changed to a fresh batch of Wuyi Mountain Jin Junmei tea; the golden, translucent brew swayed slightly in a white porcelain cup, reflecting his calm, unruffled face.

Lu Qingjun and Li Junjie were perched on the massive desk like two groundhogs, each holding today's transaction summary report, repeatedly counting the string of zeros that made their scalps tingle, their faces showing the same foolish yet wildly excited grin.

"Brother, I've counted three times, no mistake! It's truly one thousand three hundred eighty billion pounds… my dear mother!" Lu Qingjun smacked his lips, feeling he'd never seen so much money in his life, "I once sun‑dried salt for a year at Lu Tai, without eating or drinking, probably from Pangu's creation until now!"

Li Junjie adjusted his glasses, and on his notebook, with a slightly trembling hand, solemnly wrote a new title: "On the Non‑Euclidean Geometric Structure and Dimensional Leap of Wealth Forms in the Realm of Gods." He thought that describing the boss's actions in business or finance terms was blasphemous. It was a higher‑dimensional will; the Dimensionality Reduction Strike against the low‑dimensional world was a magnificent power that creates rules.

At that moment, the office door was knocked, and Ye Ning led Wilson inside.

Wilson changed into his most solemn black suit; his expression was extremely complex, mixing the exhilaration of a great revenge with a soul‑deep awe and fear of the power he followed.

"Mr. Lu," Wilson bowed deeply, his posture low, even with a hint of pilgrim‑like devotion. "London… has gone completely mad. I just received word that at least five old‑money conglomerates, equal to the Shason Family, have convened emergency board meetings, frantically selling overseas assets for self‑preservation. A branch head of the Rothschild family, after seeing today's FTSE closing numbers, is said to have been so angry he suffered a stroke on the spot and was taken by ambulance to Cravenwell Hospital."

He paused, his tone carrying an unmistakable, pathological glee: "And Henry, I heard Sir William has already sent someone to Sumatra. Not to have him learn to coexist with orangutans, but to strip him of all positions, confiscate all his trust funds, and force him to supervise rubber tapping in the plantation, forbidden to leave that hell for ten years."

Lu Qingshan lifted his eyelids, unsurprised, and simply lifted his tea cup, gently blowing off the heat.

"He got what he deserved, cheap enough! He should be sent to mate with the orangutans!" Lu Qingjun muttered softly nearby, prompting Li Junjie to nod in agreement.

"Mr. Lu," Wilson's expression became solemn again; he looked at Lu Qingshan, eyes full of inquiry and expectation, "I have come to ask what, next, I and the entire Shason Family should do for you?"

Lu Qingshan pushed a freshly brewed cup of tea before him; the aroma rose, and his voice, as light as the tea scent, said: "Wait."

"Wait?" Wilson was taken aback.

"Wait for a person of sufficient weight to come and approach us voluntarily," Lu Qingshan said, looking out the window; London's night had already begun to fall, lanterns lit, countless household lights reflected in his pupils, cold as stardust. "I think he should be arriving soon."

As soon as the words left his mouth, as if to annotate them, the internal phone on Ye Ning's desk emitted a crisp ring.

She hurried over, answered, listened briefly, then hung up. Turning, she faced Lu Qingshan, her eyes carrying an anticipated understanding: "Boss, the front desk downstairs says Prime Minister's Chief Secretary Mr. Allen Green wishes to see you."

Wilson's pupils contracted sharply, his heart missed a beat.

It was Allen Green! The power‑core figure famed on Downing Street as the "Shadow of the Prime Minister" and the "Smiling Tiger"! It seemed the matter had become serious enough to require the Prime Minister's direct intervention!

Lu Qingjun and Li Junjie instantly sat up, tense, daring not to breathe.

Lu Qingshan, as if he hadn't heard, lifted his cup, leisurely took a sip, letting the golden tea swirl in his mouth, savoring its unique sweetness.

The office was so quiet that a pin could be heard; everyone's gaze fixed on him, awaiting his decision.

After more than a dozen seconds, he finally set the cup down slowly, the bottom striking the saucer with a crisp, light sound.

He raised his eyes, his gaze calmly landing on Ye Ning's face.

"Let him come up."