Chapter 393: Pre‑War Recon! Going to Smell Wall Street

The convoy silently entered Manhattan and finally stopped beneath a residential tower on the west side of Central Park called "Saint Remo Apartment." This is one of New York's most renowned landmarks, a gathering place for the powerful and the elite.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a spacious area composed of black and white tones and a huge floor‑to‑ceiling window. Outside the window lay New York's most expensive scenery: the boundless green of Central Park and, in the distance, the Steel Jungle of skyscrapers, forming a tension‑filled tableau.

"Bro, are we… are we staying here?" Lu Qingjun's mouth formed an "O." He walked to the floor‑to‑ceiling window that almost covered an entire wall, carefully extended a finger, and tapped the icy glass. "Listen, looking out from here feels like the whole of New York is under our feet."

"More than just under our feet!" David Cohen immediately puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim his "local" authority. "This building is Saint Remo! See that one across? Dakota Apartment, where John Lennon lived. Only the rich or noble can live here—if you don't have ten hundred‑million dollars, you can't even touch the door…"

Before he could finish, Zhang Qianru had already placed a document in front of Lu Qingshan, her voice crisp and calm: "Mr Lu, here are the property deed and security system schematics for this apartment. As you ordered, I have replaced all communication lines with military‑grade encrypted cables and added three layers of physical security. Twenty‑four hours a day, sixteen retired SEAL commandos are on duty inside and around the building, ensuring absolute safety."

David's second half of the sentence choked in his throat, his expression a kaleidoscope. He bragged about wealth thresholds, while the others had deployed military‑grade defenses. This is no longer a mansion; it's a war fortress.

Lu Qingjun listened nearby, clicking his tongue, and whispered to Li Junjie: "SEALs? The ones that swim in the sea, the long‑bearded ones? Sixteen! That's more exaggerated than a president's parade in a movie!"

Li Junjie solemnly shook his head, lowering his voice: "No, Brother Qingjun, they're a kind of land predator fiercer than those old gentlemen in London. Boss, this is… in the jungle, you've built an impregnable steel fortress for yourself."

Lu Qingshan ignored everyone's reaction, walked to the window, let his gaze pass Central Park and into the depths of the steel forest to the southeast. There lay Wall Street. He could feel an invisible, greedy will radiating from that direction.

"Ye Ning."

"Boss." Ye Ning stepped forward immediately.

"You and Qianru, take two squads and go to the New York Stock Exchange." Lu Qingshan's voice was calm, "You don't need to do anything, just walk through the Trading Hall, have a look. Go sniff the atmosphere there."

Ye Ning's eyes lit up instantly. She understood this was a pre‑war reconnaissance, the general inspecting the battlefield about to erupt.

"Understood." Without hesitation, she turned and, together with Zhang Qianru, summoned eight tall, composed bodyguards and left with decisive speed.

One hour later, Wall Street, New York Stock Exchange.

As Ye Ning's party entered, a wave of heat mixed with sweat, paper, cheap coffee, cologne and endless greed slammed into them.

Unlike the restrained clamor of the London Stock Exchange, this was a pure, primal arena. In the octagonal trading pit, traders in various vests crowded together like gladiators thrown into a beast arena. They waved arms, using gestures and roars only they understood, battling in units of "millions." A man in a yellow vest shouted hoarsely, "IBM, five thousand shares, eighty‑two‑five!" while signaling a "buy." Instantly, a blue‑vest counterpart sliced his thumb across his throat, making a "kill" gesture and rejecting him. Countless order slips fluttered like snowflakes, then were trampled underfoot, crushed into the coffee‑stained, muddy floor.

Every person there had the same glint in their eyes—a naked craving for money. No pretense, no false decorum.

The arrival of Ye Ning's group was like a drop of cold water into boiling oil. They were in suits, towering, expressionless, starkly out of place amid the frenzy. Especially Ye Ning, an ice‑cold, strikingly beautiful Eastern woman, followed by a cadre of statue‑like bodyguards, instantly drew countless gazes.

Those gazes held curiosity, scrutiny, and a wolf‑like predatory aggression.

A trader in a red vest deliberately bumped Ye Ning as he turned, chewing gum and whistling flippantly: "Hey, Eastern doll, lost? This isn't Chinatown; we don't sell fried noodles. You Asians better go back and save your collapsing market, hahaha!"

A few traders beside him burst into loud laughter, their words dripping with arrogance and discrimination.

Before Ye Ning could speak, a nearly two‑meter‑tall bodyguard stepped forward like a steel tower. He did nothing, didn't even look at the red vest, kept his gaze straight ahead, but his right hand casually lifted, slowly adjusting his suit collar. That simple motion made the red‑vest trader's laughter cut off, his facial color draining instantly.

Because he clearly saw, the moment the opponent's suit opened, the custom leather gun holster under the armpit and the cold black outline of a Glock pistol inside it.

It wasn't a prop; it was a blood‑soaked murder weapon!

The bodyguard's eyes, forged on the Iraq battlefield, swept like a blade—emotionless, as if staring at a corpse. The killing intent honed in seas of corpses pressed down like a mountain, causing the red‑vest's legs to give way, his mind blank, instinctively stumbling back several steps, "thump," crashing into a companion carrying coffee; scalding coffee splashed over his head and face, yet he remained unconscious, crawling backward with limbs, never daring another glance.

Ye Ning's gaze never left the wildly pulsing massive electronic display. She ignored the surrounding flies, standing quietly, feeling the pulse of the place.

It wasn't chaotic noise but a unique rhythm full of power and destruction. Each roar, each gesture signified an instant transfer of wealth, the ecstatic or bankrupt fate of countless families. This raw, chaotic, life‑filled aura gave her an inexplicable familiarity, as if she were born for this.

Half an hour later, the party returned to Saint Remo Apartment.

"Boss." Ye Ning stood before Lu Qingshan, her voice still tinged with lingering excitement, "That place isn't a trading floor."

She paused, as if searching for the most precise word.

"It's a massive, smokeless slaughterhouse. Everyone is a butcher, and could at any moment become the lamb being slaughtered."

Lu Qingshan turned, looking at the flame dancing in her eyes, a thrill of meeting a worthy opponent.

"Do you like it?"

Ye Ning was startled, then nodded vigorously without hesitation: "I like it."

Lu Qingshan smiled. He knew this finest warhorse had already smelled the blood and was getting excited.

He walked to the huge floor‑to‑ceiling window, gazed at the dazzling city lights outside, his voice calm yet sending a shiver up everyone's tailbones.

"Since it's a slaughterhouse, it naturally has slaughterhouse rules." He looked at Ye Ning, then swept over the others, "But from the moment we step onto the field, the rules should be set by us."

He picked up a red marker from the table and, on the cold glass toward the Wall Street direction, drew a circle—a precise bullseye.

"They think we're lambs, so we'll be the butchers first." Lu Qingshan's voice turned cold, bearing a forest‑like killing intent, "We'll start by knocking out their sharpest, most arrogant tooth."