Chapter 458: He Doesn't Want Money; He Wants Us to Kneel!

A Rothschild family butler entered with a humble bearing, and behind him followed a French man of about fifty, shrewd in expression but with a trace of unmistakable nervousness in his eyes.

"Mr. Lu," the butler bowed, "Mr. DuPont, a director of the French Bank, wishes to see you on urgent business."

Lu Qingshan returned to his seat, sat down, leisurely wiped his hands with a naplet, and then made a gesturing motion of "please."

The French man named DuPont inhaled deeply, forced himself to ignore the leftover scrambled eggs on the table, and strode in. He did not lose composure like Jonathan, nor rage like Feng Hais; instead, he strained to maintain the dignity and calm a top banker should exhibit in any crisis.

"Good evening, Mr. Lu," he said in fluent English, his voice so steady that no ripple could be heard, "I think there may be some misunderstandings between us."

"Oh?" Lu Qingshan lifted his eyes to look at him, his gaze calm, as if observing an inconsequential stranger.

"The documents involve historical issues that are too complex and too remote," DuPont tried to speak in a conciliatory, rational tone, "We acknowledge that there have been unpleasant incidents in history. To show our Sincerity and to bridge the differences, looking to the future, the European Bankers are willing to jointly fund a 'China‑Europe Historical and Cultural Exchange Fund' totaling one hundred billion US Dollars…"

He had not finished speaking when Lu Qingshan cut him off.

"Li Junjie."

"Boss!" Li Junjie shouted sharply, his fingertips trembling slightly from excitement as he had been waiting for this moment.

"Tell Mr. DuPont how much his family profited a century ago by selling opium to the Qing and laundering war loot."

Li Junjie's fingers flew across the keyboard, displaying a settlement model he and Zhang Qianru had built overnight on the way to Geneva based on that 'judgment.' He inhaled deeply and, in a tone heavy with historical weight and icy indifference, recited: "According to our actuarial model, after deducting all inflation and using the contemporaneous UK government bond yield as a risk‑free compound rate, the DuPont family's illegal profit from the Opium War, converted into today's US Dollars, is approximately... five hundred twenty‑six billion US Dollars."

The moment that figure was uttered, the carefully maintained composure on DuPont's face vanished instantly, like glass shattered by a heavy hammer.

Li Junjie glanced at the screen, a flash of vengeful delight belonging to a Huaxia descendant crossing his eyes, and continued expressionlessly, "Supplementary report: this does not yet include the profits from illegally acquiring and reselling, after the burning of Yuanmingyuan, the dragon head and snake head among the twelve zodiac animal heads, as well as over three hundred registered precious artifacts. This portion, bearing the nation's soul and thus incalculable, is not included for now."

"Mr. DuPont," Lu Qingshan leaned back in his chair, his body slightly forward, watching him leisurely, "One hundred billion? Are you joking with me? Or insulting my mathematical ability? Or do you think your family's over three hundred national‑treasure‑level loot is worth only one hundred billion?"

"Then... what do you want?" DuPont's voice finally trembled with an unmistakable quiver, "Those are history! Past events! You cannot judge the past by today's standards!"

"Very simple," Lu Qingshan said, extending two fingers.

"First, unconditionally transfer the century‑old mansion your family owns on the Champs‑Élysées in Paris, along with all its artworks, to the Global Stability and Development Fund. Consider it the first down‑payment toward repaying that 526‑billion‑dollar debt."

"Second, the French Bank must, within seventy‑two hours, publish a full‑page front‑page admission in The Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the People's Daily, openly acknowledging its disgraceful role in the Opium War and apologizing to all victims."

DuPont's body jolted violently; he stared fixedly at Lu Qingshan, his lips moving but no word could emerge. The banker's composure and dignity shattered on his face like scattered glass.

"You may refuse," Lu Qingshan said lightly, as if stating a trivial matter, "but I have just had my assistant draft a preliminary charter for establishing an international tribunal."

He looked at DuPont's suddenly pallid face, recalled Minister Wang's words on the phone, "Go tell them this world needs a new way of living," and his mouth curved ever colder.

"Guess what, if we use your family's evidence as the number‑one case presented in court and broadcast a global live trial."

"Can your bank still see tomorrow's sun?"

DuPont's face was no longer ghostly white but a dead‑gray. He seemed to already envision his family, shackled by the charter's chains, nailed firmly to the pillar of historical disgrace, cursed by the world and never able to rise again.

He staggered back two steps, a meaningless ho‑ho sound escaping his throat, then, in a near‑flight posture, spun sharply, rolling and crawling as he fled the study.

Outside the study, in the gilded, resplendent hall.

The group of European "gods" instantly halted all arguing and complaints when they saw DuPont dash out in a daze, dozens of gazes snapping onto him, filled with eager anticipation.

"DuPont! How is it? What did he say?" The white‑bearded Feng Hais was the first to rush forward, grabbing his arm, asking anxiously, "Did he agree to the hundred‑billion fund? What does he actually want?!"

DuPont gave no reply; he simply lifted his once‑sharp, now dulled eyes, scanning every familiar yet strange face in the hall. He saw German bankers, Italian industrial magnates, Greek ship lords... partners who had stood with him atop the world for decades, overlooking all living beings.

Then, he looked at the bottomless, monster‑maw‑like night in the courtyard and muttered in a voice so light it was almost inaudible yet clear enough to plunge the entire hall into dead silence.

"He doesn't want money..."

A flash of astonishment and wild joy crossed Feng Hais's face: "No money? Then he…"

DuPont slowly turned his head, looking at Feng Hais and everyone else, and on his death‑like face forced out a smile uglier than crying.

"He wants us... to kneel."

"Boom!"

Those words, like a silent neutron bomb, detonated explosively in the mind of every person in the hall.

Time seemed to freeze at that moment.

Feng Hais grasped DuPont's hand and let go weakly; he staggered back a few steps, the color draining from his face, and in his sharp eyes remained only pure, incomprehensible bewilderment.

A French noble's crystal goblet "Clang!" fell to the floor, shattering, the crimson wine spilling like blood and staining the expensive Persian carpet.

The entire hall was dead silent.

The pride inherited for centuries, the innate arrogance that regarded all beings as ants, was at that moment utterly shattered, ground into powder.

They finally understood that the man, the Eastern demon sitting in the study, had never wanted money.

What he wanted was their dignity, the glory their families relied on for survival; he intended to use their knees to nail the final peg onto the coffin of the old era.

Amid this suffocating despair, the ever‑silent Jonathan Rothschild moved.

He slowly, step by step, walked through the group of "gods" who had turned into stone statues, lost and dazed.

His back was no longer straight, his steps no longer graceful.

He resembled a general who had just fought a doomed battle, about to march to the execution ground, each step draining all his strength.

He reached an ancient, deep‑red telephone in the corner of the hall.

He lifted the cold handset, and with a hand trembling so much it could barely hold it, dialed a number etched deep in his soul, representing the family's supreme authority.

The call connected.

He closed his eyes, a stream of scorching, humiliation‑laden, desperate tears slowly sliding from the corner of the future Rothschild heir's eye.

"Father..."

His voice, tinged with uncontrollable sobbing, echoed softly in the dead‑silent hall.

"The era we spent in Geneva..."

"... has ended."