Chapter 482: Victory Is the Least Valuable Thing!

Twelve hours later, South Africa, Johannesburg.

Outside the VIP lane of Rand International Airport, the air was filled with the uniquely African, dry, hot scent mingling red earth and sunlight.

Qian Weiguo, Ding Wenjiang and Su Mingyuan had been waiting here for a long time. Behind them stood a dozen or so burly security personnel, eyes alert as leopards. They wore matching black tactical vests, their muscles bulging the combat gear, the outlines of pistols at their waists and the occasional crackle from their earpieces silently announcing their identity—elite special operatives hastily recalled from the corpse‑mountain, blood‑sea of the Libyan battlefield.

When Lu Qingshan's familiar figure appeared at the entrance, Lu Qingjun was the first to rush forward, giving him a solid bear hug and, excitedly, growling in his ear, "Brother! You finally made it!"

Lu Qingshan patted his sun‑blackened back, clearly sensing the mix of diamond dust, sweat and faint gunpowder on the younger man's skin, which steadied his heart. This kid truly earned his experience on African soil.

"Old Qian, Director Ding, Deputy Su, the journey has been hard." Lu Qingshan shook hands with each of them, his gaze steady.

"Not hard! Serving the country gives me strength all over!" General Qian's voice remained as loud as a bell, his hawk‑like eyes scanning Lu Qingshan without reservation, full of the particular admiration and scrutiny soldiers have for each other.

Ding Wenjiang, excited, gripped Lu Qingshan's hand tightly, while his other hand clutched his polished canvas bag as if it were a treasure, as if it contained not blueprints but the whole country's future: "Director Lu, come quickly and see my map! This Angola is not a barren land; it's clearly an unopened super treasure chest!"

The convoy did not pause in Johannesburg; a dozen armored off‑road vehicles formed a black steel torrent, racing straight along the highway toward the northeast, speeding to a private farm near the Angola border. This farm had been acquired by Xinghan Group; on the surface it was a farm, but in reality it had long been converted into a heavily guarded temporary command center.

Inside the main house of the farm, a massive military topographic map of Angola covered the entire conference table, annotated with dense symbols and arrows in red and blue pencils.

"Brother, I've already arranged that Manuro. He said that to show sincerity he would come personally to see you." Lu Qingjun pointed to a red circle near the border on the map, "Right here, a deserted diamond mine less than fifty kilometers from our farm. That place is in a no‑man's zone, perfect for discussing matters that can't see the light."

"He does pick locations well," Lu Qingshan smiled, both a show of force and a test. He scanned the map as if reviewing his own territory, "How many men does he bring?"

"A platoon‑sized guard, over thirty men, all his direct‑line elite."

"What about our men?"

"Old Qian has already arranged it!" Lu Qingjun looked admiringly at Qian Weiguo, who was deep in thought before the map, "A continuous security force, plus our own special operatives, have cleared a five‑kilometer radius around the mine; all high points and sniping positions are under our control. Qian says that now, not even a fly, let alone a bullet, can enter without first checking with our snipers for permission!"

The next day, the deserted diamond mine.

【7】 The scorching sun baked the red earth; this place had once been where French colonizers greedily plundered wealth, now only rust‑spotted, steel‑like machines and massive pits remain, like ugly scars etched into this suffering land.

The scorching sun baked the red land; this place was once where France colonists frantically looted wealth, now only rust‑streaked machinery like steel skeletons and one huge pit after another remain, like ugly scars etched into this suffering land.

A huge military tent was pitched at the edge of the largest pit.

Lu Qingshan sat inside the tent, before him a set of precious Zisha tea ware air‑lifted from Hong Kong Island. He was leisurely washing the teacups with scalding water, the tea aroma drifting, his demeanor calm, as if he were not waiting for an African warlord wielding tens of thousands of lives, but rather in the Back Sea of the Capital City, awaiting an old friend to discuss tea and the Dao.

Soon, a cacophonous, wild engine roar rolled from far to near outside the tent.

Lu Qingjun pulled back the tent flap, stuck his head out, lowered his voice, his expression tense yet excited: "Brother, they're here. The display is not small."

A towering, ebony‑skinned Black man in a custom‑tailored fitted camouflage combat suit strode in, surrounded by a squad of armed, live‑round, fierce‑eyed guards. At his waist hung a Gold‑Plated Desert Eagle so bright it could blind, and each step exuded a bloody aura.

He was the supreme leader of the fully independent Angola National Union, the "Anmeng", Manuro.

Manuro's gaze, like the hungriest hyena on the wasteland, immediately fixed on the calm, composed Eastern youth inside the tent, seemingly out of place in this killing ground. He had expected to meet a slickly dressed deceitful businessman or a shrewd, scheming politician, but instead found someone who looked like a wealthy young man on an African life‑experience trip.

"You are Mr. Lu?" Manuro's French pronunciation was quite standard, but his voice was coarse, like sandpaper on rusted steel. He did not step forward immediately; instead he stood in the center of the tent, scrutinizing Lu Qingshan with a gaze that instantly filled the space with a powerful sense of oppression.

Lu Qingshan didn't even look up; he simply arranged the cleaned teacups one by one, then lifted his eyelids to glance at him, staying seated, extending his hand toward the empty seat opposite and making a "please" gesture: "Mr. Manuro, please sit. Taste our Huaxia tea; it can calm the mind."

After hearing the translator's rendition, Manuro's brows knit sharply; he felt slighted. Yet he waved his hand for the guards to keep watch outside the tent, and he himself plopped down opposite Lu Qingshan, his weight causing the marching chair to groan under the strain.

Lu Qingshan pushed a freshly brewed cup of golden‑hued, fragrant tea toward him.

Manuro glanced at the tiny, toy‑like cup, then at Lu Qingshan, remained still, and drew the gold‑plated Desert Eagle from his waist. With a "Bang" sound, he slammed it onto the table, the barrel faintly pointing toward Lu Qingshan. He grinned, exposing white teeth, and said bluntly, "Mr. Lu, my people should have already told you my terms. I need weapons, I need advisers, I need a victory! You, give me victory. I, give you all of Angola's mineral resources for the next fifty years!"

Lu Qingshan smiled, as if he hadn't seen the weapon on the table capable of blasting a skull. He lifted his own teacup and gently blew the swirling steam.

"Mr. Manuro, victory is the least valuable thing."

"What did you say?!" Manuro's pupils snapped shut, the veins on his hand gripping the gun hilt bulging, his gaze turning extremely dangerous, and the tent's temperature seemed to drop by several degrees.

"I ask you, even if you storm the capital Luanda and sit on the presidential throne, can you sit steadily?" Lu Qingshan finally set down his teacup, his gaze calm and fixed on him, eyes as deep as an ancient well, making Manuro feel every thought was laid bare. "Behind you are Americans who could stab you at any moment. Your neighboring country is a pro‑Soviet regime eyeing you like a tiger. Your people are hungry, waiting for you to hand out bread. What will you feed them? What will you appease the generals who helped you seize power? Will you rely on American charity—flour that can be cut off at any time—or on Soviet bombs that could turn your presidential palace into ruins?"

Manuro's complexion changed for the first time, shifting from arrogant ferocity to startled horror at a struck sore spot.

These questions, like red‑hot knives, pierced precisely into the deepest part of his heart, into a worry he himself dared not contemplate. He had only thought about how to win, rarely about what to do after winning.

"I…" he was momentarily speechless, a fine layer of cold sweat beading on his forehead.

"Your men were trying to rob our Xinghan Group's diamond mine just yesterday. Today you want me to believe that tomorrow you will keep your promise and hand over the entire country's future to me?" Lu Qingshan's voice remained even, but each word struck like a heavy hammer on Manuro's heart, making his breathing difficult.

Manuro felt he was facing not a businessman but a devil who could see through hearts. All his ferocity and pretenses seemed laughably childish before this young man.

The atmosphere inside the tent was so heavy it was almost suffocating. Lu Qingjun stood nearby, his palms sweating with tension; he thought his second brother wasn't here for business at all, but to crush the heart.

At that moment, Su Mingyuan, who had been standing behind Lu Qingshan like a statue, smiled and stepped forward, holding a document. In French, more fluent and elegant than Manuro's, he said, "Mr. Manuro, our boss's view is that any great cooperation must be built on absolute mutual trust and long‑term strategic planning. Here is a preliminary proposal we have drafted for you and your country regarding Angola's post‑war reconstruction and economic development; you may have a look first."

Manuro instinctively took the thick document, and after only two pages his breathing became extremely rapid.

The document, from how to use existing resources to solve the nation's food crisis within three months, to how to phase‑by‑phase repair the railways, ports and roads destroyed by war; from how to establish an independent national education system and basic medical system, to how to leverage abundant mineral resources to create a sovereign wealth fund free from Western control... every detail was planned meticulously, comprehensively, each part interlocking, as if they were building not a scarred African country but a future African gem.

"You…" Manuro snapped his head up, his eyes filled with unparalleled shock and deep incomprehension, "You… why are you doing this? Aren't you just trying to sell weapons?"

"Because what we sell is not just weapons." Lu Qingshan finally spoke again, standing up, walking to the tent entrance, pulling back the curtain, and pointing at the scarred red land outside, ravaged by war.

The glaring sun made his upright silhouette appear, in Manuro's eyes, as if coated with a golden sheen.

"What we sell is a future that can feed your people, make your country truly independent, let you sit securely on the presidential throne, never again fearing betrayal or abandonment."

He slowly turned, his gaze like a torch, looking at the now‑dumbfounded Manuro, and said word for word.

"Now, you can tell me, this future—do you buy it or not?"

Manuro looked at Lu Qingshan's bottomless eyes, then lowered his head to glance at the heavy plan outlining a great national blueprint in his hands; all his doubts, pride, guard, and ferocity collapsed at that moment like a levee breached by floodwaters.

He sprang up abruptly, his motion so great it knocked over the chair behind him, producing a "clang" sound.

He didn't bother to right the chair; instead, facing Lu Qingshan, he spoke in a tone almost like a religious oath, each word heartfelt and solemn, roaring, "I buy! Mr. Lu! I, representing Anmeng, representing the millions of Angolan people yearning for peace, purchase this future!"

"Very good." Lu Qingshan nodded with satisfaction, a smile finally appearing on his face, "Deputy Su, bring the contract to Mr. Manuro."

Su Mingyuan immediately handed over another pre‑prepared legal document, phrased so rigorously that no top lawyer could find a flaw.

When Manuro, with trembling hands, signed his name on the contract—issued in Xinghan Group's name—to obtain exclusive development rights for all known and undiscovered minerals, oil fields, transportation, public works, forestry and fisheries in Angola for the next fifty years, he felt he was signing for Angola's rebirth.