Chapter 487: Scrap Iron Diplomacy and the Golden Route

The wind on the Red Soil Plateau remains scorching, whipping sand and gravel against the jeep's windshield, clacking loudly.

Lu Qingshan stood beside the freshly leveled makeshift runway, watching the black recruits far away drill in formation. Those who had only ever swept with AKs as irregulars were now being trained by the veteran oilmen under Qian Weiguo into something resembling order—at least they knew how to stand at ease and attention, and that the muzzle must not point at a comrade's rear.

"Brother, really leaving?" Lu Qingjun clenched a safety helmet in his hand, his sun‑baked nose red, eyes showing reluctance, but more a thrill from having just tasted power.

"If I don't go, you'll never grow up." Lu Qingshan patted his younger brother's shoulder hard, "From now on this will be our rear area. Remember, you're a businessman, not a warlord. What grows here is worth more than gold. Anyone who dares reach for it—whether Soviet or American—gets chopped off."

Lu Qingjun nodded heavily, "Got it, got it. Cutting people is Old Money's specialty."

Qian Weiguo walked over, hands behind his back, his blue work uniform faded to near‑white, looking less like a general and more like a freshly retired farmer.

"Qian Lao, we're counting on you here." Lu Qingshan handed him a large front‑gate that had been brought from the interior.

Qian Weiguo took it, grinned, "Don't worry. I'm planning to set up an 'Angola Agricultural Technology School', teach them farming, and also how to smash a wolf's waist with a hoe. Manuro's fundamentals are solid, just lacking in books and training."

As he spoke, several military trucks rumbled in. Manuro leapt from a truck, his camouflage uniform crisp, two guards behind him carrying a red‑velvet‑covered crate, moving cautiously.

"Mr. Lu, my friend!" Manuro strode forward, his face beaming with a smile that mixed awe and flattery.

He waved for the guards to lift the red cloth.

In the sunlight, a fist‑sized transparent stone shimmered with rainbow light, dazzling the eyes.

"It was just dug out of Pit No. 3 yesterday, not yet cut," Manuro said, flaunting, "Over three hundred carats. I've named it 'Eastern Star'. Only this can match the peace you're bringing to Angola."

Lu Qingjun's eyes went wide, his Adam's apple bobbing. If this thing reached Sotheby's on Hong Kong Island, it could snatch the souls of those wealthy widows.

Lu Qingshan, however, remained calm, picked it up casually and weighed it, as if it were an ordinary pebble.

"Thanks." Lu Qingshan turned, pulled a thin French‑language book from his bag, "Reciprocity. Keep this; if you can't read it, ask Soviet advisor for an explanation."

Manuro took the book with both hands, looked at the cover—The Art of War.

"Read more, kill less." Lu Qingshan patted his shoulder, "Killing is a butcher's job; subduing an enemy without fighting is what a president should do."

Manuro seemed half‑understanding, tucked the book into his chest, as if it were a talisman more protective than body armor.

The convoy arrived at Luanda Airport.

Smith led a squad of American soldiers blocking the VIP corridor.

The Americans had lost their earlier swagger, but the arrogance still seeped to the bone.

"Mr. Lu, why so hurried?" Smith chewed gum, pulled off his sunglasses, "I thought you'd stay here and become an African chieftain."

"It's too hot here; home is cooler." Lu Qingshan stopped, looked at Smith, "So, Mr. Smith, are you here to see me off or to buy more intel?"

Smith's face tightened; the incident with the codebook had earned him a scathing reprimand from headquarters. Though the intelligence was real, the price was steep—lifting the shipping blockade meant the United States recognized Xinghan Group's legitimacy here.

"I'm here to warn you." Smith lowered his voice, stepped a half‑step closer, "Some things you can take, some you can't. Angola's waters are deep; watch not to drown."

Lu Qingshan smiled, a smile tinged with sarcasm.

"Smith, instead of worrying about me, worry about yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think Wilson will let you sit in this seat much longer?" Lu Qingshan adjusted his collar gently, like an old friend, "Hand over that codebook, and the credit goes to Wilson. But the blame for losing control of Angola must fall on someone. Guess who that scapegoat is?"

Smith's complexion drained clean in an instant.

"In a few days you'll receive a performance‑review notice." Lu Qingshan stepped past him, walked straight to the boarding gate, tossed back without looking, "Once you go, don't expect to come back. Washington's cold bench is harsher than Africa's sun."

Smith froze, his sunglasses hit the ground with a "clack", shattering to pieces.

The aircraft surged into the clouds, leaving that red land behind.

Seven hours later, the charter plane touched down at Riyadh Khalid International Airport.

As soon as the cabin door opened, a wave of heat mixed with spice slammed into the face.

A red carpet stretched all the way to the aircraft's stair, flanked by royal guards brandishing curved swords.

Saleman, in a white robe, stood at the front, followed by a long line of royal family members and high officials.

The setup was so grand that anyone unfamiliar would think the UN Secretary‑General had arrived.

"Lu! My brother!" Saleman spread his arms, giving Lu Qingshan a solid embrace, the enthusiasm hotter than the desert sun.

The hug was not just for Lu Qingshan's eyes but also for the royal onlookers behind him.

The Saudi Intelligence Bureau had long uncovered what was happening in Angola.

Hundreds of Huaxia "migrant workers", together with local security militias, had beaten the Soviet Advisory Group and Cuban mercenaries to a pulp; that record out‑performed any advertisement.

Saleman now revered Lu Qingshan, as if he might even deify him.

"Prince, you look well." Lu Qingshan said with a friendly smile.

"All thanks to you." Saleman grasped Lu Qingshan's hand and slipped him into a stretched gold Rolls‑Royce, "Get in, I have something good to show you."

The car's air‑conditioning was full blast; Saleman pulled a bottle of chilled camel milk from the onboard fridge and handed it to Lu Qingshan, then eagerly produced a list.

"First batch of crude oil, three million barrels, the fleet has already set out." Saleman pointed to the route map on the list, "Direct to Huaxia Tianmen Port. Also, I've withdrawn fifty‑billion US dollars from the family fund, ready for use."

Having said that, he stared at Lu Qingshan, eyes pleading: the meaning was clear—oil's ready, money's ready, when will my 'big firecracker' ship?

Lu Qingshan took a sip of the milk, replied leisurely, "Don't worry, the 'express delivery' is already on the way. But Prince, a spear alone isn't enough; you also need a shield."

"Shield?"

"The diamonds and gold in Angola are a Treasure Basin." Lu Qingshan pulled out several photos from his bag, those were Ding Wenjiang's mineral‑survey maps, "I plan to build a security school there and a resource reserve. Prince, interested in buying a share?"

Saleman's eyes lit up at the photos. He wasn't a fool; investing in Angola would not only earn money but also bind Saudi interests tightly with Huaxia's military power. That's a real umbrella.

"Invest! Must invest!" Saleman waved his hand, "As long as it's Mr. Lu's project, the Saudi Royal Family fund is yours."

Lu Qingshan looked at the future king before him and chuckled inwardly. This wasn't business; it was tying the Saudi camel firmly to the Xinghan Group's war machine, cementing the crown prince's position.

The plane took off again, heading straight for the Capital City.

West‑suburban airport, night deepening.

No flowers at the home reception, no red carpet.

A black Hong Hong limousine pulled up to the runway edge.

Chen Lao, cloaked in a coat, stood in the wind, while Wang Shanghong, face solemn, stood beside him.

Lu Qingshan got off the Aircraft, without wasting words, and went straight into the car.

After the car door closed, Wang Shanghong handed over a document, his hand trembling a bit.

"Something happened." Wang Shanghong's voice hoarse, "The Rothschild family has made a move. They've joined forces with several major European banks and are frantically Short Selling the Hong Kong dollar. Yesterday alone, the Hang Seng Index dropped three hundred points."

Lu Qingshan, using the reading light inside the car, flipped through the document.

The document was filled with densely packed data, shocking to behold. Rumors ran rampant, Western media reporting that Huaxia was deeply mired in the quagmires of Africa and South Vietnam, with severe fiscal deficits, on the verge of collapse.

"Jonathan this brat is taking revenge." Lu Qingshan closed the document, gave a cold laugh, "The arms business in the Middle East has been kicked out, and he didn't get a bite of the Angola meat either—this is a desperate last stand."

"The situation is grave." Chen Lao spoke, his voice still steady but his brows furrowed tightly, "Foreign exchange reserves were already tight; if the Hong Kong dollar collapses, our financing channels there will be cut off. This is not just an economic ledger, but a political one as well."

"How many chips do they have?" Lu Qingshan asked.

"About five billion pounds." Wang Shanghong wiped his sweat, "They're trying to destroy us completely."

Lu Qingshan leaned against the chair back, his fingers lightly tapping his knees.

"Five billion... quite an appetite."

The car interior fell into silence.

After a long while, Lu Qingshan opened his eyes, a flash of ruthlessness crossing his gaze.

"Chen Lao, don't panic. They want to play a financial war, then I'll accompany them in a big game. Since it's gambling, let's see whose hand holds the stronger cards."

The car stopped at the entrance of Fuqiang Hutong.

Lu Qingshan got out of the car, the killing aura on him retracting cleanly.

He pushed open the courtyard gate; warm yellow light spilled from the main hall. Lin Yue'e sat under the light knitting a sweater, the needles and thread flying in her hands.

Hearing the movement, her hand trembled and the needle fell to the ground.

"Welcome back?" She stood up, her eye sockets a little red, yet she smiled without letting tears fall.

"Dad!"

Lu Xiaoxue shot out like a small cannonball, lunging headfirst into Lu Qingshan's embrace.

Lu Qingshan scooped up his daughter in one arm, planting a kiss on her chubby little face; his stubble tickled the girl, making her giggle nonstop.

"Dad, where's the elephant? And the giraffe?"

"The elephant is too big to fit in the Aircraft." Lu Qingshan laughed, pulling from his pocket that piece called the "Oriental Star," "But Dad brought you a marble to play with."

That priceless giant diamond was simply shoved into the four-year-old's hand. Lu Xiaoxue held it up to the light, pursed her lips, and said, "It's not as nice as a glass ball."

Lin Yue'e walked over, took Lu Qingshan's coat. She didn't ask about Africa or business, just lightly patted his shoulder—a silent comfort.

Dinner was simple: millet porridge, salted duck egg, and Lu Qingshan's favorite scallion‑filled pork pancake.

Lu Qingshan ate with relish, as if nothing were wrong. But Lin Yue'e knew him too well; the faint killing intent in his brow could fool others, but not his pillow‑mate.

After finishing the meal, they coaxed the daughter to sleep.

Lin Yue'e embraced Lu Qingshan from behind as he smoked on the balcony, her face pressed against his broad back.

"Is there trouble again?"

Lu Qingshan stubbed out the cigarette, turned and pulled his wife into his embrace: 'Just a minor business friction. Tomorrow I have to go to Hong Kong Island.'

"So urgent?"

"Someone wants to tear off our roof; I have to go take away the ladder."

Lin Yue'e didn't ask further, merely tightening her arms: 'No matter how big the storms outside, this lamp at home will always shine for you.'

Late night, the study.

Lu Qingshan dialed the encrypted phone linking London and New York.

On the other end were Li Zhi'an and Ye Ning, obviously also sleepless through the night.

"Boss, Jonathan has gone crazy this time, smashing the market without regard for cost." Li Zhi'an's voice sounded fatigued, "The Liquid Capital on our books can't be mobilized in time; we're about to buckle."

"Who said we have to fight them with money?" Lu Qingshan's voice was especially cold in the night.

"Then what should we use?"

"Use things."

Lu Qingshan gazed out at the pitch‑black night sky, as if he could see the stormy waves about to surge in Victoria Harbour.

"Gather all the mineral contracts we signed in Angola, the Saudi oil‑for‑arms agreement, and the domestic rare‑earth reserves certificates from these past years, and get them ready."

"This afternoon tomorrow, I will hold a press conference at the Hong Kong Island Peninsula Hotel. Its name will be—'Xinghan Group Global Strategic Resources Auction'."

On the other end, after two seconds of silence, Ye Ning's excited, trembling voice came through: 'Boss, are you… redefining currency?'

"They said we have no money? Then I'll let them see what hard currency is." Lu Qingshan curled the corner of his mouth with a cold arc, "I'll use gold, oil, and diamonds to smash their empty positions to pieces. Tell Jonathan, I've prepared the coffin lid for him—let him lie in it itself."