Chapter 496: The Empire's Massive Bleeding

In the palace in Riyadh, the air conditioning was set as cold as a freezer.

Saleman had just changed into a white robe edged with gold, a secure phone clenched in his hand. Though he was already the Crown Prince, issuing this order would be like throwing solid gold and silver into water.

"Your Highness, you really want to go full open?" the Oil Minister beside him trembled, "Oil prices are already at a dangerous level; if we open all the reserve wells, we'll lose billions of US dollars each day."

Saleman recalled Lu Qingshan's words from that night and felt the Xinghan Group security agreement and arms list in his pocket.

"Open."

Saleman tossed the phone onto the desk, his voice low but uncompromising, "Turn every valve all the way shut. I want oil cheaper than water."

The next morning, London Oil Exchange.

Traders, coffee in hand as they entered, were stunned by the red line on the big screen. The line wasn't falling; it was leaping off a building.

A torrent of Saudi light crude flooded the market as if it cost nothing. Supply‑demand balance shattered instantly, and Brent crude, which had been clinging to $18, was ripped as if its spine had been pulled.

$15.

$12.

$10.

The hall descended into chaos like a pot of porridge, phone rings filling the air, all snarls and curses. Yet before the midday break, that bright red number finally settled at $8.

$8 per barrel.

That meant that right now, on the permafrost of Soviet Siberia, each barrel pumped up was already a $4 loss before it could even be shipped out.

Moscow, Kremlin Palace.

The Finance Ministry Minister's office door was burst open. The secretary rushed in, frantic, holding the latest market sheet: "Comrade Minister! It's over! Completely over!"

The aged Finance Minister Pavlov took the paper, his cloudy eyes fixed on the "8", a guttural "gurgle" escaping his throat, hand over his chest, he fell straight down.

Ambulance sirens rang across Red Square.

But that couldn't save the Soviet Union.

The red giant sustained by oil had its main artery cut open. Blood poured like a river.

The ruble collapsed for three consecutive days. Money that bought a pound of beef in the morning couldn't even buy an oxtail by afternoon. State‑run store shelves were so empty mice could run across them; on Moscow's streets, old women in tattered coats queued for kilometers in the snow for a single piece of sawdust‑mixed black bread.

And at Lubyanka Square, life for the KGB headquarters grew even harsher.

Ivanov, wrapped in a military coat, shivered in his office. The heating was cut off. Because there was no money to pay, the heating plant strangled the line that had once been the most feared.

"Where's the funding?" Ivanov pounded the table, roaring at the finance chief, "My Far East task force is still waiting for money to buy bullets!"

"General, let's not even talk about bullets," the chief said, grim, spreading his hands, "The canteen in our building was shut down yesterday. The funding from above has been cut, and the power bureau just called, saying if we don't pay the electricity bill, they'll pull the lights from us too."

Ivanov, furious, smashed the precious enamel cup onto the floor.

No money.

Those two words were more effective than America's nuclear bomb. The once‑ubiquitous KGB now can't even pay its electricity bill, reduced to a tooth‑pulled dog.

Meanwhile, on the Sino‑Soviet border at Manzhouli.

Dozens of freight trains bearing the Xinghan Group logo hissed white steam as they slowly pulled into the platform.

When the carriage doors opened, it wasn't high‑tech gear at all—just Erguotou, canned luncheon meat, thick down jackets, and mountains of dried noodles.

The strong‑liquor scent drifted on the wind, making the soldiers at the Soviet outpost across the way salivate until their spit froze into icicles.

"Chief Lu said we're here for 'humanitarian aid.'"

Lin Yueqiang, wearing a leather jacket, stood on the platform with a few Russian‑speaking salesmen behind him, "Tell the Dawari over there we don't accept rubles; that money is now too hard even to wipe a butt with. We only want iron lumps."

The deal was that easy.

It required hardly any negotiation. The Soviet commanders opposite, starving to the point of seeing stars, turned green‑eyed at the trucks of supplies.

All talk of discipline and secrecy orders was nonsense in front of a bellyful.

That night, a Soviet military truck slipped quietly to the exchange point.

A few Soviet majors, like thieves, ordered soldiers to unload several huge wooden crates from the truck.

"This is the latest MiG‑27 fire‑control radar," the major said, rubbing his hands, smiling broadly, pointing at the cans, "Is this enough in exchange?"

"Enough," Lin Yueqiang waved, having the cans moved over, "If we can get a Su‑27 engine, I'll add two truckloads of Erguotou."

"Deal!" the major agreed faster than anyone, "Just give us the liquor; even without the engine, I can fly an Aircraft over for you!"

Capital City, Xinghan Building.

Lu Qingshan sat behind a spacious desk, a freshly returned list in his hand.

It was densely packed with hundreds of items: aircraft engines, nuclear submarine anechoic tile formulas, heavy gas turbine blueprints, and even a complete set of wind‑tunnel design data.

And the price paid was merely the light industrial goods stockpiled at home.

"These spendthrifts," Lu Qingshan flicked ash, a cold smile at the corner of his mouth, "Still, it's fine; better to use them as a stepping stone than let them rot in a warehouse."

"Brother‑in‑law, there's movement in Moscow."

Lin Yueqiang pushed the door open, looking oddly, "Ivanov's gotten hot‑headed. Our inside line says the old man plans a big job, taking travel expenses to make a run."

"Oh? What else can he sell?"

"This time it's not scrap iron," Lin Yueqiang placed a photo on the desk, "These are the guidance crystals for a 'Baiyang‑M' missile, still in the lab stage. He's contacted extremist groups in the Middle East to trade at the border. If this leaks, it'll be a huge trouble."

Lu Qingshan picked up the photo and examined it.

It's a valuable item. If the Americans learn this has fallen into terrorists' hands, the fun will be enormous.

"He's courting death," Lu Qingshan tossed the photo back onto the desk, "We originally wanted to keep him in Moscow as an informant; since he wants to play with fire, we'll see him off."

"Do we act?" Lin Yueqiang asked.

"No," Lu Qingshan shook his head, picking up the desk phone, "Our hands are for counting money, not digging shit. Let the professionals handle this dirty work."

He dialed a number. It was the CIA Hong Kong Island office's secret line.

"This is Lu Qingshan."

The other end of the line clearly paused, then a rapid rustling of papers sounded. "Mr. Lu? Any instructions?"

"I'm giving you a big gift." Lu Qingshan said flatly, "Ivanov, your old friend. He has a batch of missile crystal chips, ready to sell to a group that wants to bomb the White House. The deal is at an abandoned train station on the Ukrainian border, tomorrow night at eight."

The line on the other end was silent for two seconds, then an uncontainable excitement came through: "Is the information reliable?"

"Believe it or not." Lu Qingshan smiled, "But if that batch of chips really… detonates, don't blame me for not warning you."

He hung up, Lu Qingshan stood up and walked to the massive World Map.

Kyiv, the cold wind biting.

Ivanov carried a black suitcase, huddled in a corner of that abandoned train station on the Ukrainian border. Inside the case were his last chips, also his wealth for the second half of his life.

As long as he hands over this thing and gets that box of dollars, he can fly to South America and live under a false name. In this broken country, whoever wants to stay can stay.

The sound of a car engine came from afar.

The contact arrived.

Ivanov stood up, just about to step forward, when suddenly countless blinding flashes lit up the surrounding ruins.

"Don't move! CIA!"

"Put down your weapons! This is the Soviet Internal Affairs!"

Two squads of troops surged out almost simultaneously. The Americans were after the chips, the Soviet Internal Affairs were after the traitor.

Ivanov froze in place, staring at those dark gun barrels, his mind a blank.

He was sold.

And he was sold cleanly.

Capital City, top floor of the Star River Building.

Lu Qingshan held a red marker in his hand and heavily drew a cross on the red section of the map that represents the Soviet Union.

"It's over."

He looked at the bustling Capital City night view outside the window and said softly, "An era has ended. Ivanov, your country is about to disappear; where can you still… run to?"

The phone on the desk rang again.

It was Chen Lao calling.

"Lu Qingshan," Chen Lao's voice sounded especially hearty, "just now Xiao Zhang from the Equipment Department called me, saying the first batch of Su‑27 engines has already been moved into the underground warehouse of Project 101. Good kid, that's doing business, that's bringing a golden mountain back to our country!"

"Chen Lao, this is only a beginning," Lu Qingshan said, looking at the piece of land on the map that was about to crumble, his gaze deep, "Next, we should go receive the inheritance of that massive empire. Those scientists, those engineers, are the truly priceless treasures."

"I've already had people prepare a dedicated train," Lu Qingshan paused, "We not only need to buy things, but also seize people. I will bring the Soviet Union's decades of intellect over here to us."