Chapter 500: A Distress Call from Malaysia and a New Gamble in the North

The second day of the new year, the Capital City's festive feeling still clung like lingering firecracker smoke, stinging the heart with warmth.

In Fuqiang Hutong, old and young were busy sweeping the leftover firecracker shells into piles. Yet thousands of kilometers away on the northwestern frontier, the invisible "relocation corridor" was busier than the Spring Festival travel rush.

There was no schedule; the tower gave direct orders. Every night after midnight, a few unpainted Il-76s or C-130s, like thieves, pressed low through the clouds and plunged onto a makeshift runway on the Gobi desert. When the cargo doors opened, what was offloaded was not holiday goods but the most vital assets of the Soviet Union just before its dissolution.

The schematics counted equipment by the ton, while experts began tallying by the hundred people.

Lu Qingshan sat in his study, cradling a purple clay teapot, staring blankly at the old locust tree outside the window. Spread on the desk was a massive map of the Soviet Union, densely covered with red circles and arrows. Those arrows were like scalpels, gradually dissecting the colossal entity and hauling it back to his own courtyard.

"Hum—"

The black satellite phone on the desk corner jolted suddenly.

Normally it sits there like a brick; except Saleman and a few core figures, no one knows the number.

Lu Qingshan set the teapot down and glanced at the incoming call display.

+60. Malaysia.

He raised an eyebrow, pressed the answer button, said nothing, and only listened to the sounds on the other end.

The receiver was filled with static, like a fan whirring, mixed with the chirping of insects unique to a tropical rainforest. After several seconds, a man's hoarse, urgent voice, even tinged with sobbing, came through.

"Lu... Mr. Lu? Is that you?"

The voice was familiar, but the tone of humble desperation was completely foreign.

Lu Qingshan took a sip of tea, "Who is this?"

"I am Henry... Henry Shason."

Lu Qingshan smiled.

The once arrogant heir of the Shason Family, who looked down on people from London, now sounded like a drenched chicken just pulled from water.

"Oh, Mr. Henry," Lu Qingshan said evenly, "I heard you're cultivating yourself in a rubber plantation in Malaysia? The mosquitoes there are huge—have you gotten used to them?"

"Mr. Lu, I beg you... save me," Henry's voice trembled, "This place isn't fit for people. That bastard Wilson had me locked in a wooden hut in the woods; we get only moldy bread each day. I've contracted malaria, and they won't even give medicine... I'm the heir of the Shason Family! I can't die in this filthy mud pit!"

"That's a family matter of the Shason household," Lu Qingshan said, reaching for the cigarette case, "Wilson is now my partner; if I pull you out, will we still do business?"

"I have value! I have great value!"

Henry seemed to clutch at a last straw, howling, his voice turning sharp and piercing with excitement, "Lu, I know what you're doing in the Soviet Union! You're emptying that country! But just moving stuff isn't enough; you need to know people—those who truly hold power!"

Lu Qingshan's finger paused on the cigarette case, "Continue."

"Wilson doesn't know... In my early years I ran the family's smuggling line in Eastern Europe; I know a group of people. Back then they were just low‑level local officials, but now... now they are Moscow's 'other side'!"

Henry gasped heavily, as if trying to cough his lungs out, "They are reformists, radicals; they despise the current rigid system, they want to rise, but they lack money! A lot of money!"

Lu Qingshan lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the dim study.

"Name."

"Boris Yeltsin." Henry spat the name as if spitting out a gold brick, "And another... still just a shadow, serving as deputy to Sobchak in Leningrad. Codename 'Ice Man'. He worked for the KGB, his methods as ruthless as a wolf."

Lu Qingshan's fingers holding the cigarette paused briefly.

Putin.

The iron‑fisted figure who would trouble the entire Western world for forty years was still merely the deputy mayor dubbed "Ice Man."

"Mr. Lu, if you get me out, this line is yours," Henry pleaded, "I just need a ticket to Switzerland and one million US dollars. You'll make a huge profit on this deal."

Lu Qingshan was silent for two seconds, then exhaled a ring of smoke into the handset.

"Stay where you are. If you run off and get buried by Wilson's men, don't blame me for not warning you."

He hung up, and without hesitation Lu Qingshan dialed Wilson's direct line in London.

Wilson answered quickly, his voice light with the thrill of a fresh win, "Boss, Happy New Year. I heard your border business has been booming lately?"

"Wilson, I want Henry," Lu Qingshan said bluntly.

The voice on the other end paused, then a cold laugh came, "That waste? Boss, keeping him is a disaster; I was planning to let him 'die of illness' in the rainforest."

"He holds a card; I want to see it," Lu Qingshan flicked ash, "Hand him over to me. In exchange, I'll add a ten‑percent bonus to Xinghan Group's rare‑earth quota in North America for the next quarter."

Wilson fell silent. A ten‑percent rare‑earth quota meant pure profit of tens of millions of dollars.

"Deal," Wilson said, a man of his word, "A toothless old dog for a pile of gold—this business is profitable. Boss, the man is yours."

He set the phone down, walked to the map, and ran his finger from Malaysia across, finally pressing firmly on the point by the Baltic Sea—Leningrad.

The earlier scheme was to loot amid the fire, to act as a looter.

But now, the opportunity has changed.

If one wants to carve the fattest piece from the massive Soviet corpse, trade alone isn't enough; you must become the one who slices the meat.

The door opened, and Lin Yue'e entered, cradling Lu Xiaoxue.

The little girl had just changed into a brand‑new bright‑red cotton coat, its collar trimmed with a ring of white rabbit fur, making her cherubic face look even more delicate.

"Dad! Do I look good?" Lu Xiaoxue twirled, like a little red lantern.

Lu Qingshan's cold hardness melted instantly; he crouched, smoothing his daughter's collar, "You look great; our Xiao Xue is the prettiest."

Lin Yue'e watched her husband, her smile gradually fading. As his bedside companion, she could not be fooled by the sudden aura of menace emanating from Lu Qingshan.

"Going again?" Lin Yue'e asked softly.

"Hmm." Lu Qingshan stood, lifted his daughter and kissed her, "I still have to go north—to a place colder than Harbin."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Doing business always carries risk," Lu Qingshan smiled, his gaze steady, "But this time it's not about fighting; it's about making friends—meeting a few who will someday punch a hole through the sky."

Lin Yue'e asked no further, silently retrieving the thickest fur‑lined coat from the wardrobe, "Leave early, return early, stay safe."

Three days later.

Finland, Helsinki.

A private aircraft touched down on the snow‑covered runway. Lu Qingshan, wrapped in a black coat and wearing sunglasses, was followed by Lin Yueqiang and six elite, military‑trained specialists.

Without lingering, several black SUVs bearing diplomatic plates whisked them away eastward, cutting through the heavily guarded yet riddled‑with‑gaps border line.

Leningrad.

This former city of Peter the Great now lies like a bedridden old man, collapsed on the banks of the Neva River.

Outside the car window, the street is dim, hurried pedestrians are wrapped in tattered coats, their eyes numb. The state‑run shop's display windows are empty, save for a few dust‑covered canned jars. To buy a piece of sawdust‑mixed black bread, a line stretched for hundreds of meters; some shivered and stamped their feet, yet none dared to leave their spot.

"Brother‑in‑law, this place is poorer than our hometown back then," Lin Yueqiang said, looking out the window, clicking his tongue. "At least it's a superpower; how did it end up like this?"

"When the building collapses, the first to be crushed will be these bricks and tiles," Lu Qingshan said, withdrawing his gaze. "We're not here for poverty alleviation; we're here to collect corpses."

The convoy bypassed the city center and stopped beside an abandoned aristocratic pier on the Neva River.

The cold wind swirled snowflakes, striking the face with a sting.

A ragged silhouette huddled behind a shipping container, trembling. When he saw Lu Qingshan alight, the figure lunged forward—it was Henry.

At this moment Henry Shason bore no trace of aristocracy. His hair resembled a chicken coop, his face covered in insect‑bite scars, and he was so thin his skin clung to his bones.

"Mr. Lu! My God!" Henry plunged to his knees in the snow, clutching the hem of Lu Qingshan's coat, trying to kiss the back of his hand. "You're really here! You are my savior!"

Lu Qingshan stepped back half a pace with disdain, and Lin Yueqiang hoisted Henry up as if lifting a chick.

"Enough, stop the act," Lu Qingshan said coldly. "Lead the way. Where's the person you mentioned?"

Henry, trembling, pointed toward the end of the pier.

A black Volga sedan was parked there. A few people stood beside the car, wearing ordinary jackets, yet in the minus‑twenty‑degree air their backs were straight as a pack of wolves ready to pounce.

The leader, short in stature with a high hairline, had gray‑blue eyes devoid of warmth. His left hand was tucked in his pocket, his right arm hanging naturally—a posture honed by long‑term combat training.

The young "Ice Man".

He said nothing, merely gave Lin Yueqiang a cold glance, a look that made Lin's muscles instantly tighten, his hand instinctively reaching for his lower back.

"Mr. Lu," the man said, his English thick with a Russian accent, concise as a telegram. "Get in. The boss is waiting for you."

No small talk, no handshake.

Lu Qingshan nodded and slipped into the Volga.

The convoy left the pier, heading north, cutting into an endless birch forest. This was a private sanatorium area for the Soviet Union's top brass, absent from any map, with only a snow‑cleared asphalt road winding deep into the woods.

The farther they went inward, the stricter the checkpoints became.

Finally, the car stopped before a massive log manor. The house exuded the rugged grandeur of the Tsarist Russian era, its chimney belching thick black smoke.

The gate stood wide open.

A strong aroma of roasted meat mixed with vodka hit the face like a punch.

Lu Qingshan stepped out, his leather shoes crunching on the deep snow, producing a "creak‑creak" sound.

A man stood on the steps.

He was as massive as a bear, his head a mess of silver hair, his face flushed red from drinking. He wore no coat, only a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms covered in black hair.

The most startling thing was what he held in his hand.

It was a freshly cut bear paw.

Blood still dripped, staining the white snow beneath his feet.

The man saw Lu Qingshan, grinned, showing teeth yellowed by smoke. He lifted the blood‑soaked bear paw as if raising a goblet, his voice booming enough to shake the snow from the trees.

"Friends from the East! Welcome to the hell's kitchen!"

Boris Yeltsin.

This would‑be grave‑digger of the Soviet, at this moment extending an invitation to Lu Qingshan in a barbaric, fanatical manner.

Lu Qingshan stood at the foot of the steps, looked at the bear paw, and smiled.

He straightened his collar and strode upward.

"Hell is good." Lu Qingshan reached out, grasped the large hand that wasn't holding the bear paw, his palm scorching hot, "The meat in hell is the most fragrant."