Chapter 501: Blood‑Stained Bear Meat in Leningrad and the Bargaining

The air inside the house was so hot it crackled, the pine in the fireplace crackled and popped, sparks flew up now and then, landing on the edge of the bear‑skin carpet.

This is no place for business; it's practically a bandit's den.

The long table was just two thick pine boards that hadn't been planed, and aside from a few hunting knives stuck into the wood, it held a huge platter of steaming roast meat. The meat was dark, its sliced surface oozing blood, exuding a strong fishy smell.

Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin sat in the head seat, two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing a thick white‑yellow coat of chest hair. He showed no pleading posture; instead, he stared at Lu Qingshan with the predatory gaze of a mountain‑lord horse eyeing its prey.

Around the room stood a dozen or so hulking men with loaded rifles. They wore no uniforms, but each held a wood‑grain AK‑74, its barrel angled down while all safeties were engaged.

Lin Yueqiang stood behind Lu Qingshan, his hand already slipped into his leather jacket pocket, thumb resting on the hammer of his gun, his whole body taut as a stone. Huddled in the corner, Henry Shason trembled like a sifter, wishing he could crawl into the floor cracks.

"Sit down." Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin said, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the table and gulping a large mouthful straight from the neck without wiping his lips. "Here we won't bother with Moscow's empty‑headed formalities."

Lu Qingshan pulled out the heavy solid‑wood chair and sat down with a thunderous thud.

"Bring the meat," Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin roared.

A bald chef entered through the side door. He was a slab of flesh, looking less like a cook and more like a freshly released murderer. Carrying a boning knife, he approached Lu Qingshan and skillfully sliced a piece of meat with tendon and blood from the massive bear paw, flicked the tip, and handed it directly under Lu Qingshan's nose.

"Friends from the East," Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin toyed with the bottle, his voice like a cracked gong. "In Russia, only those bold enough to eat raw bear meat are worthy of doing business with me. It's nutritious, just a bit wild—most people can't chew it properly."

Lu Qingshan looked up at the bald chef.

That glance made something stir inside him. This wasn't a cook; this was Pu Li Ge Ren. Decades later, that bald head would lead a mercenary group called Wagner and turn half the world upside down. He never expected that, at this moment, he was actually slicing meat here.

Lu Qingshan said nothing, reaching out to grasp the greasy knife handle.

Pu Li Ge Ren's grip was powerful, the blade tip steady as a pin. He was probing, or rather, giving the Eastern man a warning on behalf of his master.

Lu Qingshan smiled faintly and snapped his wrist with force.

"Ding."

The blade was ripped from Pu Li Ge Ren's hand with a rush of wind. Lu Qingshan shoved the blood‑stained bear meat into his mouth, barely chewing, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed it whole.

Immediately, he grabbed the unopened bottle of vodka on the table, flicked the cap off with his thumb, and tipped his head back, gulping nearly half a bottle as if drinking cold water.

"Clang!"

The bottle slammed onto the table, jolting the platter of bear meat.

Lu Qingshan wiped the wine stain from his lip, thrust the boning knife into the table so the tip sank three inches, still buzzing with vibration.

"The meat's too tough, it sticks in the teeth. The vodka's too weak, no kick," Lu Qingshan said, his gaze colder than the ice outside, "but for bargaining over inheritance, this raw grit is just right."

Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin froze for a moment, then burst into a thunderous laugh.

"Good! Well done!" he slammed his hand on the table. "I love this unrefined, bastard‑like grit! Everyone step back!"

Pu Li Ge Ren sheathed his knife, expressionless, and retreated. The dozen gunmen also fell back to the doorway, leaving only a young man standing in the shadows.

The man said nothing and didn't move. He was short, his hairline receded a bit, and he wore an ill‑fitting grey suit. Yet he stood like an icicle. Lu Qingshan could feel that, from the moment he entered, the man's gaze never left his carotid artery.

It was a kind of instinctual connection between elite hunters.

"Let's get down to business," Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin leaned forward, his wild aura tempered, greed and urgency flashing in his eyes. "I need money. Lots of it. US Dollars, British pounds, even Marks will do. Anything hard currency."

"How much?" Lu Qingshan said, lighting a cigarette.

"Two hundred billion US Dollars," Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin said, holding up two fingers. "Cash. Emergency funds. I'll use this to feed the starving wolves in the army, and to bribe TV stations and newspapers. Moscow's old dogs are rotten; I'll pull them down from their perch. This is just the initial plan, first we need stability."

"Two hundred billion?" Lu Qingshan exhaled a smoke ring. "Bao Li Si, your appetite isn't small. But what will you give in return?"

"The future New Soviet Union, the New Russian Federation!" Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin waved his hand. "When I'm in power, oil, natural gas, arms—whatever you want, I'll issue you the paperwork!"

"A blank check," Lu Qingshan shook his head. "I don't trust futures, I only trust spot. And you know the current situation. The Americans are already on my side and won't deal with you; Europe is preoccupied, the whole West is beyond your reach. No one but me dares to fund you at this critical moment. I want more, but I can give you even more!"

He pulled a folded map from his coat, spread it on the oil‑stained table, and his finger swept past Moscow, landing heavily on the vast lands of the Far East.

"First, establish a new Huayue—a political, military, economic alliance above nation‑states, capable of coordinating two‑thirds of the continent. You must bring all Soviet satellite states into it, with Huaxia leading the organization, giving your new federation ample room. Second, the new federation will abandon any concern for Mongolian autonomy. Third, I want the Far East."

The air in the room froze instantly.

"It's not a lease, it's a deep binding," Lu Qingshan said quietly but clearly. "I want usage rights to the ports of Vladivostok and Nakhodka, logging and mining rights in Siberian forests, and oil‑gas development rights on Sakhalin. Xinghan Group will take 51% of the revenue and have the right to station troops to guard the mines—of course, nominally it can be your security company."

"Bullshit!" Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin sprang to his feet, kicking the chair aside. "You're looting a fire! This is treason! I, Bao Li Si, may love money, but I'll never sell our land to foreigners!"

"Treason?" Lu Qingshan sneered, staying seated. "You're about to dismantle the Soviet Union, yet you worry about a bit of face? Without my money, how will you fight the Kremlin Palace? One phone call and the Ministry of Internal Affairs' Special Forces will storm in, drag you out like a dead dog and execute you. Then you won't even qualify as a traitor. You have no choice!"

Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin gasped heavily, his chest heaving, his bull‑like eyes fixed on Lu Qingshan as if ready to devour him.

At that moment, the silent young man in the corner spoke up.

"Give him."

His voice was low, chillingly flat, without any emotional fluctuation.

Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin whirled his head. "What did you say?"

The one called "Bing Ren"—Pu Ding—stepped out of the shadows. He stared at the map, drawing a line with his finger.

"As long as Russia's core remains intact, we can trade for the Far East's resources," Pu Ding said, lifting his head, his gray‑blue eyes locked on Lu Qingshan. "But we need technology sharing. Also, Xinghan Group must fund a new oil pipeline—directly to Huaxia."

Lu Qingshan looked at the future iron‑fisted emperor and silently praised him.

That's a wise man—knowing when to amputate a limb to survive, and knowing whose body to attach that artery to in order to stay alive.

"Deal," Lu Qingshan began to reach out.

Suddenly, a harsh alarm blared outside the manor, followed by a few muffled explosions; the glass windows shattered instantly, cold wind laced with snowflakes rushing in.

"Get down!" Lin Yueqiang reacted instantly, flipping the heavy long table and pinning Lu Qingshan behind it.

"Tap tap tap—"

A hail of bullets swept in, striking the wood and sending splinters flying.

"Someone's leaking!" Bao Li Si Ye Li Qin shouted, pulling a pistol from his boot. "It's Alpha Squad! Those old dogs have moved!"

Henry Shason had been so terrified he wet himself long ago, clutching his head and shrieking while huddled by the fireplace.

Amid the chaos, the young man called Pu Ding displayed a chilling competence. He didn't scramble for cover; instead he rolled on the spot, one‑handed on his gun, firing repeatedly at silhouettes outside the window.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Each gunshot was met with a scream from outside. His aim was terrifyingly accurate.

"Brother‑in‑law! They have heavy weapons! Our men can't hold them for long!" Lin Yueqiang swapped magazines and shouted back.

Lu Qingshan leaned against the back of the table, brushed the wood chips off his coat, and his face showed not a hint of panic.

"Don't rush," he said, pulling the Satellite Phone from his pocket. "These days, bullets may be fast, but they aren't as fast as dollars."

He dialed a number.

"Hello, this is Lu Qingshan," said the voice on the other end, a powerful deputy minister of the Moscow Ministry of Internal Affairs and Lu Qingshan's well‑paid inside contact. "I'm a guest in the woods of Leningrad, and your people seem not to understand the rules—they've disturbed my meal."

"What?!" The voice on the line clearly jumped. "Mr. Lu, that's a misunderstanding! It's… it's the lower‑level people acting on their own! I'll handle it immediately! Right now!"

In less than two minutes.

The gunfire outside stopped abruptly, followed by a rapid retreat whistle and the roar of car engines starting.

The Special Forces that intended to put Yeltsin to death surged like a tide—swift in arrival and swift in retreat.

The room was a mess.

Yeltsin leaned against the wall, still gripping his gun, and watched Lu Qingshan calmly put away the phone; his gaze changed. The earlier arrogance and frenzy vanished, replaced by a deep wariness.

A single phone call could make Moscow's elite troops withdraw. This Eastern man's reach extended farther than he had imagined.

"Looks like our conversation can continue," Lu Qingshan said, standing up and kicking aside a few shell casings at his feet.

Yeltsin took a deep breath, sheathed his gun back into his boot, strode forward, and extended his oil‑stained, blood‑splattered hand.

"Deal," Yeltsin's voice rumbled. "Lu, you're a terrifying friend. But I'm glad you're a friend."

Lu Qingshan reached out and grasped the large hand, his palm scorching hot.

"Friends are meant to help each other," Lu Qingshan smiled. "The money will be transferred tomorrow through the Swiss Bank into your Secret Account. As for the Far‑East contract, I want your first presidential decree after you take office."

Having said that, he turned to leave.

"Wait a moment."

Putin called out to him.

The young man fished a kraft paper file folder from his chest and handed it over.

"Consider this a personal gift," Putin said, looking at Lu Qingshan, a complex glint flashing in his eyes. "At the Black Sea Shipyard there's a massive vessel still unfinished. It's the Soviet Union navy's final pride. If I don't give it, it'll likely become a heap of scrap metal, or be dismantled and sold to the Americans to make razors."

Lu Qingshan took the folder, pinching it between his fingers.

No need to look; he already knew what it was.

Varyag.

It is the first stepping stone for the future Huaxia navy's venture into the deep blue.

"Thanks," Lu Qingshan said, placing the folder solemnly into his briefcase. "Rest assured, it won't become scrap. It'll get a new name and be reborn on the eastern seas."

Stepping out of the estate, the snow outside had stopped.

Lu Qingshan glanced back at the wooden house billowing black smoke.

"Lin Yueqiang, did you remember the taste of that bear meat just now?"

"Too gamey, not tasty," Lin Yueqiang sneered.

"It's not tasty," Lu Qingshan tightened his coat collar and slipped into the car. "It's gamey and tough, even gets stuck in your teeth. But that's the flavor of power. As long as it fills the belly, even if it's bloody, you have to swallow it."

The convoy set off, rolling over the snow toward the border line.

Thousands of kilometers away on the Black Sea shore, that solitary giant ship lay quietly on the slipway, awaiting its new owner.