Chapter 502: The Red Empire

The basement in Leningrad was no warmer than that hunter's cabin.

A thirty‑page thick document lay on the rough wooden table; the paper was yellowed, yet the handwriting pressed through the sheets. There were no ornate patterns, no national emblem, only the most straightforward terms of profit exchange.

Lu Qingshan twisted open his fountain pen, the ink a special anti‑freeze formula, scratching a rustling sound across the paper.

Bao Lisi·Ye Liqin stood nearby, still clutching the bottle, his eyes fixed on Lu Qingshan's pen hand. When the final stroke was signed, the polar bear let out a coarse breath, the scent of alcohol mingling with sweat.

"'The Slavic Dawn.'" Ye Liqin muttered the agreement's title, grinning, "It sounds like a clumsy poem title, but I like the content."

Pu Ding stood in the shadows, reached out and took the document. He moved swiftly, stuffing the agreement—enough to drive the Western world mad—into his close‑fitting briefcase, then handed Lu Qingshan an unremarkable slip of paper.

It was an anonymous account at the Swiss Bank.

"First tranche: three billion US Dollars, to be credited within twenty‑four hours." Lu Qingshan put away his pen, his tone flat, "The rest will come via offshore companies in the Caribbean, in batches labeled 'humanitarian aid' and 'cultural exchange fund.'"

In exchange, the future New Federation would fully loosen its grip on the Far East issue. No longer would it fuss over the prairie neighbor sandwiched in the middle seeking autonomy; the Tumen River's mouth would open to Huaxia, and an oil‑and‑gas pipeline from Siberia straight to Daqing would be built simultaneously, fixing oil and gas prices at an outrageously low level—eight dollars per barrel—for a thirty‑year term.

This is selling ancestral property.

But to Ye Liqin, it's buying life‑saving money.

In the corner, Henry Shason curled up on a stool, eyes eagerly fixed on Lu Qingshan.

"Mr. Lu…"

Lu Qingshan turned, pulled an envelope from his coat, and tossed it into Henry's lap.

"You're free: an Air Ticket to the Bahamas, a new passport, and a card loaded with five million US Dollars." Lu Qingshan looked at the once‑arrogant London aristocrat, "The sun's fine there, the sand's soft. Buy a house on a small island, hire two nannies, never return to London, and never let anyone know your surname is Shason."

Henry trembled as he picked up the envelope, his face smeared with tears and snot. It was indeed a rich man's fate, but for someone who had tasted power and money, being utterly forgotten in a corner of the world felt like a dull knife cutting flesh—worse than death—but at least he was still alive, and that was the best outcome.

"Get lost." Lu Qingshan waved his hand.

Lin Yueqiang walked over and, as if carrying a chick, lifted Henry out.

Lu Qingshan emerged from the basement; the sky outside was just dawning. The air in Leningrad carried a whiff of coal smoke. He glanced back at the silent giant city, knowing in his heart that the countdown had already begun.

…….

The magnolias in the Capital City blossomed.

When the special aircraft returning from the Sino‑Soviet border touched down at noon, Lu Qingshan didn't go home; he boarded the red‑flag car bearing a special license plate and headed straight for the interior of the Red Wall.

In Old Chen's study, the window was half‑open, letting in a hint of spring.

The old man looked in good spirits today, wearing his reading glasses while perusing a newspaper. Seeing Lu Qingshan enter, he set the paper down and gestured toward the rattan chair opposite.

"Back already? I heard you had raw bear meat up north." Old Chen asked with a smile, his tone easy, but his eyes flicked to the briefcase in Lu Qingshan's hand.

"The meat was too gamey; home‑cooked braised pork is fragrant."

Lu Qingshan didn't bother with pleasantries; he dumped the agreement copy and the data Pu Ding gave about the unfinished aircraft carrier onto the table in one go.

Old Chen's hand paused mid‑air.

He lifted the agreement and turned the pages slowly. The study was so quiet that only the rustle of paper and the ticking of the old wall clock could be heard.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes.

When he saw the clauses "Tumen River mouth opening" and "Thirty‑year oil supply lock‑in", Old Chen's hand jolted, and his reading glasses nearly slipped off.

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, inhaled deeply, as if to expel the foul air from his chest.

"Qing Shan…" Old Chen's voice was a bit hoarse, "Do you know what these sheets mean?"

"I know." Lu Qingshan refilled Old Chen's tea cup, "It means our northern back is now reliable, our industrial machines will no longer lack lifeblood, the people's lives become steadier, and ships from Jilin and Heilongjiang can sail straight into the Pacific Ocean."

"It's the fate of the nation. In a hundred years, we've taken countless losses and endured countless shocks along that line. Your deal has bought us a century of stability."

Secretary Xiao Li slipped in quietly, intending to report, but Old Chen waved her away.

"Go, bring me that bottle of wine from my cabinet."

Xiao Li froze, "Chief, the doctor said you can't…"

"Bring it!" Old Chen's eyes narrowed, "Today the Heavenly King is here, I must drink this wine. Use a big bowl!"

The liquor was thirty‑year‑old Moutai, its sauce‑like aroma rich, poured into a coarse porcelain bowl that glowed a pale yellow.

Old Chen lifted the bowl; his hand still trembled, but he held it steadily.

"Qing Shan, this bowl is my toast to you on behalf of the Republic's old comrades and seniors."

"Old Chen, you've flattered me to death. I'm just a trader, it was a convenient move."

"Convenient?" Old Chen laughed, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, "Is there ever such a big convenience in this world? Drink!"

The two drank in one gulp.

Just as they set the bowls down, Minister Zhang Jianshen of the Ministry of Foreign Trade burst in.

"Old Chen! I heard the agreement has been brought back?" Zhang Jianshen, ignoring protocol, grabbed the files and read, patting his thigh, "Great! Excellent! With the Tumen River mouth open, our northeast chessboard comes alive! And the oil‑gas pipeline, the price… this is outright robbery!"

He turned to Lu Qingshan, his gaze eager as if staring at the God of Wealth, "Qing Shan, you've essentially dug a gold mountain for our country! In the Ministry of Foreign Trade, rest assured, we'll give people what they need, give railcars what they need. We must act quickly while the other side is in chaos, drive the stakes home!"

Lu Qingshan smiled, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and let a ring of smoke drift.

"Uncle Zhang, this is only the first step." Lu Qingshan lit the cigarette, "Next, we'll launch a major move in the northeast. Expand the heavy‑industry base to process the raw materials coming from the Soviet Union. Also, someone has to manage the food."

"Manage the food?" Zhang Jianshen was startled.

"In the Soviet Union, aside from tanks, the biggest shortage is food," Lu Qingshan exhaled a smoke ring, "I want to set this in motion. My third brother, Lu Qinghe, is doing well with agriculture in Zhengding; I'd like to shift his post to the Policy and Reform Department of the Ministry of Agriculture."

Old Chen and Zhang Jianshen exchanged a glance. This wasn't a request for a post; it was a strategic layout.

"I have an impression of that Qinghe kid—steady, understands the grassroots," Old Chen nodded, "I'll make the introductions. But Qing Shan, you're sending him to the Ministry of Agriculture just to sell grain?"

"Not just selling." Lu Qingshan flicked ash, "The future New China Agreement will have a bottomless food deficit. We must bind their stomachs with grain. I propose that once Qinghe assumes office, he immediately establishes a National Hybrid Rice Research Institute; I've already earmarked a director for him—a researcher named Yuan from Hunan. Give him any budget he asks for. Hybrid rice yields dramatically more; later it'll be more useful than a nuclear bomb."

Old Chen thought for a moment, then nodded, "You've studied grain too? The people regard food as heaven; you're trying to choke their rice bowls. That's ruthless, but I like it."

Leaving the Red Wall, the sky had already darkened.

Lu Qingshan sat in the car, watching the bustling Chang'an Avenue. Streetlights lit up, the flow of bicycles surged like a tide. The commuters leaving work didn't know that just now, the sky above their heads had become wider.

Back in Fuqiang Hutong, the house was scented with rice.

Lin Yue'e sat on the sofa watching the news broadcast; the TV showed footage of Soviet demonstrations across the country, chaotic crowds, and burning street barricades.

Seeing Lu Qingshan enter, she hurriedly stood up and helped him take off his coat.

"Back already? Smelling of alcohol," Lin Yue'e chided, then handed him a hot towel.

"I had a couple drinks with Old Chen," Lu Qingshan wiped his face, the warm breath feeling pleasant, "Where's Xiao Xue?"

"Got tired of playing, just fell asleep," Lin Yue'e looked at her husband's slightly weary face, hesitated, "Qing Shan, the TV says it's chaotic over there, they're even at war. Could you… not go?"

She was truly scared. Life was better now, the money seemed endless for generations, and she didn't want her husband to go into that furnace again.

Lu Qingshan embraced his wife from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of shampoo in her hair.

"Don't worry, the most dangerous time has passed," Lu Qingshan said softly, "That giant will fall soon. Once he falls and the dust settles, we'll go to Dali. I heard Erhai Lake there is beautiful; we'll buy a big courtyard and bask in the sun every day."

Lin Yue'e turned, buried her head in his arms, "You keep your word."

"Keep my word."

At that moment, the black satellite phone on the coffee table suddenly vibrated.

The vibration sounded especially harsh in the quiet living room.

Lu Qingshan released his wife, picked up the phone. The incoming call showed +44, London.

Connected.

Li Zhi'an's voice came through the handset, bearing an urgency and gravity she had never heard before.

"Boss, something's happened."

"Take your time," Lu Qingshan said, his eyes instantly turning cold.

"Jonathan Rothschild has made a move," Li Zhi'an said at a breakneck pace, "That kid somehow sniffed the scent of our Liquid Capital movements in the Soviet Union, he's allied with several old European families and is gathering funds. They're spreading rumors that Xinghan Group is laundering money, preparing to besiege us in London Financial City. And moreover…"

"And what?"

"And he's Long Buying massive amounts of pounds, trying to muddy the waters, forcing us to show our hand amid the chaos."

Lu Qingshan, phone in hand, walked to the window.

Outside, the night was deep, the shadow of an old pagoda tree stretched on the ground like snarling, clawed monsters.

Rothschild. Those Old Money families still can't stay seated. Jonathan thought Lu Qingshan had tightened the capital chain in the Soviet Union and wanted to strike while the fire burned, pulling the rug out from under him in the financial market.

"Long Buying pounds?" Lu Qingshan curled a cold smile at the corner of his mouth, his fingers lightly tapping the windowsill.

Jonathan's move seemed fierce, yet it landed straight on Lu Qingshan's muzzle. He remembered clearly that the old crocodile Soros was also eyeing that piece of fat.

"Since you both want to flip the table, don't blame me for tearing down the house."

"It's time for the decisive battle."

"Li Zhi'an."

"Here!"

"Notify Ye Ning, gather all our Liquid Capital in New York. Also, contact Hong Kong, have Liang Zhiwei open the vault."

Lu Qingshan brushed his pocket, feeling the business card Putin had given him, his voice low and rumbling like thunder before a storm.

"Jonathan wants to sit at the table for dinner? Too bad, I'm the one dealing the cards this time."

"Boss, what are we going to do?"

"He is ruthless, I am unjust," Lu Qingshan said, looking at the crescent moon outside, "Since he wants to wage a currency war, we'll give him a financial nuclear bomb. Target: the pound, full‑position Short Selling. I'll make the Rothschild family's assets in the British Isles shrink by half overnight."

He hung up, turned back to his worried wife, the gloom on his face instantly lifting, replaced by a gentle smile.

"It's fine, a few jumping‑beam clowns want to dodge the bill," Lu Qingshan walked over, took his wife's hand, "Come on, let's eat. What's for dinner tonight?"

"Zhajiang noodles, with extra shredded cucumber."

"Alright, that's all I need."

Night deepened, Fuqiang Hutong was silent.

But thousands of kilometers away, in London Financial City, an invisible storm of blood and gore was rolling in with the tide of the Thames River.