Chapter 503: Fog City Siege and the Eastern

London's rain always carries a musty smell, just like the financial atmosphere of this city right now.

At Financial City, No. 81 William King Street, the Xinghan Group branch's louvered windows were drawn tight. Li Zhi'an stared at the street below, where several black sedans blocked the gate so tightly that nothing could pass; the cars had no sirens, but the trench‑coat men smoking in the rain were clearly MI5 plainclothes.

"Boss, the route is completely blocked," Li Zhi'an said, gripping the encrypted phone, his voice tight as if a rooster's throat were being strangled. "Just now Scotland Yard sent a subpoena, saying we're suspected of helping the KGB launder money and that all accounts will undergo a 'security review.' HSBC couldn't bear the pressure either and froze our three main settlement accounts."

Several newspapers on the table were spread open; the front page of The Times had a headline so black it hurt the eyes: "Black Gold from the East: Unveiling Xinghan Group's Red Transaction Chain."

Thousands of kilometers away in the Capital City, within the study of Fuqiang Hutong.

Lu Qingshan twirled two ornamental walnuts in his hand, clack clack. Outside the window there was no rain, only lingering snow that hadn't fully melted.

"How much is frozen?" Lu Qingshan asked.

"One billion pounds of liquid reserves; our main account hasn't been exposed. However, the account now has less than sixty million left, and if we don't top up the margin, the exchange will liquidate immediately," Li Zhi'an wiped cold sweat from his forehead. "Also, Reuters has been leaking that our funding chain is broken, and now the streets are selling off the stocks we hold."

"Let them sell," Lu Qingshan placed the walnuts on the table. "Jonathan is trying to scare me to death before the opening. Unfortunately for him, he's got the wrong person."

Meanwhile, in London's West End, the Rothschild family's manor was brightly lit.

Under a massive crystal chandelier, the champagne tower rose higher than a person. Jonathan Rothschild, dressed in a finely tailored handmade suit, swirled a glass in his hand, his smile impossible to conceal.

The hall was packed. Besides representatives of the so‑called old‑money families from Europe, there were many Asian faces: executives from Japan's Mitsui and Sumitomo groups, representatives from Korea's Daewoo and Samsung, each holding a glass, like sharks drawn by the scent of blood.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Jonathan tapped his glass, the crisp sound rising above the band, "that arrogant Eastern man will be shattered in London today. We've assembled a 150‑billion‑pound fund, we can add leverage, and with the Federal Reserve's upcoming rate‑hike announcement, this becomes an iron curtain."

"Mr. Jonathan, that Lu Qingshan's share in the Southeast Asian ports…" a Mitsui executive said greedily, rubbing his hands, "We want twenty percent."

"If he gets liquidated, it's unclaimed meat; whoever grabs it gets it," Jonathan said arrogantly, lifting his chin. "But don't forget, leave his new mines in Angola for me."

At this moment, New York.

Ye Ning's phone rang, her tone urgent: "Boss, the Wall Street kids have made a move. The Federal Reserve let slip ten minutes ago that it will raise the federal funds rate. Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley teamed up to cut off our repo channel. They're trying to drive us to death."

Blocked at both ends, sandwiched in the middle. This is a kill‑move.

Lu Qingshan hung up and looked at Lin Yueqiang, who had been standing beside him.

"Open the case."

Lin Yueqiang placed the black briefcase brought back from Leningrad on the table; "Click" twice, and the latch sprang open.

Inside was not money but a thick stack of documents, stamped with the Soviet Treasury's top‑secret seal and a series of numbers representing hundreds of tons of gold reserves.

It was the Soviet Union's last assets, traded at low price to Xinghan Group in exchange for food and coal. This batch of gold never passed through the London bullion exchange's official accounts; instead it lay quietly in several anonymous vaults in Zurich, Switzerland, via underground Black Market channels.

"Contact Liang Zhiwei," Lu Qingshan took a cigarette from the pen holder, "and have him immediately reach out to Switzerland, find the senior executives of the UBS Group. Use this gold for an off‑exchange pledge. I need cash, now, immediately."

Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

"Boss, it's done," Liang Zhiwei's voice trembled with excitement. "The old Jewish guys at UBS saw the quality of this lot and their eyes went green. Forty‑billion dollars, in the account within twenty minutes. This is our 'Golden Shield.'"

"Good." Lu Qingshan lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, "Tell Li Zhi'an the money's arrived. Don't rush to counterattack."

"Then what do we do?"

"Add to the position," Lu Qingshan exhaled a smoke ring, his gaze chilling. "Continue shorting. We need to look like we're betting wildly, desperate to turn things around. Smash in batches, not all at once. I want Jonathan to think I'm struggling to the death."

London, the opening bell rang.

The numbers on the electronic screen began to jump wildly. The pound exchange rate surged like a wild horse, propelled straight upward by massive capital.

1.52, 1.53, 1.55…

Each tick made Li Zhi'an's heart spasm. Yet he strictly followed Lu Qingshan's orders, and whenever the rate spiked, he placed a short order.

To the experts, this maneuver was nothing short of suicide.

"He's courting death!" Jonathan said, eyes watery with laughter as he stared at the screen. "He's diverting his last life‑saving cash to top up his position! They're about to liquidate! Keep pushing! Push him to the breaking point!"

Capital flooded in like a torrent. The pound rate was forced up by 300 basis points.

At that moment, several obscure tabloids and underground radio stations suddenly began broadcasting an "unverified" report.

"Reportedly, the Argentine Navy has just received a batch of new French 'Flying Fish' missiles from unknown sources and sank a British supply ship in the waters around Ma Island…"

The news spread quickly. Although the BBC was still broadcasting the grandeur of the British Empire, the atmosphere in the Trading Hall grew eerie. Traders whispered to each other; those who had been buying wildly began to hesitate.

"Rumor! It's a rumor!" Jonathan roared into the phone, "Have the media debunk it! It's Lu Qingshan's smoke bomb!"

But the market works that way: the more you debunk, the more panic spreads.

While the longs and shorts remained deadlocked, a mysterious pool of capital suddenly entered.

The money came from the Middle East, massive and aggressive. It poured in buying pounds in bulk, pushing the rate straight to a high of 1.58.

"Ha ha! Looks like even the Arabs are helping me!" Jonathan exclaimed, eyes on the bullish candle, gloating. He didn't know that the money was brought in by Saleman, the Crown Prince, who, after hearing Lu Qingshan's suggestion, deliberately came to "lift the sedan."

The higher it's lifted, the harsher the fall.

Suddenly, the Xinghan branch building in London was plunged into darkness.

All computer screens went dark instantly, and the phones fell silent.

"Power's out!" Li Zhi'an shouted, "Dammit! They've cut the municipal power!"

It's the lowest‑grade tactic, yet the most effective physical attack. In this split‑second race, a blackout means no trading, meaning you can only watch your position explode.

"Don't panic!"

Qian Weiguo rushed into the server room with a few security brothers, wrench in hand. "Start the backup generator! Cut the satellite link!"

In the basement, two massive military diesel generators roared, belching black smoke. After just thirty seconds, the building's lights came back on and the satellite receiver locked onto the signal.

When the screen lit up again, Li Zhi'an saw a terrifying figure.

The pound rate had reached 1.60.

It's a historic high. It's also the tombstone Jonathan dug for Lu Qingshan.

Jonathan raised his glass in the manor, bragging to his father Jacob on the phone, "Father, it's over. That Eastern man is dead now; tonight I can harvest his corpse."

On the other end, old Jacob remained silent for a long while.

That silence made Jonathan uneasy.

"Father?"

"Jonathan, you're too noisy," Jacob's voice was hoarse and aged, "Listen to what's outside."

Jonathan was stunned for a moment, looking toward the window.

There was no sound.

No, something's off.

The trading volume on the screen suddenly began to shrink. Those frantic buy orders, as if they had vanished in an instant. The market, which had been extraordinarily lively just moments ago, was now as quiet as a graveyard.

This silence is more frightening than noise.

It is the last dead calm on the sea before the storm arrives.

In Fuqiang Hutong, Lu Qingshan stubbed out the cigarette butt.

"Almost done." He spoke softly into the phone, "The Japanese cargo ships in Angola, General Manuro should have detained them by now? Let Safe Transport issue a statement, saying they seized a large amount of contraband."

"Also, tell Saleman the shipment can go out. Don't get yourself implicated."

Lu Qingshan stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the dead old locust tree outside.

"Li Zhi'an."

"Here!"

"Gather all funds from New York and Hong Kong Island, dump all our short positions. No retreat, no regard for cost."

Lu Qingshan's voice echoed in the night, carrying a bloody scent.

"Send the Rothschild family on their way."