Chapter 504: The Iron Lady

London's rainy night was colder than usual, carrying a damp, musty smell.

At three a. m., an old teletype at Reuters headquarters went berserk, jerking wildly. A night‑shift editor rubbed his sleepy eyes, tore off a still‑warm printout, and after a single glance his drowsiness was instantly washed away by cold sweat.

The headline had no fancy embellishment, just a bold, black line: 【Breaking: Royal Navy task force ambushed in the South Atlantic, a British supply ship hit by shells and set ablaze, casualties unknown.】

The intel was that detailed—down to the missile model, impact point, even the captain's order to abandon ship timed to the second. It was a battle report from the Argentine military intercepted by Lu Qingshan through special channels, a full two hours ahead of the British Ministry of Defense's internal bulletin.

The news spread like a winged plague, slithering along phone lines into every financial shark's bedroom in London.

At eight a. m., the London Stock Exchange opened.

There was no probing, no tug‑of‑war. The market opened with a gap down. The British pound/US Dollar exchange rate line, like a kite whose string had been cut, plunged headfirst.

The Trading Hall turned into a chaotic stew, red‑vested men shrieking and flailing their arms, phone rings clattering everywhere, yet no one was buying—only sell orders. Panic is the cheapest fuel; a spark ignites it.

In the Rothschild family's manor, last night's champagne glasses had not yet been cleared away.

Jonathan Rothschild burst into the study in a nightgown, his hair a tangled mess like a chicken coop. He snatched the Red Telephone that connected straight to Downing Street 10, his fingers trembling as he dialed.

Doo—doo—

Line busy.

Redial. Still busy.

"Dammit!" Jonathan slammed the handset onto the desk, the crystal ashtray rattling off and shattering on the floor.

Normally at this hour the Prime Minister's secretary—who serves the "Iron Lady"—would already be on the line, promising central‑bank intervention to support the market. But today Downing Street's doors were shut tight. In that room the Prime Minister was trembling over the battle‑damage report, the cabinet's emergency meeting erupted into chaos, and no one could spare a thought for the Financial City's vampire‑like financiers.

Thousands of kilometers away, in the Capital City's Fuqiang Hutong.

Lu Qingshan sat in a rattan chair, a bowl of freshly boiled zhajiang noodles steaming before him. He held chopsticks but didn't rush to eat, instead watching the Satellite Phone beside him that had stayed connected.

From the handset came Li Zhi'an's barely contained excitement: "Boss, the pound has collapsed. Jonathan is scrambling to inject cash and support the market, but the amount he's throwing in can't even make a sound."

Lu Qingshan tossed the noodles, his tone as flat as if commenting on the weather: "The time is right. Let's drop the 'nuclear bomb' we have in our hands."

"Full position?" Li Zhi'an's voice trembled.

"Full position." Lu Qingshan picked up a bite of noodles, "No fallback, no retreat. Tell those Wall Street guys—whoever dares to take over, I'll bury them together with the deal."

With that order, the Xinghan Group's hundreds of billions of US Dollar short positions hoarded in New York, London and Hong Kong were dumped into the market in the same instant.

This isn't an avalanche; it's a nuclear blast.

On the electronic screens of the Financial City, the pound exchange rate instantly pierced the psychological 1.45 barrier.

Jonathan stared at the almost vertical down‑stroke on the screen, his face as pale as paper. The 150 billion‑pound capital pool in his hands, leveraged a dozen‑plus times, was evaporating at nearly ten million pounds per second.

"Quick! Contact Mitsui! Contact Sumitomo!" Jonathan roared at the butler, "Get them to fund us! We're allies! If I die, they won't survive either!"

The call connected.

But what came through wasn't reinforcement news, but a dagger of betrayal.

"Mr. Jonathan, we're very sorry," the Mitsui Group's representative said coldly. "Given the current situation, we must manage risk. We just… closed our long positions and turned to short selling."

"What?!" Jonathan's eyes bulged. "You bunch of treacherous, yellow‑skinned short‑tailed monkeys!"

"It's business." The other side hung up.

The Japan‑Korea consortium not only fled, but to protect themselves they stomped hard on Jonathan, then smashed the market wildly in step with Lu Qingshan's rhythm.

But those guys weren't faring any better.

Lu Qingshan had long anticipated these opportunists. Just as they thought they could sip the broth, Lu Qingshan's pre‑positioned funds on the other side of the FX market—on the USD/JPY and USD/KRW cross—suddenly turned hostile.

The Japan‑Korea consortium had just sold the pound, only to see their own currencies shorted by Lu Qingshan. Caught between both blows, the bloody chips they'd just earned vanished in an instant.

Eleven a. m.

Dark clouds gathered over the Financial City. One historic fund after another—each with a century of pedigree—announced margin calls, and liquidators, clutching cardboard boxes, were ushered out of the building like dogs of a bereaved family.

Jonathan slumped on a Louis XIV‑era chair, his eyes vacant.

It's over. Completely over.

The family's liquidity in Europe dried up, banks began to pull loans, and if they didn't top up the margin, the Rothschild family's French vineyards, Swiss art trusts, even the ancestral castle would be forced into auction.

At that moment, the doors of the Xinghan Group's London branch were knocked open.

The entrant wasn't a police officer but a middle‑aged man in a dark‑gray suit, gaunt‑faced—a special envoy of the United Kingdom's Prime Minister and Chancellor.

Li Zhi'an sat in the boss's chair, unmoving, and pointed to the opposite seat: "Tea or coffee? We only have instant."

The envoy had no appetite for tea; he wiped sweat from his forehead: "Mr. Li, could you ask Mr. Lu to lift his hand? If the pound falls further, the United Kingdom's economy will regress ten years. The Prime Minister… is very anxious."

"That's your issue," Li Zhi'an shrugged. "We're conducting legitimate trades. However, since you're here, there are some words I can pass on."

The envoy seemed to clutch a lifeline: "Please, speak!"

"Mr. Lu said we want a Pricing Power seat on the London Metal Exchange (LME)." Li Zhi'an raised a finger. "Also, fifteen percent of the shares in the Loro Aviation Engine Group—we intend to take control."

The envoy inhaled sharply. This would choke the United Kingdom's industry.

"This… requires parliamentary approval…"

"Then go get it approved." Li Zhi'an glanced at his watch. "In half an hour the pound could slip below 1.30. By then, even if you try to sell, there'll be no buyers."

The envoy clenched his teeth, turned, and rushed out to make a call.

Ten minutes later, Lu Qingshan's black Satellite Phone rang.

It was an unknown number.

Lu Qingshan answered, said nothing, and only heard heavy breathing on the other end.

"Mr. Lu…" the hoarse, tear‑tinged voice said, it was Jonathan, "I'm Jonathan. Please… spare the family's trust fund. It's what we intended to leave to our descendants…"

The once‑arrogant prodigy who had lifted a glass of red wine at parties and inspected people with a sniff was now humbled to the level of a dog.

"Jonathan." Lu Qingshan finished his last bite of noodles, pulled a napkin to wipe his mouth, "Had I known it would end like this, why start at all?"

"I was wrong! I truly was wrong!" Jonathan sobbed on the line, "If you stop, I'll meet any condition— the French Bordeaux vineyard, even those Picasso paintings, all yours!"

"I'm not interested in paintings," Lu Qingshan said, lighting a cigarette, "Besides the terms I just gave the envoy, I have one more condition."

"You say it! You say it!"

"From today onward, you are out of the Rothschild family's core management," Lu Qingshan exhaled a smoke ring, "I don't want to see your name on any financial newspaper again. Go to Africa if you like, go to the South Pole if you must, just disappear."

The other end of the phone was silent for a long time.

That is the taste of power, more painful than death. But Qiao Nason had no choice.

"…Fine. I agree."

"Deal."

Lu Qingshan hung up the phone, turned his head toward Lin Yueqiang, who had been standing beside him, not daring to even exhale.

"Notify Li Zhi'an, close the position."

"Brother‑in‑law, you're stopping now?" Lin Yueqiang sounded a bit reluctant, "If we keep pounding a while longer, these foreign devils will lose everything, even their underwear."

"Leave a margin when dealing with people." Lu Qingshan stood up, walked to the window and looked at the snow in the courtyard, "We've really forced the United Kingdom into a corner; they'll flip tables and default on debts. Right now it's just right, the meat is eaten and the bones aren't stuck in the throat."

That day, later dubbed "London Black Wednesday" by future financial textbooks.

Xinghan Group, in this battle, siphoned off more than 50 billion pounds of profit. More importantly, Lu Qingshan secured a ticket to the world's top industrial club, becoming a true "shadow conglomerate" that can stand toe‑to‑toe with the state machine.

Moscow, in the underground bunker of the Kremlin Palace.

Ye Liqin looked at the briefing sent by the intelligence department, his chubby face bearing a complex expression. He held a bottle of liquor and waved it at Pu Ding beside him.

"Take a look at this Oriental," Ye Liqin let out a burp, "using our gold as a shield, buying our resources with United Kingdom money, and even swelling the faces of those arrogant European nobles."

Pu Ding took the briefing, a glint flashing in his steel‑blue eyes.

"Now that's a real robber," Pu Ding said softly, "even more ruthless than us."

"Since they're robbers, it's easy to deal with," Ye Liqin grinned, showing a set of yellow teeth, "robbers only befriend the strong. Looks like our oil‑and‑gas pipeline needs to be built even faster."

Night deepened over Capital City.

Lu Qingshan pushed open the bedroom door; Lin Yue'e was already asleep, the bedside lamp casting a dim yellow glow. Lu Xiao Xue's little feet poked out from the covers, sleeping soundly.

He tiptoed over, slipped his daughter's feet back into the quilt, and adjusted the corner of his wife's blanket.

Who could have imagined that just moments ago, this gentle‑mannered man had detonated a financial nuclear bomb across the ocean, causing countless aristocratic houses to vanish in a single night.

Lu Qingshan took off his coat, lay on the bed, and let out a long sigh.

Now this sleep could finally be a solid one.

But the wind of the jianghu never truly ceases.

Anyway, that's a matter for tomorrow.