Chapter 507: The Shattered

Tokyo's morning was awakened by the newsboys' hawking cries and Reuters' teletype sounds.

Although Lu Qingshan didn't send those blood‑stained photos directly to the Americans, some stories, once given a start, will be rounded out by others.

The Washington Post's front‑page headline was as black as a lump of coal—"Backyard Fire: Japanese Conglomerates' 'Independent Kingdom' in the Amazon Jungle and Their Restoration Dream." The article portrayed the so‑called "Japanese Village" as a fascist base stockpiling weapons, enslaving labor, and aiming to challenge United States hegemony in the Western Hemisphere.

The United States Capitol was bombed.

The legislators, who usually harbored resentment over Japan's trade surplus, finally found a vent. Before the morning news finished airing, the House of Representatives announced a special investigative committee to launch antitrust and crimes‑against‑humanity probes against Mitsubishi, Mitsui and other members of the Six Major Conglomerates. Some hawkish lawmakers even shouted for all of Japan's assets in the United States to be frozen.

This single blow proved more effective than any economic sanction.

The Tokyo Stock Exchange.

As soon as the opening bell rang, the market index plummeted like a kite whose string had been cut, diving straight into an abyss.

"Limit down! Mitsubishi Heavy Industries limit down!"

"Mitsui & Co.'s sell‑off volume is massive; it can't be absorbed!"

The trading hall was filled with wails; the men in red vests had hoarse throats, and phones lay scattered on the floor. The big‑shots who yesterday thought they could slip away were now watching their own stocks halve, their faces whiter than corpses.

Amid this bleak greenness, several hidden accounts of the Xinghan Group acted like greedy leviathans, opening wide mouths to ravenously devour the quality assets being panic‑sold.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Earth, Brazil.

In the depths of Mato Grosso's rainforest, flames shot skyward.

Wilson didn't go himself; he merely sent several boxes of American‑style gear to a few local warlords quarrelling with the "Japanese Village" over land, and slipped a Swiss Bank check to the Brazilian Federal Police chief.

The high‑wall electric fences were as flimsy as paper in front of rockets.

When mercenaries and police stormed the compound, the Japanese management inside was still trying to destroy documents. But the people Lu Qingshan had placed had long blended in with the workers, and amid the chaos they transferred several hard drives and boxes of schematics containing core data onto waiting pickup trucks.

The fire burned for a day and a night.

The "New Japan" that had taken decades of Japanese conglomerates' effort and a trillion US Dollars to build, along with their escape route, turned into a pile of coke.

After cleaning up the mess in Tokyo, Lu Qingshan didn't linger and flew straight to Seoul.

The Han River's water was still ice‑cold and biting, and the wind on his face felt like a knife cut.

A black armored car bearing diplomatic plates, escorted by four off‑road vehicles ahead and behind, entered a secluded private estate on the Han River called Green Pine Terrace.

This place normally hosts foreign guests for the South Korean president, but today the atmosphere was grim.

The courtyard was filled with black‑suited bodyguards, each looking tense as if facing a great enemy.

Lu Qingshan stepped out of the car and tightened his windbreaker. Lin Yueqiang followed behind, carrying the black briefcase he never parts with, his gaze scanning the surroundings fiercely.

He pushed open the conference room's door.

The heating was ample, yet the four people seated inside seemed as if they were enduring winter.

Samsung, Daewoo, Hyundai, LG.

The heads of these four conglomerates, who normally cause a tremor in South Korea just by stamping a foot and even the president must be courteous to them, today sat there with their tea long gone cold, and no one took a sip.

That battle in London, they tried to please the American master by following that fool Jonathan Rothschild's bet, and ended up losing all their Liquid Capital. Now their capital chain is as tight as a guitar string, snapping at the slightest touch.

Seeing Lu Qingshan enter, the four instinctively tried to rise, but considering their positions, their hips froze halfway up.

Only Kim Yujong of Daewoo sat steadily.

The man, in his fifties with graying hair, still had that stubborn vigor. He tapped his pipe, didn't look at Lu Qingshan, but stared at the ink painting of "Taiji Tiger" on the wall.

"Mr. Lu, what a grand presence," Kim Yujong's voice was hoarse. "We've heard about the Tokyo affair. But this is South Korea, not Japan."

Lu Qingshan pulled out a chair and sat down, gave no reply, and took a cigarette from his pocket to light it himself.

"South Korea's economy is propped up by our few firms," Kim Yujong said, raising his voice as Lu Qingshan ignored him. "If we collapse, South Korea is finished. The Blue House won't stand by, and the U. S. forces stationed in South Korea won't agree. Trying to force a buy‑sell scheme here would be a miscalculation."

The other three remained silent, but their eyes also showed a hint of opportunism.

Big and unfallen.

This is their final talisman.

Lu Qingshan exhaled a smoke ring, looked at Kim Yujong's forced‑calm face, and smiled.

"Chairman Kim, do you think that as long as we kidnap the nation, we have you at our mercy?"

Lu Qingshan took out the black satellite phone and placed it on the table.

"Ye Ning."

On the other end, Ye Ning's cool voice said, "Boss, we can act at any time."

"Let them see just how fragile this so‑called 'Han River Miracle' really is," Lu Qingshan said in a flat tone, as if ordering a dish, "Short‑sell the won. Five minutes."

"Understood."

Kim Yujong frowned, "You're bluffing! The South Korean central bank has tens of billions of US Dollars in foreign‑exchange reserves, you…"

Before he finished, the large screen on the conference‑room wall flickered, showing real‑time international foreign‑exchange market data.

The previously steady won‑to‑US Dollar exchange line suddenly slashed as if cut by a blade.

A cliff‑like plunge.

800.

750.

700.

It was a vertical red line, strikingly alarming.

"This… this can't be!" Zheng Zhouyong of Hyundai Group sprang up, his chair toppling over, "Where's the central bank? Why aren't they defending the market?!"

Lu Qingshan flicked ash from his cigarette, "Your central bank? It's probably busy calling Wall Street for help right now. Unfortunately, the Americans are occupied auditing Japanese accounts and have no time for you watchdogs."

The numbers on the screen kept ticking.

650.

600.

In just three short minutes, the Korean won depreciated by more than 20%. That means the massive US Dollar foreign debt they owe instantly swelled to an astronomical figure that cannot be repaid.

The CFO of Da Yu Group rushed into the conference room like a madman, waving financial statements in his hands, crying out, "Chairman! It's over! Foreign capital is fleeing wildly! The bank just called, demanding that we repay all short‑term loans immediately, or they will seize the factories!"

Jin Yuzhong's pipe "clack" fell to the floor and broke into two pieces.

The business empire he boasted about, the giant wheel dubbed "World Da Yu," is as fragile as an egg before this financial tsunami.

Lu Qingshan glanced at his watch.

"Two minutes left." He looked at the four pallid faces, "When the exchange rate drops below 500, you'll be truly bankrupt. Then I'll buy your factories one by one at scrap‑metal prices."

Thump.

A muffled thud.

Jin Yuzhong knelt.

The hard‑man who had ruled Korea's business world for a lifetime slammed his knees heavily onto the floor, his head touching the ground, his whole body trembling.

"Mr. Lu… please… stop."

Then the second, the third.

All four conglomerate heads knelt in unison before Lu Qingshan.

That so‑called dignity is worthless in the face of survival.

"Ye Ning, pause a moment." Lu Qingshan said into the phone.

The red line on the screen halted its decline, stopping at 550.

The conference room was deathly silent, broken only by a few heavy breaths.

"Sign this document." Lin Yueqiang pulled a stack of pre‑prepared agreements from his briefcase and tossed them in front of the four.

"This is not a negotiation, it's a notice." Lu Qingshan stood, walked to the window and stared at the flowing Han River, "Samsung, hand over 30 % of the shares, to be held by Xinghan Group; I'll send someone to take over the board."

Li Jianxi lay on the floor, his fingernails digging into the floorboards, clenching a toothpick between his teeth.

"Da Yu, transfer all your heavy‑industry projects in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union to me. That's my territory; you have no right to interfere."

Jin Yuzhong's trembling hand stamped the private seal.

"Nowadays, I want your shipbuilding technology and half of Ulsan Shipyard's capacity."

"As for LG…" Lu Qingshan turned, his gaze like a blade, "From now on all your semiconductor business must form a 'Technology Alliance' with the mainland. In plain terms, you share core tech while you handle downstream components. I don't want to see Korean chips choking our necks again."

It was an unequal treaty.

It sliced off half of Korea's national fortune for the next thirty years and stuffed it into Xinghan Group's pocket.

But the four had no choice. Not signing meant instant death.

Half an hour later, all agreements were signed.

Lu Qingshan folded the documents, didn't even glance at the still‑bowing tycoons, turned and left the conference room.

"By the way." At the doorway, Lu Qingshan seemed to recall something, "Chairman Jin, stop talking about being 'too big to fail.' To me, only obedient dogs get a bone."

The motorcade sped away from the manor toward the airport.

In the car, Lin Yueqiang was in high spirits, humming an unknown tune.

"Brother‑in‑law, those bastards are really ruthless. That Jin Yuzhong just now knelt faster than anyone."

"Soft‑boned, you get used to kneeling." Lu Qingshan closed his eyes to rest, "By the way, has Li Zexun been dealt with?"

"All set." Lin Yueqiang chuckled, pointing to the trunk, "As you ordered, I found him a good 'resting place.'"

That night, a private cargo plane landed at Hong Kong Island's Kai Tak Airport.

At the gate of the Li Family mansion.

The butler, trembling, signed for a huge wooden crate marked 'Han City·Xinghan Kimchi Factory.'

Li Jiasheng sat in the living room, anxiously awaiting news. Tokyo had gone silent, and his son was missing.

"Master, someone delivered a… jar."

"A jar?" Li Jiasheng's heart lurched.

A few servants pried open the crate; inside was a massive coarse‑earthen jar meant for pickling kimchi.

The mouth was sealed with mud.

Li Jiasheng's trembling hand ordered it to be broken open.

A sour, putrid smell mixed with a metallic scent rushed toward him.

Ah——!!!

The servants screamed and scattered.

What was inside the jar was not kimchi.

Li Zexun was stuffed inside, only his head protruding, his face deathly pale, a torn cloth jammed in his mouth, his eyes vacant like a fool's. The hand that had been pierced by chopsticks was now wrapped in thick gauze, hanging from the rim of the jar.

A red paper was stuck on the jar, bearing several large, flamboyant characters:

【Mr. Li, your son misbehaved in Tokyo, so we sent him to Korea for a 'refresher.' Keep your dog in line; this time we're sending back a living man, next time, just ashes.】

Li Jiasheng stared at the pig‑like son, rolled his eyes, and collapsed straight away.

The night wind on Hong Kong Island was cool.

Victoria Harbour's lights still glittered, but everyone knew the heavens of this underworld had changed forever.