Chapter 508: New World Order

The night wind in Hanseong is truly harsh, as if knives were hidden inside, carrying the distinctive briny scent of fresh seafood, slipping down the collar straight into the bone crevices. The thin plastic canopy of the roadside stall flutters whoosh wildly, seeming ready to collapse, yet stubbornly holds a pocket of warmth.

Lu Qingshan wasn't in a luxury car; he simply perched on a greasy low stool. On the black iron grill before him, thick slices of pork belly sizzled over the charcoal, the edges curling to a crisp brown, and the domineering meat aroma pierced his nose, driving away much of the cold.

"Brother‑in‑law, this place may be cold, but the meat with baijiu is actually something." Lin Yueqiang poured Lu Qingshan a full glass of real brandy, lifted his own cup and tipped his head back for a swig, exhaling a thick white vapor, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "Honestly, these past two days I'm truly impressed. Back when we were hustling on the streets, we thought pointing a gun at someone's head was the most effective. Now I see that your hand clutching people's money bags is even harsher—it's a real stab to the heart."

He pinched a bubbling piece of meat, slathered it heavily with a thick sauce, and shoved it into his mouth, his cheeks puffed, mumbling indistinctly, "You didn't see, just now over at Qing Song Terrace, that Samsung guy Li Jianxi—what a figure! Korea's 'Economic President'! And the result? In front of you, his waist is almost bent to the ground, as if he wants to press his forehead against his shoe."

Lu Qingshan lifted the clear baijiu, took a sip, the spiciness rolling down his throat, and his body instantly warmed. He stared at the flickering charcoal, his gaze deep.

"The Supreme Emperor? The Economic President?" he chuckled, smashing his glass hard onto the folding table, producing a crisp clink. "That was the past. From the moment they sign today, they become senior shopkeepers working for us. If I don't nod, their assembly lines halt, their ships can't leave the harbor. Yueqiang, remember, the world's rules have changed."

These days, the headlines in Wall Street and London Financial City have gone crazy. Those foreign devils gave Lu Qingshan a new nickname—"Eastern Caesar". It means he arrived, he saw, he conquered. Without a single soldier, merely with the iron hooves of capital, he flattened the Han River miracle.

The economic backbone of Japan and Korea was ripped out in just two months by Lu Qingshan and replaced with Xinghan Group's steel nails. The lithography machine full blueprints, shipbuilding core techniques, and semiconductor production line data—once guarded by the Western world as priceless—are now packed into hundreds of containers, disguised as ordinary cargo, continuously shipped to the Bohai Bay.

"Had you eaten?" Lu Qingshan glanced at the worn old Shanghai watch on his wrist. "Eat and then we leave. This place's kimchi smell is too strong; no matter what I eat, my stomach feels empty. I miss the jar of zhajiang noodles at home."

"Full! My whole body's buzzing!" Lin Yueqiang wiped his oily mouth, tossed a few Korean won notes onto the table, "Let's go, home! I don't want to stay another day in this dump!"

Meanwhile, on Hong Kong Island, the mid‑mountain luxury residential district.

The once bustling, brightly lit Li Family mansion now lies dead‑still, like a luxurious tomb.

Li Jiasheng lay on the wide bed in the special care ward, his complexion as gray as crumbling wall plaster. An oxygen tube was inserted into his nostrils, and with each faint breath a veil of white mist rose. The crude earthen jar that had held his beloved son had been seized by the police as evidence, but that scene—the pallid head protruding from the jar, the eyes vacant like dead fish—sizzled in his mind like a branding iron, an image he could not scrub away.

"Sir…" the butler stood at the bedside, clutching a thick stack of financial statements, his voice trembling like leaves in an autumn wind. "HSBC… is pressing again. It's an ultimatum. Our core properties at London's Canary Wharf have shrunk by seventy percent in valuation due to Xinghan Group's short‑selling of the pound. Also… Lu Qingshan has made a statement in the circles."

The butler paused, swallowed, as if the words burned his tongue: "He said, anyone who dares to take the land we're dumping is going against him, essentially declaring war on Xinghan Group."

Li Jiasheng's gaunt fingers clutched the sheets tightly, the veins on the back of his hand bulging, his knuckles paling.

He is Hong Kong Island's superman, the business godfather enshrined on an altar, spending his life scheming against others, squeezing every profit dry. Yet he never imagined, in his old age, a young upstart from the mainland would uproot him completely, leaving no dignity behind.

"Sell…" Li Jiasheng forced a word from deep in his throat, as if a bellows were pulling, the murky old tears sliding down his wrinkled eye corners onto the pillow. "Ask the Huo family, ask the Bao family… even if we have to beg on our knees… as long as there's money, we'll sell anything. And, no matter what, keep… keep Ze Xun's life… even if he's a cripple, he's still my son…"

Outside, a bolt of lightning ripped the night sky, illuminating Victoria Harbour. The Li family, once a powerhouse for half a century, was completely knocked off the elite aristocratic table on this early‑winter, bleak, rain‑soaked night, reduced to dust in history.

At ten thousand meters altitude, the Bay‑flow G4 aircraft sliced through the thick clouds, cruising smoothly in the stratosphere.

The cabin was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air‑conditioner vent. Lu Qingshan was awake, having lit a reading lamp, and a massive world map was spread on the small table before him.

He held a sharpened red‑blue pencil, sketching on the map, his expression focused like a general commanding a million troops.

Japan, Korea, Southeast Asia have already been marked with bright red flags.

Russia, New China Agreement, Eastern Europe, Australia, Africa, South America—those places were encircled in blue, his resource pool and backyard.

The Middle East is his oil depot.

Europe and America are his cash machines.

This once‑fragmented puzzle finally became whole under his hands, piece by piece. Looking at the red rooster‑shaped region on the map, Lu Qingshan's mouth twitched upward, a hint of tenderness flashing in his eyes.

"Boss, Lao Chen's call." Ye Ning hurried over, holding a black encrypted satellite phone; normally composed, she now looked a bit excited, her hands trembling slightly, "It's line 1, top‑secret."

Lu Qingshan's expression hardened, and he snatched the phone, "Lao Chen, this is Qing Shan."

"You kid, still flying up there?" Lao Chen's voice sounded full‑bodied, even with a rare hearty laugh, the joy seeming to spill over the radio waves. "I've got huge news. The batch of lithography machines you brought back from Korea, and those dozens of Korean technicians who didn't want to return, we've completely 'digested' them!"

"That fast?" Lu Qingshan raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"Special cases get special handling! A nationwide system, you know the drill!" Lao Chen's voice was a little hoarse, the sign of extreme excitement. "Our two secret bases in Shanghai and Wuxi, with thousands of engineers, have worked around the clock for three full months—people rest, machines don't. Just ten minutes ago, the first fully self‑designed, self‑manufactured chip passed wafer‑run! Though the process still lags a bit behind America's top tier, we've firmly stepped over the threshold! An old academy expert, clutching the chip, cried so hard he could barely stand, saying this alone saves us forty years of detours. Qing Shan, you're the chief contributor!"

Lu Qingshan gazed at the pitch‑black night sky, as if seeing the dawn about to break in the East, and whispered, "Lao Chen, this is worth more than me earning a hundred billion dollars in London."

"And your third child as well," Lao Chen steadied his tone, then continued, "Qinghe's work at the Ministry of Agriculture has also been a great success. The fertilizer production lines Russia supplied are now running, and with the astronomical research funds you gave to Researcher Yuan, the hybrid rice yield at the Hainan South‑breeding base is staggering. Our Huaxia's rice bowl is now iron‑clad; no one can snatch it away, no one can choke us."

He hung up, and Lu Qingshan leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh.

The blood of industry, the food of people.

When these two vital things are secured, Huaxia's backbone truly becomes strong.