Chapter 511: Century Reconciliation: Ending US Dollar Hegemony and the Rise of the

The Persian Gulf's water is heated by the noon sun, but the situation is hotter than the water.

The American "Nimitz" carrier battle group looms like a moving steel island, straddling the middle of the Hormuz Strait. The roar of carrier aircraft taking off and landing shakes the glass windows on both shores. On Wall Street's oil-price board, the numbers jump faster than an electrocardiogram, and Western media, like flies smelling blood, frantically chant the script of a "Third World War".

Meanwhile, thousands of kilometers away in Capital City, the conference room on the top floor of the Xinghan Building is quiet save for the faint hum of the air‑conditioner vents.

At opposite ends of the long table sit two people who do not even give each other a proper look. On the left is Saudi Crown Prince Saleman, clutching a strand of rosewood prayer beads, his knuckles white; on the right is Iran's envoy Farhad, sullen, his beard trembling.

That these two can sit under the same roof is itself a miracle.

"Lu, the Americans' ultimatum has already been sent to Riyadh," Saleman finally loses his composure, slamming the prayer beads onto the table. "They say we're supporting terrorism and want to freeze our US Dollar oil accounts. This is robbery!"

"They've also blocked our ports," Farhad snorts. "Although I don't like you, this time the Americans really want to stew us as well."

Lu Qingshan sits in the head seat, twirling a steel pen in his hand. He doesn't rush to speak, merely signals Lin Yueqiang to pull back the curtains.

Beyond the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, Capital City's endless stream of traffic fills the view.

"Gentlemen, the Americans want you to fight because a war drives oil prices up, arms dealers clear inventory, and Wall Street harvests wealth," Lu Qingshan clicks the pen cap shut with a crisp 'clack', "You fight tooth and nail, but the ones who foot the bill are your own people, and the ones counting the money are the White House."

At that moment, a violent pounding on the conference room door erupts.

"I am the US Ambassador to China! I have the right to enter! This is an illegal gathering!" A clumsy Chinese tirade comes from outside the door, accompanied by shoving.

Lu Qingshan furrows his brow briefly, glancing at Lin Yueqiang.

Lin Yueqiang instantly understands, strides to the doorway, and yanks it open. The American ambassador outside is about to kick again, but kicks the air, nearly splitting the expensive carpet.

"Mr. Ambassador, this is private property," Lin Yueqiang blocks the entrance like a wall, a chilling fake smile on his face. "Our boss is conducting business; we didn't invite any monkey‑show."

"You… I want to protest! I want to see Lu Qingshan!" The ambassador's face turns a pork‑liver hue as he tries to rush inside.

Lin Yueqiang wastes no words, grabs the back of the ambassador's collar with one hand, hoisting him like an unruly turkey, and turns toward the elevator. Around them, Reuters reporters, already in position, have their long lenses and short flashes ready, the camera clicks 'click‑click' in a flash of light.

The scene makes next day's front pages worldwide: the dignity of US diplomacy tossed into the trash by a Chinese bodyguard.

In the conference room, Saleman and Farhad lock eyes, each seeing a glimmer of vindication in the other's gaze.

"Alright, the flies are gone," Lu Qingshan presses the holographic projection button on the table. This is a 'rare item' just developed by Xinghan Technology; though not yet mass‑produced, it's perfect for shaking the field in a setting like this.

A pale blue light screen rises at the center of the table.

It is a massive Eurasian continent map. Red lines start from Capital City, stretch westward through Central Asia, bifurcate to connect Tehran and Riyadh, and finally reach deep into Europe.

"This is the 'New Silk Road' high‑speed rail and energy pipeline overlay map," Lu Qingshan points to the lines. "I don't want to sell you missiles; I want to hand you prosperity directly."

He pulls a thick dossier from his briefcase and slides it onto the table.

"Xinghan Group, together with Huaxia Holdings, plans to invest US$500 billion in the Middle East—building nuclear power plants, seawater desalination plants, and new energy‑efficient urban hubs. I will turn the oil beneath your ground into an industrial system above ground,"

Saleman's hand trembles; five hundred billion—this is about turning the desert into an oasis.

"What are the conditions?" Farhad gets to the point.

"Very simple," Lu Qingshan raises a finger. "From today onward, all Middle Eastern oil trade will cease settlement in US Dollars. Switch to Huaxia Currency or gold. Moreover, connect to the new payment system I've prepared for you—'Kunlun'."

The conference room falls into death‑like silence.

This is digging at the US Dollar's ancestral tomb.

"Lu, this will trigger war," Saleman's voice dries.

"War is already here," Lu Qingshan points outside. "The Americans' carrier sits at your doorstep. Will you use US Dollars to buy their bombs to bomb your own brothers, or use Huaxia Currency to buy my infrastructure so we all get rich?"

He rises, both hands braced on the table, eyes flashing: "If you nod, tomorrow the 'Kunlun' system goes live, and I'll show the Americans what it means to have money they can't spend."

A minute of silence stretches, feeling as long as a century.

Saleman looks at Farhad. Farhad grits his teeth and extends his hand.

Two hands, high above Capital City, clasp tightly. That grip shatters the United States' half‑century offshore balancing act in the Middle East.

……

Once the dominoes fall, there's no reason for them to stop.

Africa, Angola.

Several CIA‑backed warlord leaders are poised to launch a new offensive, only to find half their troops have fled.

"What battle? Mr. Lu Qingjun is distributing food!"

Lu Qingjun, clad in camouflage, stands before a convoy of trucks loaded with rice and canned goods. He holds no gun, only a loudspeaker: "Who hands over their weapons, this truck's food becomes theirs village's! They'll also receive seeds and fertilizer! Whatever they grow thereafter, Xinghan Group will purchase!"

The emaciated soldiers, eyes turning green at the sight of the white rice, wonder: "Guns? Can you eat those?"

In less than half a month, Xinghan Group's 'Food for Peace' program miraculously extinguishes half the war flames across Africa. The Americans, horrified, discover their US Dollars have become waste paper here; only the five‑star‑stamped food bags serve as hard currency.

A month later, Capital City.

A low‑key yet world‑shaking signing ceremony takes place in the Grand Hall.

Led by Huaxia and incorporating Russia, the Middle East, Central Asia, and parts of Eastern Europe, the 'Huaxia Development Convention Organization'—abbreviated 'New Huaxia Pact'—is formally established.

It is no longer the tense Cold‑War‑era military alliance, but a massive economic behemoth. Resource sharing, technology interchange, currency swapping.

The news reaches Europe, causing an internal explosion within NATO.

The German Chancellor eyes the cheap natural‑gas quotation sheet supplied by the New Huaxia Pact, then glances at the high‑price liquefied gas the Americans sell; his internal scale instantly tips. The French, even more direct, dispatch a special envoy from the Élysée Palace overnight to Capital City, claiming to discuss 'cultural exchange' while really probing for a share of the pie.

The US President, furious in the oval office, smashes the heirloom coffee cup and roars about imposing sanctions.

"Block! Total block! Not even a single screw may be sold to Xinghan Group!"

Yet, the day after the sanction order, Xinghan Technology holds a press conference in Shenzhen.

No PPT, no hype. Lu Qingshan simply has a black mainframe brought onto the stage.

"This is the 'Fuxi' No. 1 supercomputing center," Lu Qingshan says onstage, matter‑of‑fact, "Based on our self‑developed chip architecture, it's ten times faster than current high‑end market chips and consumes half the power."

In the audience sits a special guest.

The young Bill Gates pushes his glasses up, steps onto the stage. He gazes at the machine, his eyes full of zeal.

"Microsoft has decided," Gates tells the world's cameras, "the next‑generation Windows will fully support the civilian 'Fuxi' architecture. If we don't cooperate with Xinghan, Microsoft will have no future."

That slap swells Washington's face.

……

The early summer wind blew through Fuqiang Hutong, and the old locust tree's leaves rustled loudly.

Lu Qingshan sat in the courtyard, holding a pair of pruning shears, trimming the branches of the rose bush. He wore an ordinary plain cotton T‑shirt and old cloth shoes, showing no trace of any heroic aura.

The editor-in-chief of Time Weekly stood at the door for a long while, not daring to go in. In the end, Lin Yueqiang came out and handed him a slip of paper.

The note contained only one sentence: "The world doesn't need gods, only fair business. And I am merely a trader."

The editor left as if he had obtained a treasure.

Inside, a small shareholders' meeting of the company was underway. It was called a meeting, but in fact it was a division of the estate.

"Wang Yuyun, Liang Zhiwei, you two guard Hong Kong Island." Lu Qingshan handed over two authorization letters, "That is our foundation, and also our money bag."

"Li Zhi'an, you're familiar with London, then deal with those old European aristocrats."

"Ye Ning, Zhang Qianru, Li Junjie." Lu Qingshan looked at the three youngsters, "The business in the Americas is yours. Remember, don't drive people to death; leave them some leeway so they keep working for us."

"Qingjun." Lu Qingshan patted his younger brother's shoulder, "The Africa and Middle East affairs are the messiest; you're meticulous and bold, so I trust you. Remember, we go there to help friends, not to be colonizers."

"Elder brother." Lu Qingshan looked at his older brother Lu Qingyuan, "The domestic business of Xinghan, the brothers' and sisters' businesses, and the Shanwan factory's operations are all entrusted to you for coordination. We have professional talent; don't work behind closed doors, go out and see more often."

Finally, Lu Qingshan took out a black metal card. The card bore no text, only a Xinghan logo and a relief of countless stars.

This card can mobilize half of the world's liquid capital.

He didn't give it to anyone; instead he walked to the safe in the corner, locked it inside, turned the dial, and listened to the dull clunk of the lock engaging.

"All right, adjourn." Lu Qingshan clapped his hands, a relaxed smile on his face, "From now on, unless the sky falls, don't call me."

The gathered people looked at each other, their eyes full of reluctance and awe, but in the end they all turned into deep bows.

……

One week later.

A Wanliu G550 private jet pierced the clouds and landed at the makeshift airport of Baishan City at the foot of Changbai Mountain.

The cabin door opened, and a cool breeze scented with pine needles rushed in.

Lu Qingshan walked down the gangway hand in hand with Lin Yue'e. Lin Yue'e wore light‑colored sportswear, her hair tied in a ponytail, looking younger than she did a few years ago.

Lu Xiaoxue had already been having fun, rolling on the grass while hugging Jin Hu's big head. Jin Hu, though a bit old, regained his wildness on this familiar black soil, barking excitedly.

"This place is still the most comfortable." Lu Qingshan inhaled deeply, stretched lazily, and his joints cracked loudly.

In the distance, the undulating Changbai Mountain range shimmered with indigo under the sun, the forest's roar still echoing.

"How long will you stay this time?" Lin Yue'e asked with a smile, adjusting his collar.

"Until I'm fed up." Lu Qingshan rummaged through the luggage pile and pulled out a long gun case; it was the hunting rifle he had used years ago, polished to a gleaming shine.

He deftly pulled the bolt, listening to the crisp metallic clack, his eyes flashing with a long‑missed sharpness and exhilaration.

"Let's go, daughter‑in‑law." Lu Qingshan slung the rifle over his shoulder, took his daughter's hand with the other, "Up the mountain! Tonight I'll cook a wild chicken stewed with mushrooms for you; the flavor will be richer than any state banquet!"

"Charge! Jin Hu, go!" Lu Xiaoxue shouted while riding on the dog's back, waving a branch.

In the sunset, the shadows of the three‑person family and the big dog stretched long, gradually merging into the vast, misty forest‑snow plain.

The road of the jianghu is long, but home lies behind.