Chapter 955: Naked

General Diaz watched as two men carrying suitcases entered with Lans, unaware that his expression mirrored exactly what General Myers had shown the first time he saw Lans.

He didn’t even stand up, remaining seated in his chair.

He didn’t display overt arrogance—he didn’t lean back, cross his legs, or glare at Lans with disdain; instead, he sat upright with a smile.

His hands rested on the table before him; from his face, expression, and eyes, little arrogance could be seen.

Yet deep down, he still held some arrogance.

Lans gestured for the men to place the suitcases beside the chair opposite Diaz, then dismissed them.

He walked over, shook hands with the general, and sat down across from him.

“I hope you were satisfied with last month’s little gift.”

Lans’s opening was direct; General Diaz kept smiling. “It’s acceptable.”

After saying “acceptable,” he offered no further comment; Lans didn’t grow angry—not everyone who gives you something is a good person, and you don’t have to smile back at them.

From Diaz’s perspective, he had already performed well—he was at least pretending to be amiable, unlike his predecessor, who didn’t even bother with the pretense.

Lans made a gesture, signaling he intended to open the suitcases; General Diaz nodded.

The suitcases were quickly brought forward and placed on the table; Lans unlatched several clips around their bottoms, as if they were inverted.

Both sets of clips were released, and he lifted the suitcases by their handles.

Without bottom support, the contents spilled out naturally—yet even Diaz, a man of vast experience, drew a sharp breath at the sight of the neatly stacked bills.

Two piles of cash—each a foot wide, over a foot long, and half a foot tall. Two piles!

These two piles, worth only a few hundred credits to produce, held Diaz’s gaze firmly; it took him several seconds to tear his eyes away.

He looked at Lans with a puzzled expression, as if asking, “What does this mean?”

Lans placed the two empty suitcases at his feet, sat back down, and pulled out a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?”

The initiative had subtly shifted.

Lans wasn’t afraid of Diaz—behind him stood Congress, the Department of Defense; Diaz could only embarrass him, make him uncomfortable, but couldn’t truly harm him.

In any world, any culture, a “military man” provoking a “civilian” is seen by the civilian as the start of a war!

Here, it was no different.

The old men of Congress always believed soldiers should be loyal only to Congress and the nation—they needed no thoughts of their own, only obedience.

Disobedience was already a crime; to dare provoke Congress? Unthinkable.

Those who did it never ended well!

Lans wasn’t a congressman, so relative to Diaz, he was weaker—but he wasn’t without leverage; given the chance, he could still turn the tables.

He glanced at the desk lighter—a miniature battleship—he didn’t need to touch it to know: press one switch, and the cannon’s muzzle would spark, igniting the internal fuse.

Desk lighters always had clever designs; some were even custom-made.

Lans didn’t use the desk lighter—he pulled out a match, held the cigarette between his lips, crossed his leg, tilted his head slightly, letting the cigarette’s tip rest against his mouth.

A sharp *flick*—the match ignited, sending up a puff of smoke with the scent of gunpowder.

But the smoke didn’t drift far—it was instantly consumed by flame.

He waved his hand, extinguished the match, and dropped it into the ashtray.

He inhaled deeply, exhaled heavily.

“This month’s dividend,” Lans said, pressing his cigarette-laden hand onto one pile of cash. “Physical therapy.”

Diaz’s gaze returned to the money; he stared for seven or eight seconds before looking away. “I thought this money had already gone into Myers’s pocket.”

This money came from military expenditures, which were budgeted a year in advance and disbursed directly.

Except for special projects—like building warships.

Warship construction involved phased funding, or large-scale infrastructure projects.

Others, like these free physical therapy services, were one-time allocations.

The cost itself was low; Congress never stinted on small amounts, always generous.

So the entire year’s physical therapy budget had been disbursed upfront.

Lans would immediately hand Myers his share—he knew everyone understood the money was in his hands.

If he hoarded it or paid monthly, people would think he was using it to control Myers.

Compared to other projects, this was trivial—so Lans always transferred the full amount at once, never delayed or split payments.

Thus, Myers, though only serving half the year, had already pocketed next half’s funds.

He could now call Myers and demand half back.

So he pulled out another sum—for Diaz.

Of course, he’d make the situation perfectly clear.

“General Myers’s share is his own; while stationed here, he gave our operations considerable support, so each year’s budget allocates this sum directly to him.”

“We never anticipated things would turn out this way—this money is a parting gift for his departure from Jincheng.”

“As for you, General Diaz, anything you’re owed here will be paid in full—even if I have to pay it from my own pocket.”

“That’s the rule!”

Diaz rubbed his forehead. “Rule,” he repeated, echoing Lans’s emphasized word.

Honestly, the previous gold battleship and these two piles of cash on the table—likely worth three or four hundred thousand credits.

He’d heard rumors that Lans was popular in Congress; now he understood.

Anyone who could do this, anywhere, would be welcomed.

“Monthly.”

Lans added one more phrase—this made Diaz’s pulse quicken.

Far more than the fake drills used to fraudulently claim ammunition subsidies.

Far more than secretly selling decommissioned standard-issue weapons.

He took a deep breath; though reluctant, he had to admit—Lans White was genuinely formidable.

Yet he held firm, determined to test the limits of Lans’s patience.

It wasn’t that he was making things hard for Lans—he simply didn’t know him; they’d just met. Accepting such a massive bribe so quickly made him uneasy.

Not because he feared greed—but because he suspected Lans had other motives.

After all, the final blow that crushed General Myers, forcing him to surrender and confess, was “corruption!”

“I don’t know,” Diaz said, forcing a look of regret. “I just feel I shouldn’t accept this money.”

All military commanders shared roughly the same problem.

To get money, they could only siphon from military budgets.

But this method rarely yielded much—weapons procurement, for instance, wasn’t about handing cash to the military to buy freely.

Congress had a Military Committee that decided which company’s products to buy, and how much, each year.

Then they dealt directly with defense contractors.

The military’s role was merely to recommend: “Soldiers say XXX Defense’s equipment works well!”

But sometimes the Military Committee ignored them, gave vague excuses, and ordered from another vendor instead.

They had the power to siphon funds—but rarely large sums, and slowly.

There’s clear evidence: in the Federation, many generals aren’t wealthy—they may serve their whole lives and retire with only upper-middle-class status.

This includes many officers too.

Yet no senator is poor.

When they leave office, even the worst-off have millions, sometimes tens of millions—no exceptions!

So refusing Lans’s offer was truly difficult.

Like General Myers—he was arrogant, looked down on Lans as a lowborn lackey—but Lans gave so much, he’d gone out of his way to greet him.

Not because he truly saw Lans as a confidant—but because the money was too much; he had no choice but to change his attitude.

Money’s power matches its value—the greater the number, the greater the power!

Lans shook his head. “General Diaz, I respect every soldier.”

“Especially now, during wartime.”

He inhaled sharply, his body utterly relaxed—from within, outward.

When a person remains relaxed, their confidence becomes unmistakable.

“Because soldiers risk their lives to defend the Federation and its people!”

Hearing this, even Diaz—who didn’t want to agree—nodded involuntarily. Well said.

“But what does this have to do with whether I accept this money?” he asked.

Lans smiled, spreading his hands. “It has everything to do with it.”

“General Diaz, the soldiers are young. They have their own desires—no one wants to die still a rookie.”

“This program helps them relax, focus better on training, and increases their chances of survival in war.”

“We conducted a survey: since the building behind us opened, fights and brawls in the barracks have decreased. Soldiers now have an outlet for their energy—they’re easier to manage.”

“This program was jointly pushed by General Myers and me. Now Myers has temporarily left, and so have his trusted officers.”

“People are worried about what might change regarding the projects and rules established under Myers’s tenure.”

Lans leaned forward, flicking ash. “Actually, you’re not accepting money—you’re upholding a tradition.”

“If soldiers see you accepting this, they’ll understand: the projects and rules from Myers’s time won’t vanish.”

“They don’t need to worry about adapting to a new environment—they can simply carry on as before.”

“Train, eat, rest, relieve stress, and obey your commander!”

“I can guarantee that if I leave your office empty-handed, the soldiers in this base will love you even more.”

“You’re not taking bribes or illicit money—you’re soothing their emotions, giving the soldiers some benefits, ensuring that before they face war and march into gunfire, they have no regrets.”

Listening to Lans’s words, General Diaz sank into deep thought, his hands clasped beneath his chin, frowning as he stared at the money.

According to Lans’s logic, it seemed he really had no choice but to take this money?!

He himself wasn’t opposed to the idea—but… he disliked being forced into this passivity.

Yet Lans’s reasoning was sound, and for a moment, he couldn’t decide what to do.

At the same time, he wondered: Lans had placed officers and soldiers at the center of his words—what was he trying to convey?

Was he implying his deep infiltration of the base?

Or was he hinting at something else?

Being a general isn’t easy—if a general fails to consider his subordinates’ interests, those officers and soldiers won’t truly support him.

After much hesitation, he finally agreed.

“You’re a very interesting man, Lans.”

The moment he spoke those words, Lans knew he had taken the money.

He never feared greedy men—he feared men who weren’t greedy enough.

Their relationship now had a stronger foundation. After escorting Lans to the door, General Diaz returned to his desk.

He picked up the two empty boxes on the floor, covered the money with them, locked the clasps, and placed the boxes in the corner.

He summoned his aide and instructed him to observe any changes within the barracks.

Lans had arrived with goods and left empty-handed—this drew attention. Soon, soldiers began smiling as they entered the building behind.

When the report reached General Diaz, he frowned.

His aide asked, “Should I send the military police to remove them?”

General Diaz raised his hand. “No. I just realize Lans’s infiltration of this barracks runs deeper than I thought.”

The aide fell silent for a moment, then whispered, “This is Jincheng City, General.”

General Diaz’s gaze settled on him. The aide pressed on: “This is Lans’s and the Lans family’s stronghold. As long as soldiers can go into the city, everything they see, hear, and touch will inevitably connect them to Lans and the Lans family.”

“I heard a rumor.”

“Soldiers only need their combat badges—when they visit businesses operated by the Lans family, including casinos, they receive special privileges.”

Soldiers are permitted to leave the barracks during leave, and they can go into the city to relax.

Humans are among the most suggestible creatures—this is evident from how easily they can be persuaded.

If they had strong convictions, they wouldn’t be so easily swayed.

So when these soldiers live in an environment where everyone praises Lans and the Lans family, even mythologizing him in certain ways, they gradually shift their own beliefs.

Even the therapists—when helping soldiers relax—sometimes hear questions too private to ask elsewhere.

Yet none of them hate Lans; instead, they all show him respect.

Lans gave them jobs other women dream of: stable work, protection from abuse, steady income, and regular free medical checkups.

The more soldiers are exposed to this environment, the more they come to see Lans as a good man—someone to respect, not scorn or oppose.

They won’t necessarily take Lans’s side against General Diaz—but because of the tension between Lans and Diaz, their impression of Diaz will worsen.

Lans gives them free sex, free alcohol, respect, and discounts.

If you can’t get along with someone this good, then General Diaz must be impossible to deal with.

In peacetime, he didn’t care. In this authoritarian military structure, he wasn’t afraid of lower-ranking soldiers acting out.

But now is wartime—the ones who truly go to the front lines aren’t him, the general, but his soldiers.

At this moment, he finally began to understand what Lans meant by “the rules.”

It was an invisible wall, a palace—but also a cage.

If you don’t want to smash your head bloody against it, the best course is to follow the rules.

News spread quickly through the barracks. By nightfall, the building behind the barracks had regained its bustle; after dinner, soldiers had one hour of free time.

Many chose to spend it in the building, to unwind—even if only for a few minutes, ten or fifteen.

Yet that inner restlessness vanished with those minutes!

Soldiers stepped out of the rooms, adjusting their clothes, faces glowing with satisfaction: “Thank you, Mr. Lans!”

Inside, the girl placed a card in a secure spot—it could be exchanged for money.

As she cleaned herself, she murmured, “I truly must thank Mr. Lans…”

(End of Chapter)