Chapter 408: Capital Entry

After Qian Hongguo finished his last sentence, the conference room was silent for almost half a minute.

The humming of the air‑conditioning restarting filled the room, making the atmosphere feel even more oppressive.

Lord Wei said nothing.

The seven reports spread before him were nudged slightly aside by his fingertips, but his gaze did not fall on the pages.

Logistics Director Lao Zhou was the first to crack under the stifling mood, his voice still sounding like sandpaper: "Old Qian makes a valid point, but you can't just say open selection is impossible; you need a fallback plan. We can't just shut the door and tell the hundreds of thousands waiting outside—go back, you're not worthy."

"If I had a plan, I wouldn't be standing here spouting nonsense," Qian Hongguo said bluntly. "I'm the one doing Intelligence analysis; I can tell you where the problem lies, but how to solve it—that's the job of everyone here."

Someone from the Data Services Department muttered, "Isn't that just saying nothing at all…"

"Then you say it?" Qian Hongguo turned his head and stared.

The other party adjusted his glasses and fell silent.

The conference room fell into a stalemate again.

Of the nine people, six bowed their heads over the reports before them, two sipped water, and the remaining one, Qian Hongguo, sat with his arms crossed against the chair back, ignoring everyone.

Lord Wei finally spoke.

It wasn't a decision, nor a reprimand.

He said four words: "Invite someone in."

Everyone was taken aback for a moment.

The door to Conference Room Three was pushed open from outside.

First came the scent of cologne—subtle, followed by the crisp, decisive two taps of leather shoe heels on the floor.

The newcomer looked about forty, about 1.72 m tall, but was dressed more impeccably than a magazine cover. He wore a tailored dark‑blue haute‑couture suit that clung to his frame, the cuffs revealing a strip of French‑style shirt white, a discreet Patek Philippe on his left wrist that only connoisseurs would notice. His hair was slicked back, with a few stray white hairs at the temples, giving his round face a hint of seasoned sharpness.

He smiled as he walked in.

The smile wasn't the usual polite social grin; it was more like a host entering his own reserved private room—relaxed, poised, with a touch of ownership.

Logistics Director Lao Zhou's brows knit first.

He didn't recognize him.

But he could gauge the price of the outfit; it was enough to have sustained him for thirty years.

"Good day, everyone," the newcomer said, standing at the far end of the conference table, not rushing to sit, his gaze sweeping everyone before finally pausing on Lord Wei with a slight bow.

"Huan Yu Heavy Industry, Shen Wanshan. Thank you, Director Wei, for the invitation; I'm here today for a discussion."

"Huan Yu Heavy Industry?" Qian Hongguo was the first to react, his voice rising a half‑step. "The Huan Yu Heavy Industry that ranks among the top three in the defense‑industry market cap?"

Shen Wanshan smiled lightly, didn't take the bait, pulled out a chair and sat down with a natural ease as if returning to his own living room.

Lao Zhou turned his head and whispered to the person beside him, "Since when has the Director invited a businessman?"

The person beside him shook his head.

Lord Wei's gaze landed on Shen Wanshan, and without any introduction he said, "Your turn."

Shen Wanshan took a beautifully bound proposal from his briefcase.

He didn't open it immediately; instead he set the proposal upright on the table and gave it two taps.

"Everyone here is intelligent, so I won't beat around the bush," Shen Wanshan spoke at a measured pace, each word enunciated clearly with the rhythm of a seasoned negotiator. "The Investigation Bureau's biggest problem now isn't that it can't win, but that it can't afford to sustain itself."

Lao Zhou's chopsticks—he had been stirring goji berries in his Thermal Cup—stopped moving.

"The medical and manpower resources you consume over three days, I had someone roughly estimate, amount to about 4.7 billion in cash. And the output? Less than a one‑percent success rate. This isn't screening; it's throwing money down the drain."

Qian Hongguo's mouth twitched as if to speak, then he swallowed it. He had just said essentially the same thing, only Shen Wanshan phrased it more bluntly.

"Also, your equipment issue," Shen Wanshan raised his second finger. "The frontline counter‑deception operatives' containers, perception devices, shielding gear—all rely on the Research Department's hand‑crafted development. How much does a large‑scale Cognitive Shielding Device cost?"

No one answered.

Shen Wanshan gave the figures himself: "Each unit costs 18 million, and the Federation has built six in total. Six units."

He stretched out one hand, fingers splayed, then raised the index finger of his other hand.

"Six devices protect 6.8 billion people. Don't you find that picture a bit absurd?"

"Director Shen, what exactly are you trying to convey? The Investigation Bureau's difficulties don't need an outsider to lecture us," someone from the Intelligence Analysis Department stood, pushing his chair back.

"Exactly. That's why I'm here to solve it."

Shen Wanshan opened the proposal; the first page was a world map marked with three red dots.

"Weird Domain Countermeasure Academy, code‑named 'Seek Strategy Garden'. I'm personally investing 300 billion Federal Currency to build a super‑large academy each in Jianghai, the Capital, and Huadu."

Almost simultaneously, chairs scraped against the floor in the conference room.

"The academy will do three things. First, establish a standardized pre‑screening system. Applicants, before entering the Investigation Bureau's gates, must complete a three‑month foundational assessment at the academy, covering psychological stress tolerance, physical baseline, and Weird knowledge reserves. Those who fail are filtered out at this stage, receive a completion certificate, and leave with dignity—no shame, and they won't become the online trolls berating you for bloodline theories."

He turned to the second page, which displayed a schematic of an industrial assembly line.

"Second, mass‑produce low‑tier equipment: Weird‑suppression projectiles, basic containment units, and D‑class protective suits. The core tech barriers are low; the bottlenecks are capacity and cost. Huan Yu Heavy Industry's defense production line can be adapted with minor tweaks, and my team's feasibility study shows that within six months of the first line's launch, the unit price of low‑tier gear can be reduced to one‑seventh of today's cost."

Lao Zhou set his cup down.

"One‑seventh."

That meant the money that previously could outfit six units now could equip forty‑two.

"Third, export talent in bulk. Students who pass the pre‑screening move to the practical training stage; after completing graduation assessments according to standards co‑developed with the Investigation Bureau, they are directly placed into the reserve sequences of each branch. You won't have to pull people off the streets anymore."

Shen Wanshan closed the proposal, folding his hands and placing them atop it.

Silence lingered for about three seconds.

Then Conference Room Three erupted.

"Bullshit!"

The one slamming the table was Logistics Director Lao Zhou. The Thermal Cup toppled, spilling goji‑berry water across the table, and he didn't even bother to clean it up.

"Shen Wanshan, your words sound nice—300 billion, three academies, mass‑produced gear—what's your angle? Is Huan Yu Heavy Industry so flush it's throwing three hundred billion into charity?"

"There's no such thing as free money in this world," Qian Hongguo also rose, his tone a bit more restrained than Lao Zhou's but his words harsher. "What do you want? The commercial operating rights of the counter‑deception operatives? Priority extraction rights to Weird Domain resources? Or do you intend to turn humanity's last combat power into your personal private army, Shen Wanshan?"

Shen Wanshan didn't move.

He waited until the two finished berating, then waited another two seconds, confirmed no third person was about to scold, and only then spoke.

"Deputy Director Qian," he called out Qian Hongguo's title, his tone still steady, "The three possibilities you mentioned, any of them three years ago I would indeed have considered. But now—"

He raised his hand and pointed at the ceiling.

"Currently, six S-Class Anomaly Domains worldwide are still expanding. Chicago was wiped out by a nuclear bomb. Dongdao has been designated a pollution quarantine zone. Fourteen kilometers of queues have formed at your doorstep, and six percent of the eliminated are already in contact with the Gospel Church."

He lowered his hand.

"Deputy Director Qian, do you really think I still have the mood to ponder how to make money?"

Qian Hongguo opened his mouth, but was choked.

"What I'm after, I can tell you directly," Shen Wanshan's smile faded, revealing the sharp edge beneath his merchant façade, "If humanity disappears, my market value drops to zero. I've lived forty‑three years, spent the first half making money, the second half must have a destiny to blossom. Is that reason simple enough?"

Lao Zhou sneered, "You phrase that smoother than any multilevel marketing speaker."

"Lao Zhou," Wei Gong finally spoke.

With just those two words, Lao Zhou's mouth shut immediately.

Wei Gong stared at Shen Wanshan. The eyes, dulled by time, now held no superfluous emotion.

"Your plan essentially outsources part of the state's public apparatus to private capital. No matter what you promise, capital entering means a transfer of speaking rights. Three hundred billion yuan poured in—who will the Instructor in the academy answer to? Who sets the equipment production standards? Who oversees the trainees' ideological education?"

"It belongs to the state."

Shen Wanshan's reply came so fast the breath at the end of Wei Gong's sentence hadn't even dispersed.

He pulled a separate agreement framework from the last page of the proposal and pushed it to the center of the table.

"The academy's supreme administrative authority, teaching command authority, and personnel appointment authority all belong to the Investigation Bureau. Huan Yu Heavy Industry only does two things: provide money and provide production capacity. The academy bears the Investigation Bureau's badge, not Huan Yu's. My people won't take teaching posts, won't touch trainee files, and won't partake in any classified matters."

He paused.

"Plainly put, I'm just a logistics contractor. You point where, I build there; once built, I hand you the key, and I stand outside the door."

"Of course—I wish to retain other rights besides these: profit sharing, School Board Member appointments, student housing and meals, and other non‑core aspects. As for profit, a fifty‑fifty split."

The conference room fell silent.

It wasn't the stifling silence before, but a quiet as everyone digested those words.

Qian Hongguo slowly sat back down, rubbing his knees with both hands.

He couldn't find a angle to rebut.

Because Shen Wanshan surrendered all the core authority. A merchant slaps three hundred billion on the table and says you take over—this must be either a saint or someone after something even greater.

But he couldn't articulate what that "greater thing" actually was.

Wei Gong's finger rested on the agreement framework.

His thumb rubbed the paper edge—once, twice, thrice.

Everyone in the room stared at that thumb.

On the fourth press, the fingertip halted.

"Approved."

Two words. No preface, no conditions, no "principally agree".

Lao Zhou jerked his head up, his lips moved, but in the end he said nothing.

Qian Hongguo closed his eyes, leaned back against the chair, and let out a long sigh.

Shen Wanshan stood, left the proposal and agreement framework on the table, and bowed with a precise angle and just‑right duration—neither flattering nor perfunctory.

"Thank you for Director Wei's trust. I will submit the first batch of construction plans within three days."

He turned and walked toward the door.

His leather shoes tapped a steady rhythm on the floor, fading with distance.

The door closed.

The scent of cologne still lingered in the air.

The attendees rose and left one after another. Some wore solemn expressions, some hesitated to speak, some exchanged a few silent glances with nearby colleagues before briskly departing.

Three minutes later, only Wei Gong remained in Conference Room Three.

He didn't move.

The Thermal Cup hadn't been unscrewed a second time today.

He flipped the proposal Shen Wanshan left to its final page—not the agreement framework, but an attachment tucked in the innermost layer, held by a paperclip.

The title read: "First Session of Qiu Ce Yuan Drafted School Board Member Recommendation List."

Twelve institutions and companies were listed neatly. The first few were familiar giants; with his eyes closed, Wei Gong could recite each one's background.

His gaze scanned line by line downward.

The ninth line.

"Ding An Industry (Holding) Co., Ltd."

An inconspicuous name. Registered capital fifty million, main business listed as building material trade and warehousing logistics. Among a list full of hundred‑billion‑level behemoths, it sticks out like a rabbit among a herd of elephants.

Wei Gong's finger stopped on that line.

Staring at the name, unmoving.

"Guo Family......"