Great Power Reclamation

The second day on Wall Street was worse than the first. Less than ten minutes after the market opened, Brothers Group's stock price plummeted again, with the decline once widening to 15 percent.

The telephones in the trading room rang incessantly, creating a piercing buzz that sounded like an electrocardiogram of the entire building issuing a dangerous alarm.

William Ye stood in the center of the trading hall, holding a mobile phone in his hand. The screen displayed constantly changing numbers, all red.

He didn't speak, and none of the traders dared to speak either; everyone was waiting for his instructions.

But William Ye did not give any orders. He was waiting for one thing—for those hiding in the shadows to come out on their own.

The in-depth report by CBN was published a few hours later than the Wall Street Journal's version, but its impact was on a completely different level.

The Wall Street Journal has a large readership in the United States, while CBN (China Business Network) has a large readership in China.

Those who read the Wall Street Journal decide where the money on Wall Street flows, while those who read CBN (China Business Network) decide which direction the sentiment in the Chinese market leans—the former controls the money, the latter controls the fate.

The headline of the report was very restrained: "Behind the Short Selling Scandal of Brothers Group, Who Is Afraid of Tianshan Engine?" The phrase "Who Is Afraid" is much harsher than direct insults.

Because it's not making accusations, it's asking questions. Asking questions doesn't require evidence; it just needs to subtly point the finger at the target.

The top comment in the comment section has over 500,000 likes. That comment says: What they fear is not the Brothers Group, but that the Chinese people will no longer need them.

Ye Feng sat in his office and placed the two reports side by side on his computer screen: The Wall Street Journal on the left and CBN on the right.

He stared at it for a long time, and only when he picked up the coffee cup and brought it to his lips did he realize that the cup was empty.

He didn't ask for a refill, but placed the empty glass back on the table, the bottom of which tapped softly against the solid wood surface. His phone rang; the screen displayed Ye William's name.

"Brother, I found it. One of the four hedge funds' funding sources is empty."

"empty?"

"Shell companies within shell companies, registered in the Cayman Islands, managed in Luxembourg, transited through Hong Kong, and finally the money is transferred into an account. Each layer is legal, and the real investor cannot be found at any layer."

"But there's one layer to it—the Cayman Islands company has a registered capital of only $50,000, but the cash flow it handles is in the eleven figures."

William Ye paused for a moment, "With $50,000 in capital, trying to run a business worth tens of billions. This isn't a hedge fund; it's a puppet show."

Ye Feng held his phone in silence for a while. "Can you find that connection?"

"Yes, but it takes time. Our opponent sets up the pieces, while we analyze them. It only takes them a second to place a piece, but it might take us a day to figure out their intentions."

"It might take a month to undo the impact of this move; it might take a year to turn the whole game around. It's not that we're slow, it's that if we get impatient, we'll fall into the trap set by our opponent."

Ye Feng said, "Don't rush. Investigate slowly. Once you find out, don't act; wait for me to make my move." Ye William's voice was low. "Brother, do you think they'll make another move?"

Ye Feng stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the Manhattan skyline. The glass curtain wall reflected the afternoon sun, making his eyes sting.

"Yes. Because they haven't won. If they haven't won, they won't stop. If they don't stop, they'll strike again. And if they strike again, they'll give themselves away."

After hanging up the phone, Ye Feng stood by the window for a long time.

The morning in Washington arrived at a leisurely pace. When Susie woke up in her hotel bed, sunlight was already streaming through the gaps in the curtains, drawing a thin golden line on the carpet.

She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind automatically replaying the words she had spoken in the campaign office yesterday. She remembered every word, every pause, every slight change in tone due to emotional fluctuations—

She doesn't regret it; once she's said it, she won't regret it.

After more than two decades in politics, the most important lesson she learned was never to regret what she had said. Regret leads to hesitation, hesitation leads to retreat, retreat is obvious, and being seen through means defeat.

My phone vibrated on the bedside table. It was a message from Mark, just one sentence:

"The Wall Street Journal called and wants to interview you."

Susie paused, taken aback. The Wall Street Journal never interviewed third-party candidates. Just how valuable was that newspaper's space?

Both Democratic and Republican candidates have to wait in line, and it's common for them to wait for weeks or even months.

Now they've come knocking on her door, not because of what she said yesterday, but because some people didn't want to hear what she said yesterday.

Those who don't want to hear something are even more unwilling, while those who do want to hear it are even more eager to listen. This is the physical law of the public opinion field—the greater the action, the greater the reaction.

She replied: "Agreed. They'll decide the time."

The message was sent. A dozen seconds later, Mark sent another message: "They said they'd like to invite Ye Feng along."

Susie looked at the message and smiled. It wasn't a big smile, but it was genuine.

She put down her phone, went into the bathroom, and turned on the tap. Hot water poured over her, creating a cloud of steam. She stood underwater with her eyes closed, her mind racing—

The Wall Street Journal wanted to interview her and Ye Feng. This wasn't a news interview; it was a signal, a tentacles extended by those lurking in the shadows, testing whether she dared to accept. She dared.

In the compound of the Military Reclamation City Research Institute, several black cars were parked. There were no markings on the cars, but the old gatekeeper recognized the license plate number at a glance.

He served in the military for nearly twenty years and never made a mistake about which license plate corresponded to which unit.

The review expert group from the Civil Aviation Administration of China arrived. Director Zhou, who was leading the group, got out of the car, stood at the entrance of the research institute, and looked up at the red brick building.

He had gray hair, wore black-rimmed glasses, stood ramrod straight, wore a dark gray jacket, and carried a black briefcase.

Ye Yuping and Helena stood at the building entrance to greet them. Ye Yuping was wearing a faded work uniform, his hair was gray but his back was ramrod straight.

Helena stood beside him, her blonde hair completely white, her right leg slightly lame, but she stood very steadily without swaying at all.

Director Zhou walked up to them and extended his hand. "Engineer Ye, Ms. Helena, thank you for your hard work."

Ye Yuping shook hands with him, and Helena shook hands with him as well. "Director Zhou, the engine is inside, please."

The review team spent three days at the R&D institute. They didn't just sit in a meeting room reading reports; they went down to the workshop to see the actual products, disassembled the outer shell to examine the internal components, and retrieved the original data to trace the source.

Every component has a number, every drawing has a signature, and every test is recorded.

From the ignition of the first prototype to the successful test run of the fourth, more than a decade passed. These years of records are not written in reports, but etched in the memories of every participant.

Ye Hai stood in front of the test bench, explaining the design concept of the turbine blades to the experts in the review group. His speech was neither too fast nor too slow, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, and he used every technical term precisely, without any unnecessary words or deliberate embellishment.

Aygul stood beside him, holding a notebook, ready to add materials and data at any time.

She didn't actually need to look at the notebook; the data had already taken root in her mind, like camel thorns in the Gobi Desert, which no matter how strong the wind and sand, they couldn't be blown away.

She was holding the notebook simply to make herself look like an assistant; she didn't want to steal Ye Hai's thunder.

Director Zhou stood to the side, listening to Ye Hai's introduction without interrupting. He occasionally jotted down a few words in a small notebook, but mostly nodded.

It's not a polite nod, it's a serious nod. It's the kind of nod that shows you understand, take it to heart, and agree with what I'm saying, so you nod to show your approval.

Three days later, the review team left. As they were leaving, Director Zhou stood at the entrance of the research institute, shook Ye Yuping's hand, and said:

"Engineer Ye, I've inspected the engine. It's very good. But the airworthiness certificate isn't up to me; it's up to the data. If the data is sufficient, the certificate will be issued. If the data isn't sufficient, no one's opinion matters."

Ye Yuping nodded. "The data is sufficient."

Director Zhou glanced at him, released his hand, and turned to get into the car. The taillights of the convoy gradually disappeared into the distance across the Gobi Desert, finally vanishing below the horizon at the end of the road.

Ye Yuping stood there for a long time. Helena came over and draped a coat over his shoulders.

"Yuping, let's go back. It's windy."

"Director Zhou said the data is sufficient."

Helena paused for a moment. "He hasn't gone back to Beijing yet, has he? The results aren't out yet."

Ye Yuping turned around and looked at her. "His eyes told me everything."

Helena didn't ask, "When did you learn to look people in the eye?", "You're not mistaken, are you?", or "What makes you so sure?"

She simply reached out and took his hand. His hand was large and rough, with thick, deformed knuckles and calloused fingertips.

These hands have held wrenches for decades, shaped blueprints for decades, and signed their names for decades.

Ye Yuping, these three words signed on the blueprints, represent responsibility.

The Wall Street Journal interview was scheduled for 2 p.m. on Thursday at the top floor of an office building in Midtown Manhattan.

This wasn't the location chosen by Ye Feng, nor by Susie; it was chosen by the newspaper. They wanted a scene perfect for taking great photos—floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline, and the afternoon sun streaming in from the west. As for the interview content, they simply needed the two of them to appear in the same photograph; that photograph itself would be more valuable than any interview.

Ye Feng arrived twenty minutes earlier than the agreed time. He was wearing a dark gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie.

His hair was neatly combed, and his expression was completely calm, making him look like a CEO about to walk into the boardroom, rather than a man about to publicly reveal a nearly thirty-year-old private relationship to the media.

Susie was already in the dressing room. The makeup artist was touching up her makeup. She had her eyes closed, but when she heard the door open, she opened them and saw Ye Feng walk in through the mirror. He didn't say "You're here," nor did he say "Are you nervous?" He didn't say anything at all.

The makeup artist applied the last bit of loose powder to her face, packed up her tools, and left.

The door closed. Only two people remained in the dressing room, sitting side-by-side in front of the mirror. Neither of them were young anymore; their hair was white, their wrinkles deep, but the look in their eyes remained unchanged—

It's not the kind of fire that burns wildly when you're young, but the kind that has been burning for decades and hasn't gone out yet, only turning from bright flames to embers, from red to orange light.

Susie spoke first: "Ye Feng, do you regret it?"

Ye Feng looked at her in the mirror and pointed to the scar on his right temple—

It's partially hidden in the hair, and you can't notice it unless you look closely.

Do you remember how you got this scar?

Susie recalled for a moment. "Harvard. You were riding your bicycle with me, and the brakes failed downhill. You pushed me off the road and crashed into a tree with the bicycle."

Ye Feng's lips curled up slightly. "That time you asked me if I regretted giving you a ride, and I said I didn't. It's the same now." Susie lowered her eyes and gently rubbed her knees with her fingers.

The interview took place in a large conference room on the top floor. The Manhattan skyline was visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the afternoon sun slanted in from the west, casting a golden glow on the long table.

The reporter was a woman in her forties with long blonde hair and frameless glasses. She spoke softly but enunciated each word clearly.

A notebook lay open in front of her, and a voice recorder was placed next to her, its red indicator light flashing incessantly.

After exchanging pleasantries, the reporter's first question was very direct.

"Congressman Wharton, you said in your campaign office yesterday that Ye Feng is the most important man in your life. Could you elaborate?"

Susie didn't hesitate. "We met at Harvard. I was in my early twenties then, doing my master's at the Kennedy School. He was in the business school."

“We became partners in a class on emerging market investing, and we worked together on four cases over the semester, getting an A in each one.”

"Have you been together since then?"

Susie shook her head. "It's not about being together. It's about standing together. He's standing in the middle, with the US on his left and China on his right. He can see both sides, but he can't go back to either."

“I learned a lesson from him—it’s not about which side you’re on, it’s about where you’re doing the work. People who do the work don’t need to take sides; they just need to do the work.”

The reporter turned to Ye Feng. "Mr. Ye, you didn't donate a single penny to Congressman Wharton's presidential campaign. Why?"

Ye Feng thought for a moment and gave a surprisingly honest answer.

“She wouldn’t let me donate. She said she didn’t need my money, she needed my brain.”

The reporter pressed further: "So, in what way did your brain help her?"

Ye Feng replied, "I helped her figure out some issues she didn't have time to think about on her own."

The reporter was silent for a few seconds, then looked down and wrote a line in his notebook. He looked up, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the two people, and changed the question.

"What Wall Street Journal readers are most concerned about is—if Susie Walton is elected president, what will the Brotherhood and Warriors do? Will they use this relationship to gain illicit benefits?"

Susie quickly took over the question. "First, since Brothers Group and Warriors Group are not listed companies, no shareholders' money has been misappropriated."

"Second, the hundreds of millions of dollars that the Wharton family foundation has donated to the global public health sector over the past decade have had nothing to do with the US government."

“Third,” she paused, looking directly at the camera, “if I were the kind of person who got to where I am through nepotism, I wouldn’t be sitting in this room today—I would be at a fundraising banquet, toasting lobbyists one by one, laughing until my lips cramped.” She leaned back in her chair.

After the interview, the reporter turned off the recorder, closed the notebook, stood up, and extended his hand, first shaking hands with Susie, and then with Ye Feng.

"This report will be published in next Monday's paper. Thank you both for your time."

Susie nodded and picked up her sunglasses from the table. Ye Feng stood up and helped her push her chair back under the table. The two walked out of the conference room together and entered the elevator.

There were only the two of them in the elevator. Susie leaned against the elevator wall, took off her sunglasses, her eyes were red, but she didn't cry.

"Ye Feng, what you said today..."

Ye Feng reached out and took her hand.

"It's all the truth."

The elevator arrived at the underground parking lot. The door opened, and Ye Weilian stood next to a black sedan, watching them get out and opening the car door.

Susie got into the car first, followed by Ye Feng. Ye William closed the door and sat in the passenger seat. The car drove out of the parking lot and merged into the traffic of Manhattan.

Susie looked out the window as the city's silhouette rushed past her—the reflections of glass curtain walls, the footsteps of pedestrians, the silhouettes of cyclists, and the songs of street performers.

Everyone was retreating, moving forward, and retreating. Only the two of them sat in the back seat of the black sedan, neither speaking. Manhattan was left far behind.

The night was deep in the Military Reclamation City Research Institute, like stale brick tea. Old Zhou had been gone for several days, and the experts from the review team had also left. The institute had become quiet, unusually so.

The voices in the cafeteria were quieter, the smiles when greeting each other in the corridor were fewer, and even the old gatekeeper turned down the volume of his radio. It wasn't that they were unhappy; they were waiting—waiting for news from Beijing, waiting for the Civil Aviation Administration's decision.

Ye Hai sat at the workbench in the materials laboratory, a stack of materials analysis reports spread out in front of him. He had read them countless times, every single data point was etched in his mind, but he still looked at them again and again.

Aygul pushed open the door and came in, carrying two cups of coffee. She placed one cup next to Ye Hai and sat down opposite him with the other cup in her hand.

"Ye Hai, you're worried."

"No."

"You're lying. Every time you worry, you just look at the data you've already seen countless times."

Ye Hai's finger paused on the paper. He looked up at Ayiguli, her large eyes reflecting the light of the desk lamp. He said:
“I’m not worried about the engine; there’s nothing wrong with it. What I’m worried about is that even though there’s nothing wrong with the engine, the airworthiness certificate still won’t be issued.”

“It’s not because there’s not enough data, it’s because of something else. Something else? He doesn’t know. You can’t see it or touch it, but it’s there like a transparent wall. You walk forward, and with a thud, you bump into it, and that’s when you realize there’s a wall there.”

Aygul put down her coffee cup, stood up, walked around the table to him, and hugged him from behind. Her chin rested on his shoulder, and her face was close to his ear.

"Ye Hai, if there's a wall, we'll climb over it. If we can't climb over it, we'll tear it down."

Ye Hai reached out and covered the back of her hands, which were clasped together on his chest, his rough fingertips gently stroking her smooth hands.

"Who taught you to say things like that?"

Aygul thought for a moment. "I learned it from your mother."

Ye Hai was stunned for a moment. "My mom?"

"Yes. She said that people who work on engines can't be afraid of walls. The walls are there, waiting for you to tear them down."

Ye Hai was silent for a moment, then a smile appeared on his lips. He remembered his childhood in Boston, when his mother would work overtime in the lab while he did his homework next to her.

Someone knocked on the door and came in, saying that a certain technical approach was not working and they had reached a dead end.

The mother didn't even look up. "If one path is blocked, try another. If you find a way through, you'll be the first person to make it."

The man who came in to report stood frozen in place. Only then did her mother look up at him and ask:
Are you afraid of being the first?

Ye Hai held Ayiguli's hand and slowly tightened his grip.

On the Gobi Desert, the wind grew stronger. The lone streetlamp at the entrance of the research institute swayed slightly in the wind, its halo fluctuating in size.

The old gatekeeper peeked out of the guardhouse, looked at the sky, and then ducked back inside. The weather was about to change.

That's how spring is. One moment the sun is shining so brightly you want to take off your coat, and the next moment dark clouds roll in from the Tianshan Mountains, covering the sky and making it hard to breathe.

But that's alright; the people of the Gobi Desert aren't afraid of changing weather. What they fear is that the weather will never change—they don't want to live forever in someone else's season.

(To be continued)(End of this chapter)