Great Power Reclamation

Wall Street is never short of battles, but the scale of this one is so terrifying that even seasoned traders are terrified.

At four in the morning, a new anonymous report exploded on the Bloomberg terminal.

This is not a rehash of old arguments about patent infringement, nor is it a tired rhetoric about related-party transactions; it's a so-called "independent investigation report" concerning the supply chain of core materials for the Tianshan engine.

The key raw material for the third-generation single-crystal high-temperature alloy used in the turbine blades of the Tianshan engine—rhenium, a rare metal used for heat resistance and corrosion resistance—mainly comes from Kazakhstan.

The report solemnly stated that Yang Geyong's oilfield company held nearly 30 percent of the shares in the rhenium mine in Kazakhstan.

Thus, a meticulously woven chain of logic was formed—

The raw materials for the Tianshan engine came from Yang Geyong's mines. Yang Geyong's money came from the Ye family's help. The Ye family's money came from the Warrior Group and the Brothers Group. The Brothers Group's money came from the US capital market.

Now the final link in this chain has been brought to the forefront—

"American capital is indirectly funding China's aero-engine research and development through Brother Group." This is not a commercial accusation, but a political one; it's not being fought in a US courtroom, but in the emotions of the American people.

The atmosphere in the trading room of the Manhattan headquarters building was as tense as a volcano about to erupt.

William Ye stood in the center of the trading hall, staring at the screen as Brothers Group's pre-market decline widened to twelve percent. Behind him, dozens of traders simultaneously answered their phones, typed on their keyboards, and turned to look at his face.

He didn't look at them; his gaze remained fixed on that number.

A 12% drop only means a larger sell-off after the market opens, more retail investors will panic and sell at a loss, and those hedge funds that have been lurking in the shadows will open their bloody mouths and dump all the chips they prepared months ago.

Like vultures drawn by the smell of carrion, they converged from all directions.

"Mr. Ye, the phone is ringing."

A trader raised the microphone.

"Who?"

"Mr. Soros."

The trading room fell silent for a moment.

William Ye walked over and took the phone. "George."

The voice on the other end of the phone was very old. When he opened his mouth, his English, spoken with a strong Hungarian accent, sounded like sandpaper rubbing against a metal plate, but every word was clear and distinct.

“William, I read the report. It’s well-written. Better than the one they wrote about me last year.”

William Ye did not respond.

Soros asked, "William, is your brother home?"

"exist."

"Let him answer the phone."

Ye Feng had already entered the trading room. Ye William handed him the phone. Ye Feng took the receiver and held it to his ear; everyone was watching his face.

“George.”

"Ye Feng, listen to me."

Ye Feng remained silent. On the other end of the phone, Soros's voice slowed. "That old man lived his whole life fighting, winning and losing his entire life."

He knew better than anyone that in the war of the financial markets, there are no permanent winners; only those who survive to the end are the winners.

"Ye Feng, they're striking at the heart of the matter, targeting the thinnest artery in your supply chain: rhenium ore. Yang Geyong's rhenium ore is the only card they have that connects you to China."

They want to use this card to tie your brother group and Tianshan Engine together, and then use this tied target to attack both sides of you at the same time.

They'll take your money, your reputation, and your people's confidence.

Ye Feng gripped the receiver, his gaze fixed on the fluctuating numbers on the screen. The numbers themselves had no color; it was the person viewing them who colored them red and green.

"George, what do you think we should do?"

"Strike the snake at its vital point. If they're attacking your rhenium ore, then strike their lifeline."

Soros finished speaking. After listening, Ye Feng walked to the center of the trading hall, picked up the wireless microphone on the table, and spoke softly, but his voice carried throughout the entire floor through the loudspeaker.

"Listen up, everyone. From now on, Brother Group will launch Plan B. Not slowly, but at full speed."

"Soros Fund Management, Wharton Capital, and Yang Geyong's energy group—three of them entered the market simultaneously. How much capital did they have? Not in the tens of billions, but in the hundreds of billions—in US dollars. They had only one goal: to crush those four hedge funds."

The trading room erupted in chaos.

The battle began the moment the market opened.

Brothers Group's stock price fell below yesterday's closing price during the pre-market auction, with a drop exceeding 10% in an instant.

At the moment the market opened, a massive number of sell orders surged out like an avalanche, creating a huge gap in the market.

But this time, the gap didn't widen as it had in the previous days—the orders were snapped up as soon as they were placed.

It's not retail investors or speculative funds that are profiting; it's the machines that are profiting.

Soros Fund's quantitative trading system automatically activated its pre-set programs in the past few minutes, processing tens of thousands of orders per second, buying faster than its competitors could sell off.

Like an invisible net, it spread out silently, catching all the chips that were thrown down.

William Ye stood in the center of the trading hall, his mobile phone simultaneously connected to the trading systems of Soros Fund, Wharton Capital, and Yang Geyong Energy Group.

Three systems and four screens were lined up in front of him, like four doors leading to different battlefields.

The numbers on the screen are fluctuating. Brothers Group's stock price stopped falling after reaching a certain level.

The price stopped falling not because there were no sellers, but because all the sellers had been absorbed.

Whatever amount they spend, we take. They spend 100 million, we take 100 million. They spend 200 million, we take 200 million. They spend 500 million, we take 500 million.

They began to hesitate. The cost of dumping shares was rising sharply—each drop in price would come at a much higher cost than expected.

Because there are people standing there, with more money than them, more patience than them, and a steadyer hand than them.

Soros's Hungarian accent came through the phone again, accompanied by laughter, a laughter like that of a child.

"Ye Feng, do you know? They made a mistake."

"What error?"

"They think you only have the Brothers Group. They think you only have the Warriors Group. They think you only have the Ye family's money. They don't know how many people are standing behind you."

"Yang Geyong is the first, but not the last. There's a second, a third, and a fourth. They're all lined up, waiting to stand next to you."

“Those people are not your brothers or relatives, but the connections, trust, and respect that your father has built up over the decades. You have helped them, and they are willing to help you in return. This is something that money cannot buy.”

"They wanted to beat you with money, but you didn't give them the chance. Because you have more than just money; you have something more valuable."

“You not only have friends, you also have time. Yang Geyong has known you for sixty years, and Soros has known you for almost thirty. These people didn't come to you after you became successful—”

"They've been by your side since you were little. Now that you're successful, they're still there."

Ye Feng held the receiver.

The Manhattan sunset streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the entire office in a warm orange hue.

In the distance, the Statue of Liberty stands as a tiny dot at the mouth of the Hudson River, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, like a newly lit match burning at the easternmost edge of the continent.

Junken City, the Ye family's old residence. Seventy percent of the apricot blossoms have fallen. A layer of pink and white petals covers the ground, on the stone tables, stone chairs, in the cracks of the stones, and on the moss.

A gust of wind blew, and the petals swirled on the ground like a flock of butterflies reluctant to leave. Ye Yuze sat under the tree, a chessboard in front of him, and Yang Geyong sitting opposite him.

Neither of the two old men spoke; neither wanted to speak. Those who play chess don't need to speak; the game speaks for itself.

Yang Geyong's phone vibrated on the stone table. He picked it up, glanced at it, put it down, and took a sip of his milk tea. He slurped it down louder than usual.

"Old Ye, it's started on Wall Street."

Ye Yuze held a chess piece in his hand without making a move. "I know."

Yang Geyong put down his bowl, wiped his mouth, and asked, "You knew? How did you find out from the military reclamation city?"

Ye Yuze looked up at him. His gaze was calm, as calm as the surface of a lake in the Tianshan Mountains, where snowmelt from thousands of years ago has melted at the bottom, leaving no ripples on the surface.

"Soros called. Not to Ye Feng, but to me."

Yang Geyong was stunned for a moment. "When?"

"Last night."

"What did he say?"

Ye Yuze placed the chess piece down with a snap.

He said, "Old Ye, don't worry. Your money isn't just your money. It's your reputation. As long as your reputation is there, your money is there. Without your reputation, your money is just paper."

Yang Geyong didn't say anything. He picked up the milk tea bowl and put it down again.

"Old Ye, how long do you think this battle will last?"

Ye Yuze looked at the chessboard for a while. "Let's play until the sun rises tomorrow."

"They'll lose when the sun rises tomorrow?"

"They'll know when the sun rises tomorrow."

Yang Geyong didn't understand what Ye Yuze was talking about, but he didn't ask. He picked up the milk tea bowl and took a big gulp; it was ice cold, like a car wheel that had been sitting out overnight.

Night fell. The lights remained on in the trading floor of Wall Street.

The stock price of Brothers Group was effectively held up. The decline was locked at a figure that wasn't particularly attractive, but certainly not fatal.

The four hedge funds have run out of ammunition—they've used up all the available chips, borrowed all the securities they could, and leveraged all the available funds.

But the stock price just won't fall. It's like an iron plate; you can punch it, kick it, or headbutt it. You could even break your hand bones and it still wouldn't budge.

William Ye stood in the center of the trading hall, looking at the numbers on the four screens. Soros Fund, Wharton Capital, and Yang Geyong's energy group—the three companies had joined forces to absorb nearly two billion US dollars in sell orders over the past few hours, steadily supporting Brothers Group's stock price on the brink of collapse.

This is not speculation, not gambling; it is a head-on confrontation, a brutal tactic of throwing money at people.

His phone vibrated. Soros had sent a message, just one line, written in English—

"They are done." They're finished. Ye William looked at this message without laughing, forwarded it to Ye Feng, and then announced in the center of the trading hall that today's battle was over.

Ye Feng stood by the office window, holding his phone. He had already received Ye William's message and read it several times.

The Manhattan night sky was starless, the lights were too bright, and the Hudson River was pitch black, its surface reflecting the lights on both banks like a flowing river of stars.

He dialed Yang Geyong's number.

"Uncle Yang."

"Hmm." Yang Geyong's voice came through the receiver, carrying a heavy Northwestern accent.

"Thank you for today."

"What are you thanking me for? I'm helping myself. If Brothers Group collapses, who will buy my rhenium ore?"

Ye Feng didn't refute. He knew Yang Geyong wasn't the type to constantly say "I'll help you." Help is help; no words are needed, no thanks are needed, no memory is needed. Just keep it in your heart.

After hanging up the phone, he stood by the window looking at the Manhattan night view, at the night sky illuminated by countless lights.

The stars have been submerged, but they still exist; you just can't see them. The starry sky over Junken City will forever shine brightly.

It's not because the lights there aren't bright enough, but because the people there need the stars to guide them. Without the stars, people in the Gobi Desert would lose their way.

The Wall Street Journal released its online edition the following morning, adding a news item—

"Brother Group's stock price stabilizes as mysterious buyers enter the market to snap up shares."

We've dug deep, but we haven't reached the bottom, because the bottom is too deep—so deep that no one knows how many layers are below. The top-ranked comment in the comment section wasn't left by an American, but by a Chinese netizen who bypassed the Great Firewall. It only says one sentence:

"Have you all forgotten that Ye Feng's father is named Ye Yuze?"

In Junken City, about 80% of the apricot blossoms have fallen. A thick layer of petals carpets the ground beneath the trees, soft and yielding underfoot, like walking on snow.

Ye Yuze walked under the tree, petals sticking to his shoes, trouser legs, and the top of his cane with each step. When he reached the door, he looked back and saw a pink and white footprint behind him.

That night on Wall Street, many people suffered from insomnia. The four hedge fund managers each had their own way of insomnia.

Some people spend the whole night staring at the screen, replaying the day's trading data over and over again, trying to find a crack in that wall;
Some people lock themselves in their offices, staring blankly at the ceiling, replaying every decision point in their minds, trying to figure out which step they went wrong.

Someone walked alone along Fifth Avenue in Manhattan late at night for a long time, from Central Park to Washington Square Park, until the soles of their shoes were worn thin.

They couldn't understand it. They had clearly predicted that the Brothers Group would suffer setbacks simultaneously in Asia and Europe; they had clearly predicted that Ye Feng's cash flow would reach its tightest point within a day; they had clearly predicted that those "vultures" would swarm in at the opportune moment and devour him—

They had calculated everything correctly. But there was one thing they hadn't anticipated—Yang Geyong's money was several orders of magnitude more than they had estimated, Soros's entry into the market was several times faster than they had anticipated, and Ye Feng's trump cards were many times more numerous than they had estimated.

They thought they were playing cards with Ye Feng, only to discover at the end that Ye Feng didn't have any cards at all. All the cards were in someone else's hands.

Yang Geyong played a pair for him, Soros played a straight flush, and Ye William played a straight. Ye Feng himself sat there without moving an inch.

It's not that he can't play cards, it's that he doesn't need to. The person playing for him is better at it than he is.

It was a Manhattan morning, the sun hadn't yet shone into the Wall Street canyon. Ye Feng was already sitting in his office. Several documents were spread out in front of him, and a cup of coffee, still steaming, sat beside him.

He didn't drink; his gaze remained fixed on the screen. Brothers Group's stock price had stabilized in pre-market trading and shouldn't fluctuate much after the market opened.

Those hedge funds have basically run out of ammunition and cannot organize a second attack in the short term. More importantly, they know how much ammunition the other side has left, but the other side does not.

This information asymmetry will make everyone who wants to act again hesitate. Hesitation means missing the opportunity; and once the opportunity is missed, it can never be found again.

The door was pushed open. William Ye walked in, his forehead covered in sweat, his tie askew. He sat down opposite Ye Feng, loosened his tie, and let out a long sigh.

"Brother, I found it."

Ye Feng looked up at him. "The source of funds for those four hedge funds. We dug deep, layer by layer, up to seven layers."

Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, Hong Kong, Delaware, Bermuda, Singapore, Ireland —

Seven shell companies, seven registered locations, seven legal representatives. Each layer is legal, but the true investor cannot be found at any layer.

But there's an account on the seventh floor. Ye Feng didn't speak. Ye William took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. It was a bank account number.

Who owns this account?

"I can't find it. The account is in Switzerland, an anonymous account. But I did find out where the funds went. In the past six months, this account has transferred more than 10 billion US dollars to those four hedge funds."

Three years ago, the same account transferred money to another account. That account belonged to a retired Boeing executive.

The office was quiet for a moment. Ye Feng's fingertips tapped lightly on the table.

"William, stop investigating this matter."

"Aren't you going to investigate? We finally found it—"

"That's enough information."

William Ye didn't understand. Feng Ye didn't explain. He picked up the cup of coffee, which had finally gone cold, and drank it all in one gulp, the bitter taste spreading from the tip of his tongue to his throat.

“William, you’ve been in this line of work for so many years, you should know one thing—some things aren’t untraceable, they’re simply not meant to be investigated. If you do find them, you have to deal with them. Dealing with them means offending people. Offending people means bearing the consequences. Can you afford to bear them?”

William Ye sat there without saying a word. He couldn't bear it. So there was no need to make him bear it.

Ye Feng put down his cup and lowered his voice. "Keep this document safe. Keep three copies: one for you, one for me, and one for Grandpa. We don't need it now. Wait for my notification when we need it later. Go now."

William Ye stood up, walked to the door, stopped, and turned around.

"Brother, do you think they'll come back?"

Ye Feng leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Yes. But not now. They need time to regroup, time to find a new breakthrough, and time to persuade those who are still hesitant to join their side."

"We need this time too. We need to get the Tianshan engine certified by the FAA and get the Junken-1 flying. Whoever finishes this race first will win."

"They're running a race of obstacles, we're running a race of overtaking. Different tracks, but the finish line is the same. Whoever crosses the finish line first wins."

William Ye left. The door closed.

Military reclamation city, research institute. Ye Hai and Ayiguli stood in front of the test bench. The final test data for the fourth prototype was now complete.

Not only did all the indicators meet the design requirements, but they even exceeded expectations in some key parameters. The engine, like a heart honed to its limits, lay quietly on the test bench, awaiting the mission it was about to undertake.

Ye Yuping walked in and stood behind them. He looked at the enormous, silver-gray machine, at the dense network of pipes and sensors, for a long time.

"Ye Hai, Ayiguli, come here."

The two people turned around and walked up to him.

"The maiden flight of Junken No. 1 is confirmed."

Ye Hai was taken aback. "When?"

"Three months later. At the Junkencheng Airport. Director Zhou proposed it, and it was approved by the higher-ups. The engine will fly from the place where it was manufactured."

Ye Hai didn't say anything, but went over and hugged his father. Ye Yuping was stunned for a moment, then reached out and patted his son's back.

His hands were large, and he slapped them hard, as if inspecting the casing of an engine for cracks. But Ye Hai knew that it wasn't an inspection; it was a response.

Aygul stood by, watching the father and son embrace. She said something in Kazakh. Yehai released his father and turned his head, his eyes red but he didn't cry.

"What do you mean?"

Aygul looked at him. "I said, Tianshan will not forget you."

Ye Hai didn't say anything, but walked over and took her hand.

Outside the window, the sandstorm on the Gobi Desert had stopped. The sky was blue, and the sun shone brightly. The snow-capped peaks of the Tianshan Mountains gleamed white in the sunlight, and the end of the track met the foot of the mountains.

Planes taking off from here will face that mountain directly, soaring upwards, passing through the snow line, through the clouds, through the troposphere and stratosphere, flying above all the peaks. There are no obstacles there, only the sky.

Manhattan, New York. Susie's campaign office. Mark has the latest poll numbers posted on the wall. Susie's approval rating has risen from 23 percent to 29 percent.

Not long after the silent war on Wall Street, Susie Walton rose several percentage points in the polls, directly swallowing up most of the Republican candidate's lost votes.

Those undecided voters placed their bets simultaneously at two poker tables, making their own choices.

At Susie's poker table, they bet on their approval of her straightforward personality; at the Brothers' poker table, they bet on their tacit approval.

Mark stood in front of the wall covered with polling data, lit a cigarette, took only two puffs, and then stubbed it out on the ground.

"Susie, do you know where this six percent comes from?"

Susie looked at him. "Where?"

"It didn't come from the Democrats. It came from the Republicans. Republican voters were more tired of the alternation of the two parties earlier, more intensely, and more thoroughly than Democratic voters. They didn't want to hold their noses and vote anymore."

“You’ve given them a reason not to hold their noses—you tell the truth. A candidate who tells the truth is not a stance in today’s American politics; he is a scarce resource.”

Susie looked at Mark without speaking. She opened the drawer and took out the brooch. The bald eagle's eyes gleamed slightly under the light, like two small red stars.

She gently stroked the eyes with the pad of her thumb, feeling the cool, delicate touch of the ruby's surface. The brooch had been pinned to her lapel for several days, and every time she wore it, someone would compliment how beautiful it looked.

No one knows who designed this brooch, nor does anyone know that the person behind it is currently sitting in his Manhattan office with Brothers Group's financial statements spread out in front of him and a cold cup of coffee beside him.

Susie pinned the brooch to her lapel and stood up.

"Let's go. It's time to go to the airport."

"Where?"

"Military Reclamation City".

Mark was stunned. "Military reclamation city? What are we going there for?"

Susie smiled. "Let's go see Military Reclamation No. 1."

There are three flights a week from Washington to Reclamation, and the flight takes almost a full day.

Susie sat in a window seat in first class, and Mark sat next to her, barely saying a word the entire time. He knew Susie wasn't on vacation or on an inspection tour.

At the Junkencheng Airport, Ye Mao stood at the arrival gate. He was wearing a dark gray jacket and wasn't holding a name tag.

But Susie recognized him at a glance—the Ye family all walked the same way, with their backs straight, their pace neither fast nor slow, and each step firmly planted.

“Congressman Wharton, welcome.”

"Director Ye, thank you for your hard work."

The two shook hands. Ye Mao opened the car door, Susie got in, and Ye Mao walked around to the other side to get in. The car drove out of the airport, onto the highway, and headed towards the military reclamation city.

Susie looked out the window at the Gobi Desert. This was her first time in XJ, and her first time seeing the Gobi Desert. It was more desolate and more vast than she had imagined. The sky was low, the land was flat, and the horizon was a straight line stretching from one end to the other, with no end in sight.

"Director Ye, how is your father's health?"

"It's great. I play chess, drink tea, and admire the apricot blossoms every day."

"Apricot blossoms? Are there still apricot blossoms now?"

Ye Mao smiled. "Yes. The late-blooming ones are still holding on. You should be able to see a few more when you arrive."

Susie looked out the window and didn't say anything more.

After driving for more than two hours, we entered the military reclamation town. The streets were narrow but very clean, with towering poplar trees on both sides, their tender green leaves glistening in the sunlight, like countless tiny hands clapping.

The car stopped in front of an old house. Susie got out and stood at the gate. The gate wasn't closed, so she pushed it open and went inside.

There is an apricot tree in the yard. The flowers have almost all fallen, but a few still remain on the branches. The pink and white petals are translucent in the sunlight, like cicada wings.

Two elderly people sat under the tree, one holding a teacup and the other holding a bowl of milk tea.

Neither of them stood up when Susie walked in. Ye Yuze put down his teacup, stood up, and walked step by step to Susie, extending his hand.

Ye Yuze took her hand. "You're here."

"coming."

Susie looked at the old man. His hair was completely white, and the wrinkles on his face were like knife marks, but his figure was still upright, standing there like an old tree that had been blown by the wind and sand for decades but had never fallen.

"Uncle Ye, on behalf of the Future Progressive Party, I formally request the Warrior Group and the Brother Group to support the internationalization process of the Tianshan Engine. Not financial support, but technical support, standards support, and support for a voice in the industry."

There was silence for a few seconds.

Ye Yuze released her hand, leaned on his cane, and walked back to the apricot tree, where he sat down. He picked up his teacup, and more petals floated into it. He didn't scoop them out, but swallowed the tea along with the petals.

"Susie, do you know why I donated the Tianshan engine to the country?"

Susie shook her head.

Ye Yuze looked at the few apricot blossoms still clinging to life above him. The petals swayed gently in the wind, as if answering him, or perhaps asking him a question.

"Because the engine doesn't belong to the Ye family, it belongs to the country. A country isn't a country of one person, it's a country of a nation. A nation isn't a nation of one generation, it's a nation of generations."

"I donated the engine not to the government, but to this nation. To give this nation a sense of pride. To give it pride is not about making others look up to you, but about standing up on your own. Once you stand up, you will never kneel down again."

He turned to look at Susie. The apricot blossoms above her head were reflected in his cloudy old eyes.

"You're welcome. Please sit down, and I'll have a cup of tea with you. But remember, you're not here to see the Ye family. You're here to see the Military Reclamation City. The Military Reclamation City isn't just the Ye family's Military Reclamation City; it's a city built by generations of Military Reclamation workers with their youth and blood."

In that look, Susie saw something more solemn than politics, something more enduring than power. It was a stone, a stone from the Gobi Desert, worn smooth by decades of wind and sand, its edges worn away but its hardness undiminished.

It is water, snowmelt from the Tianshan Mountains, flowing down from the mountaintops to irrigate this land, flowing to more distant places, and merging into larger rivers.

(To be continued)(End of this chapter)