Reborn in 1950: Shorting the Federal Reserve at the Start

Columbia University's Low School Library, with its soaring dome, is filled with the distinctive aroma of aged paper and ink. It is a sanctuary of academia, and at this time, the only haven in New York City that hasn't been turned into chaos by the roughnecks of the military police.

Shen Jinghong strolled leisurely among the bookshelves in the physics section, like a good student coming to read aloud in the morning.

The entire city was under martial law, with guards every three steps and sentries every five steps, but this did not affect his enthusiasm for "buying goods" in the slightest.

"The complete first issue of Physical Review? Wow, that's a treasure that records the birth of quantum mechanics."

Shen Jinghong gently traced the gold-embossed spines with her fingers, her eyes as tender as if she were stroking a lover's hair. "It's such a waste to leave them here to gather dust. Come with me, I'll take you to see the sun in the east."

The moment the fingertips touched it, the entire bookshelf, along with the thousands of rare books on it, vanished into thin air.

The once fully occupied reading area suddenly had a large empty space, revealing the peeling paint on the wall behind it.

"System, don't be picky. Collect journal articles, and even more so, collect professors' manuscripts and notes."

As Shen Jinghong walked, she mentally directed, "Those are the real crystallizations of intellectual labor, far more valuable than the formulas printed in books."

[Beep! A large amount of handwritten experimental data has been detected. It includes Professor Fermi's unpublished notes on the criticality of nuclear reactors... Receive?]

"Fermi's notes?"

Shen Jinghong almost whistled. "Collect it! Absolutely! This is the 'perfect study guide' prepared for our nuclear physics expert group. With this, who would still take the long way around?"

He was like a giant rat that had broken into a granary, greedy and efficient.

From the theoretical physics section to the chemical engineering section, from the aerospace archives to the precision machinery drawing library.

Wherever they went, not a single piece of paper was left behind.

In just one hour, the core area of ​​this top-tier library, which boasts one of the top three collections in the United States, was so clean it looked like it had been infested with termites.

"I've finished reading the book, time to go get some stationery."

Shen Jinghong stretched and slipped into the adjacent comprehensive experimental building.

That's the real treasure trove.

If blueprints are the soul, then equipment is the skeleton. Modern China is severely deficient in calcium.

Pushing open the door to Laboratory 302, a brand-new Zeiss high-power electron microscope stands quietly on the experimental table, its lens gleaming with a faint, cold light.

"Oh, it's German-made?"

Shen Jinghong walked over and patted the microscope tube. "Following the Americans will lead nowhere. They'll only use you to research how to make Coca-Cola bottles. Come with me, let's study artemisinin and hybrid rice."

With a flick of the wrist, the mirror fell.

Along with the centrifuge, high-precision balance, and even a whole cabinet of rare earth reagents, they were all packed up and taken away.

As he reached the door, he suddenly stopped and his gaze fell on a desk.

That must be a professor's desk, with an exquisite Parker 51 gold pen on it, the cap engraved with his name.

"This pen is good; the ink flows smoothly."

Shen Jinghong picked it up and twirled it between his fingers before casually putting it in his pocket (actually, he put it into his spatial storage). "Leaving it for you would only mean writing those nonsensical sanctions orders. It's better for me to take it back and sign off on the 'Dongfeng' Express waybills."

This is the quality of a top-tier scumbag.

Since you're breaking up, then empty the house.

They'll not only take your savings (gold), your car (airplane), but also your brain (blueprints), and even your everyday toothbrush (pen).

I may not need it, but I just don't want to leave it to you.

"I don't produce knowledge; I'm just a carrier of civilization."

Shen Jinghong looked at the laboratory building, which he had looted, and patted the dust off his hands with satisfaction.

At this moment, the system that had been silently working in my mind finally protested, overwhelmed by the workload:

[WARNING! WARNING! System space usage has reached 99.9%!]

[The space is nearing capacity and cannot accommodate any more large objects. Please clear out the area or stop collecting data as soon as possible.]

"Is it full already?"

Shen Jinghong glanced at the Empire State Building in the distance outside the window with a hint of lingering interest. "What a pity. I was planning to take the antenna off the roof of that building with me. That's some good steel."

However, one should not be too greedy.

The current system space already contains the entire wealth of a rising middle power.

Gold, US dollars, fighter jets, machine tools, centrifuges, a whole library of knowledge, and enough logistical supplies to arm an armored division.

This is hardly a case of returning to China to study.

This is clearly taking away half of the US's life.

"That's enough. If you get any greedier, you won't be able to walk anymore."

Shen Jinghong straightened her collar and looked at herself in the mirror in the corridor of the laboratory building.

The person in the mirror was dressed in a suit and tie, and looked refined and elegant. The gold-rimmed glasses on his nose made him look like a weak scholar who couldn't even kill a chicken.

Who would have thought that beneath this seemingly harmless exterior lay a "ghost thief" who had just robbed half of New York?

He walked out of the gates of Columbia University.

The atmosphere on the street had become extremely tense.

Armed soldiers were everywhere, armored vehicles blocked every intersection, and piercing sirens blared incessantly. Pedestrians were herded into inspections, and every face with yellow skin and black hair was pinned against a wall and searched by several soldiers.

"Hey! You, the one with glasses!"

A second lieutenant spotted Shen Jinghong swaggering down the middle of the road, immediately raised his carbine, and shouted sternly, "Halt! Hands up! Identification!"

Shen Jinghong stopped and slowly raised her hands, a cooperative yet helpless smile on her face.

He doesn't have a single extra piece of paper on him now; he's cleaner than his face.

All the evidence of his crimes, all the glory, lay quietly in that otherworldly space in his mind.

"Sir, don't be nervous, I'm just a poor student who's in a hurry to get home."

As Shen Jinghong spoke, he glanced at the distant blue sea out of the corner of his eye.

On the dock there, the huge smokestack of the "President Wilson" had already begun to belch black smoke, and the faint sound of the ship's horn could be heard, a call to return home.

The lieutenant walked over and roughly searched him, finding nothing but his valid passport and ship ticket.

"Damn it... there really is nothing there?"

The lieutenant stared suspiciously into Shen Jinghong's eyes, trying to find a trace of panic within them.

But all he saw was calm.

That kind of calm, as deep as a pool and as firm as steel.

"Sir, may I leave now?"

Shen Jinghong adjusted his glasses, pointed to the distant dock, and spoke in a relaxed tone as if he were discussing the weather:

"My boat is about to leave. If I'm any later, I won't make it back home to eat dumplings."

The lieutenant waved his hand dismissively: "Get lost! Remember, don't let me see you again!"

Shen Jinghong nodded politely, turned around, and took a step.

The moment he turned around, the smile on his lips widened instantly, carrying a hint of mockery and arrogance.

He looked at the rows of American soldiers, standing ready but empty-handed, gently patted his empty chest, and whispered:

Goodbye, New York. Don't bother seeing me off; I'll leave you with a cool last shot of my back. You're welcome.