I accidentally joined a group of charlatans, so I immediately called the police and handed it over t

The atmosphere at the National Convention Centre changed as soon as the spokesperson announced the "life-saving plan".

The Western journalists, who had originally formed a united front, were torn apart from within by this statement.

Journalists from staunch allies like Pakistan and Serbia couldn't hide their joy.

They gripped the recorder tightly, their eyes gleaming with excitement, seeing hope for their fellow countrymen to escape the disease.

The journalists from Britain, the United States, France, and Germany looked at each other in bewilderment.

Panic and anxiety spread rapidly like wildfire.

They were all astute and sensed something amiss in the air.

This is more than just a medicine.

This is a strategic resource, a diplomatic bargaining chip that carries more weight than oil, semiconductors, or even nuclear weapons.

Just then, an arm stiffly rose up, urgently, like a drowning person grabbing the last piece of driftwood.

A senior financial reporter from The Wall Street Journal stood up, oblivious to his crooked tie.

His voice was urgent, trembling uncontrollably, and he asked a crucial question, pointing directly to the core of capital.

"May I ask the spokesperson?" He stared at the stage, his tone aggressive.

What will be the final market price of Life One?

"What are the specific R&D costs? When is mass production expected and entry into the global free trade market?"

The reporter took a deep breath and revealed his hand directly.

"Will your country exploit its technological monopoly to reap exorbitant profits in the international market and engage in unfair trade practices?"

These questions are like scalpels, each one piercing the heart.

He wanted to dissect the commercial ambitions behind China's "medical miracle".

The underlying logic of Western capitalists is that there is no such thing as a free lunch.

Mastering this miraculous medicine that can bring the dead back to life is like holding a money-printing machine that never stops.

They naturally assumed that China would do what they had done over the past century.

They sell drugs at exorbitant prices, squeezing every last penny from every cancer family in the world.

All eyes were once again focused on the center of the podium.

The spokesperson, dressed in a suit and tie, remained unfazed by the trapping and malicious questions.

He looked at the reporter with eyes full of calculation and self-interest.

The spokesperson shook his head slightly, like a well-read old man looking at a child who hadn't grown up yet and only knew how to grab candy.

It's like a compassionate sage looking down on the pitiful souls whose souls have been twisted by money.

"Excessive profits?"

The spokesperson repeated the word, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm.

"In your eyes, life can only be measured in money?"

"In your logic, is technological progress only for a few cold, hard numbers on financial statements?"

"I'm telling you this responsibly."

"The manufacturing cost of Life One is much lower than you might imagine."

"It does not require expensive rare elements, complex chemical synthesis, or so-called patent barriers."

Everyone held their breath, waiting for the final answer.

As for pricing...

The spokesperson paused.

His gaze swept over Academician Lin Zhenghua in the front row, over Wang Gang, the hero who lost his arm, and over the volunteers who had been given a new lease on life. His eyes softened instantly.

That's the unique warmth and protectiveness one feels when looking at one's own compatriots.

"For our citizens, and for heroes like Wang Gang and Lin Zhenghua who shed blood and risked their lives for the country."

He spoke each word deliberately and forcefully.

"It's practically free."

boom--!!!

These words were like a nuclear bomb with unlimited yield, exploding directly in the trading halls of New York, London, and Tokyo.

Almost free!

These four words are a death sentence for the existing global medical system.

It breached the most vulnerable line of capital.

Across the ocean, at the New York Stock Exchange.

The silence lasted less than a second.

Then came a deafening roar and screams, like the end of the world.

"Throw it all away! Throw it all away! Don't leave a single second behind!"

"Pfizer! Johnson & Johnson! AstraZeneca! Regardless of the price, clear out all stock! Sell at market price!"

"Short! Go all in on shorting the entire pharmaceutical sector! Quickly! Quickly!"

The traders have gone mad.

They ripped off their ties, smashed keyboards, and screamed hysterically into the phone.

Panic, like a highly contagious virus, instantly infected the entire Wall Street.

If a miracle drug that can cure cancer is free, what value do those pharmaceutical giants who bleed money off expensive cancer drugs have?

Their patent barriers, R&D pipeline, and the moat they are so proud of.

At this moment, they all become waste paper.

On the giant electronic screen, the numbers that were originally alternating between red and green instantly turned a shocking blood red.

A precipitous drop—that's the blood of capital.

"It's over...it's all over..."

A white-haired fund manager slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the screen.

Pfizer Pharmaceuticals fell 30%.

Merck Group fell 28%.

Roche Pharmaceuticals fell 35%.

In just one hour, the total market value of the global pharmaceutical sector evaporated by more than one trillion US dollars.

This is not just a financial loss; it is a financial massacre from the East that has been carried out without firing a single shot.

It is the most thorough and ruthless mockery of the greed of Western capital.

The conference site.

Professor Hans, the Nobel laureate who once arrogantly called Lam Ching-wah an "actor".

At this moment, he does something that will shock everyone.

He slowly walked onto the stage, without the madness he had shown earlier, nor the arrogance and prejudice he had displayed before.

He walked with a faltering gait, like a believer who had finally bowed down before the truth.

He walked up to Academician Lin Zhenghua and looked at this elderly Chinese man who was older than him but still very energetic.

Then, under the watchful eyes of the entire world.

This titan of Western science bowed deeply with his noble posture.

Bow at a 90-degree angle.

He didn't get up for a long time.

The scene was deathly silent, except for the frantic clicking of camera shutters, capturing this historic moment.

"I apologize to you for my previous ignorance, arrogance, and prejudice."

Hans's voice was hoarse and trembling, yet filled with an unprecedented sincerity.

"We extend our sincerest respect to the scientists of China."

He slowly raised his head, and tears welled up in his cloudy old eyes.

"This isn't science, it's a miracle!"

"You are Prometheus who stole fire."

"You have stolen the flame of hope from God for all mankind."

This scene was captured on countless cameras.

It will become a footnote in history.

This marks the first time that Western scientific hegemony has bowed down before the mysterious power of the East.

This also marked the beginning of a complete reversal of the balance of power between East and West.

The live broadcast signal was cut off, but the earthquake triggered by this press conference had only just begun.

Across the ocean, at the White House.

The president's office phone lines were ringing off the hook, and the red traffic lights were flashing wildly.

The atmosphere at the emergency meeting of the highest security authorities was so oppressive that it was hard to breathe.

The CIA director stood there, sweating profusely, trembling like a schoolboy who had made a mistake.

"Super yeast? Shortens lifespan?"

The president grabbed a thick report and slammed it down on the director's face. Paper flew everywhere, and the sharp edges cut the director's forehead, drawing a little blood.

The roar shook the bulletproof glass.

"This is the intelligence you obtained by spending billions of dollars and utilizing all your spy networks?!"

"What about those so-called side effects? What about those lively, energetic patients? What about that old man practicing Tai Chi?!"

The president was so angry that his chest heaved violently, and he pointed at the door and roared.

"You're fired! Vulture! Take your stupidity and incompetence and get out of here right now!"

"God, we've lost...we've completely lost..."

In the far east.

Base 001, underground command center.

Chen Xi did not bask in the joy of victory.

He leaned back on the sofa, holding a glass of red wine in his hand.

He looked at his phone screen; the number representing merit points had already exceeded astronomical figures and was skyrocketing at a rate of tens of thousands per second.

But he couldn't laugh.

He felt a huge, terrifying heat rushing into his body through the phone.

That's not warmth.

It was a burning sensation like magma.

That was the excruciating pain of having one's soul forcibly stretched open.