Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

The professor did not reply.

[History Enthusiast Salon]

The topic was approached from another angle.

"Financial capital has made a tremendous contribution to the development of human society."

"In 16th-century Holland, the world's first joint-stock company was established: the Dutch East India Company. Why did we need a joint-stock company? Because the risks of long-distance trade were too great for one person to bear, and the risks needed to be shared. What is the essence of a joint-stock company? It is to pool together countless small amounts of capital to accomplish adventures that no single person could undertake."

"Around the same time, the first insurance company appeared in London. Why have insurance? Because if a ship sinks, the cargo is lost, and people go bankrupt. What is the essence of insurance? It is to allow countless people to share the loss of that unfortunate person."

"Without a shareholding system, Columbus might never have been able to assemble a fleet. Without insurance, Magellan's crew and their families might have all starved to death. Now you criticize capitalism—do you know what you're criticizing? You're criticizing the very thing that led humanity out of Europe and into the world!"

Someone replied below: "You're absolutely right. Then let me ask you—what risks have those vulture funds, those shorting food delivery platforms, taken on? What adventures have they undertaken?"

The Age of Exploration fan was silent for a few seconds. "That's derivatives trading; it's a different matter."

……

Within the court of Emperor Yang, the discussion was equally heated.

What constitutes immorality? What does it mean to avoid immorality? Who sets the boundaries?

"Who defines 'immorality'? What are the standards? Is there an objective, quantifiable, and universally acceptable boundary? If not, then these four words are just empty words?"

Some people say: "Being immoral means harming others for personal gain."

Someone immediately retorted: "Short selling is considered harming others for personal gain? When Tokyo's land prices could buy the entire world, was squeezing out the bubble considered harming others for personal gain?"

Some people say, "Being unethical means breaking the rules."

Someone immediately replied: "Making money within the rules, how can that be considered breaking the rules?"

Some people say, "Being immoral means having no conscience."

Someone immediately replied: "How much is conscience per pound? Show me the quantity!"

"Come on," the most upvoted reply appeared five minutes later: "No matter what, you guys can even calculate the seventh decimal place, so how could you not know what immorality is?"

--------

At this time, Zhang Qiliang was still walking on the road from Wall Street to JFK Airport.

Like any ordinary pedestrian, step by step, along the streets of Manhattan, eastward, and then eastward again.

The surroundings were extremely lively.

This is Superman.

The real, existing Superman who just threw a 30-story building into the Atlantic Ocean.

He's walking the streets of Manhattan right now, on the same plane as everyone else, moving at the same pace. — The sight alone is enough to make the whole city go wild.

Most people watched from a distance.

Separated by half a street, by the roadside green belt, and by the traffic that was stopped in place, afraid to move.

Their eyes were filled with the same thing—fanatical fervor.

An existence beyond our comprehension bursts into reality in the most direct way, and such an impact is enough to make anyone temporarily lose their mind.

Someone is taking pictures.

Someone is recording a video.

Some people just stood there, mouth agape, staring motionless in that direction.

Some people are still crying.

A middle-aged man in a plaid shirt stood by the roadside, tears streaming down his face. He didn't wipe them away; they just flowed. His lips moved, as if he were saying something, but the sound was too soft to be heard. People nearby heard him—he kept saying, "I saw it, I really saw it."

Hmm... there are other emotions too.

Behind a fifth-floor window of the office building on the left side of the street stood a man. Standing behind the glass, his gaze was fixed on the moving figure below.

Behind him, there were several figures that could be vaguely seen.

They all stood still, all looking in the same direction.

The same gaze exists in those taller buildings to the right, in front, and behind.

No one dared to show obvious hostility.

No one dared to make their gaze too obvious.

The news media vehicles had already arrived.

More than a dozen broadcast vans came from different directions and began to slow down when they were still half a block away from Zhang Qiliang.

The satellite antenna on the roof quickly adjusted its angle, and the telephoto lens sticking out of the car window was thicker than an arm.

"Superman's First Public Response"—just thinking about such a headline is enough to get your blood pumping!

But some people are faster than them.

Plainclothes officers, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, dressed in various colors and speaking in different accents, blocked the media vehicle in various ways.

Some people pulled out their badges and flashed them, some just stood there and shook their heads, and some simply reached out and pressed down on the hood of the interview vehicle that was accelerating.

The broadcast van stopped.

The interview vehicle also stopped.

The film crew, carrying cameras, jumped out of the vehicle and tried to rush past the plainclothes officers—but were immediately stopped.

The person who stopped them moved very gently, without any physical confrontation or even raising their voice, but the implication that "you will absolutely not be allowed to pass" was as clear as a wall.

Pedestrians were not stopped.

The frenzied crowd was still some distance away, half a street away, moving in that direction.

No one tried to rush over, no one tried to stop him. It was a strange feeling—everyone wanted to get close, but everyone knew they shouldn't disturb him. It was like some kind of unspoken understanding.

Of course, there are daring guys everywhere.

"Hey, man, I like you!"

A man in his thirties wearing a gray suit walked out from the crowd and stretched out his hands toward Zhang Qiliang.

His face was beaming with a bright smile, and his eyes were filled with undisguised admiration.

"You perfectly embody my image of Superman!" he exclaimed. "That's what true heroism is!"

Zhang Qiliang stopped and watched him approach.

The man in the gray suit stopped two steps away and extended his hand.

Zhang Qiliang shook hands with him.

“I like you too,” Zhang Qiliang said, his gaze lingering on the other person for a second. “Your hairstyle is also very cool.”

The man in the gray suit paused for a moment, then smiled even more broadly. He touched his hair—a fairly standard business hairstyle.

Someone nearby shouted, "Hey man, you went too far! You should have thrown those people into the Atlantic Ocean!"

Zhang Qiliang turned his head to look at the source of the sound.

It was a young man in his early twenties, wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap, waving at Zhang Qiliang. Someone next to him tugged at him, as if afraid he would get into trouble, but he didn't care.

Zhang Qiliang waved his hand and replied regretfully, "Why didn't you say so earlier!"

The young man paused for a moment, then nodded vigorously: "Cool!"

Another person pushed their way to the front. It was a middle-aged woman wearing glasses, who looked like a university professor or researcher. Her expression and tone were very serious.

“Sir,” she said, “I have a serious question to ask—what are your views on the international financial system? As you know, Wall Street operates on a scale involving trillions of dollars in assets worldwide, and your actions today could trigger a chain reaction.”

"You mean, the trillions of dollars in assets involved here could potentially have a negative impact on the world?" Zhang Qiliang asked.

The middle-aged woman paused for a moment, then nodded.

"That means this place isn't worthy." Zhang Qiliang continued walking forward.

The middle-aged woman froze again, and after a long while, her unwilling voice came from behind her: "But sir—"

Someone rushed over and grabbed her shoulder: "Lady, he's taking a walk, not holding a press conference."

The middle-aged woman turned around. The person speaking spoke in a gentle tone, yet with a serious expression.

Zhang Qiliang continued walking forward.

The speed was neither too fast nor too slow, and the posture was neither too tense nor too relaxed.

The crowd following behind him maintained the same rhythm, moving like a slowly flowing river across half a street.

The traffic on the lanes had already slowed down.

The private car driver leaned halfway out, pointing his phone in that direction. The taxi passenger rolled down his window, almost crawling out. The truck driver simply pulled over to the side of the road, stood by the driver's side door, and stared, mouth agape, at the approaching figure.

More than a dozen film crews moved slowly through the traffic.

They drove incredibly slowly—almost like coasting. No one honked or tried to overtake. The entire lane seemed to be under some unspoken understanding; everyone knew that the main character of the day wasn't in the car, but on the sidewalk outside.

Telephoto lenses protrude from every car window.

They filmed everything greedily, intently, and without missing a single second.

In those shots, Zhang Qiliang's figure was always in the center of the frame.

He walked.

Not too fast, not too slow.

Occasionally, he would glance at the crowd on the roadside, occasionally wave in a certain direction, and sometimes stop to say a few words to a bold passerby.

Those images are being transmitted to the world via satellite signals.

Suddenly, a rapid engine sound came from behind.

A yellow taxi emerged from the traffic, moving faster than the surrounding vehicles.

It nimbly weaved through the gaps and quickly caught up with Zhang Qiliang.

The car window rolled down.

A hand reached out of the car window and waved vigorously.

Immediately afterwards, a head popped out—almost half of the body was sticking out of the car window.

"Bro!" The voice, thick with a New York accent, was urgent and loud, cutting through the noise of the street: "Bro! Do you remember me?!"

Zhang Qiliang turned his head away.

In the sunlight, a dark face was smiling at him, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.

“It’s you.” Zhang Qiliang smiled. “Of course I remember. Thank you for the directions, but I didn’t take the subway.”

The black man controlled the steering wheel with one hand, while rummaging around inside the car with the other, quickly pulling out a carefully smoothed banknote.

The banknotes were stretched out of the window and shaken vigorously, the portrait of Abraham Lincoln shining in the sunlight.

"Bro! This is your tip!" he shouted. "Could you sign it for me?!"

“That won’t do.” Zhang Qiliang immediately shook his head. “I don’t want to sign autographs all the way from here to JFK Airport.”

"Please, Bro!" the black guy pleaded pitifully. "I ran six red lights just to get here!"

“It’s worth it, Bro. The gentlemen here are more willing to give large tips.”

"Hey, how about this?" When his sob story failed, the black guy tried a different strategy: "After the auction, half the proceeds will be used to buy electrical appliances exported from Da Yang, and the other half will be used to buy food delivery shares in Da Yang... I promise! I swear!"

"NO." Zhang Qiliang smiled and turned around.

"Bro! Bro..." The taxi was still gliding along the roadside. He leaned out of the window and kept shouting something. But his words were scattered by the wind and drowned out by the noise of the crowd, leaving only a string of indistinct syllables floating in the afternoon sunlight.

After crossing an intersection and passing a corner coffee shop, a small figure rushed out from the crowd.

He was a little boy, about seven or eight years old, with curly brown hair and chocolate stains on his face. He was running so fast that he almost tripped, stumbled a couple of steps to steady himself, and looked up, his eyes shining.

“Superman!” His voice was clear and bright, cutting through the noise of the street: “I saw you on TV!”

Zhang Qiliang stopped and looked down at the young admirer.

Fine beads of sweat glistened on the tip of the little boy's nose in the sunlight. His hand was raised high above his head, reaching out to Zhang Qiliang—it was so small that it could only hold two of Zhang Qiliang's fingers.

Zhang Qiliang bent down and gently shook the hand that was raised high.

"Good morning," Zhang Qiliang said. "Now you're on TV too!"