Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 971 Wealth Empire
Inside the presidential palace in Bangalore, the capital of the Republic of Senegal, the lights were so bright they were almost blinding.

The crystal chandelier made the gilded tableware sparkle, and the air was filled with the strong aroma of expensive cigars and the sweet scent of French perfumes. The long banquet table was covered with a crisply starched linen tablecloth, which was piled high with delicacies—chilled lobster, sizzling roasted antelope, and mountains of caviar.

The newly rich of the Republic of Seine and senior officers of the government army, dressed in brand-new uniforms, wore excited smiles on their faces as they clinked glasses and talked animatedly.

President Isis, holding a champagne glass, moved among the guests, receiving a flood of compliments and congratulations. Every deep wrinkle on his dark, angular face seemed to smooth out, radiating an almost inflated victor's glow.

"For the peace of the Republic of Seine! For the wise leadership of President Isis!" A government military general wearing brand-new general's star epaulettes shouted, his face red and neck bulging, his voice drowning out the lively melody played by the band.

"For peace! For the president!"

A chorus of agreement rose and fell, and the clinking of wine glasses created a crisp, tinkling sound.

However, in this deliberately created, dazzling sea of ​​jubilation, the absence of a key figure is like a silent and enormous black hole.

People's eyes swept across the room, subconsciously searching for that name—Song Heping.

The man who, in a short time, swept through Lumar's rebel army like a storm, tore the chaos apart, and put the scepter back in Isis's hands.

The figure who should be sitting in the VIP seat, receiving the highest level of respect, was nowhere to be found.

Only when Isis occasionally glanced at the empty seats in the main guest area did a fleeting, almost imperceptible shadow cross the depths of her eyes, so fleeting that one might mistake it for an illusion created by the lighting.

The boisterous victory celebration was like a grand drama without a real protagonist.

Hundreds of kilometers away from Bangalore, in the northern part of the Republic of Seine.

The dry, scorching air was filled with the smells of dust, diesel fuel, and the distinctive stench of cooled metal.

There were no crystal chandeliers, no champagne, only a few high-powered searchlights that illuminated the warehouses at the core base of the "Musician" defense company in a stark white light.

Beneath the massive steel dome, several old BMP-1 armored vehicles lay silently, like exhausted beasts that had just fought a fierce battle.

Their outer armor plates are covered with shocking bullet holes, scorched black marks, and twisted metal wrinkles, silently telling the story of the meat grinder-like massacre that happened not long ago.

In the open space in the center of the warehouse, several military ammunition boxes were casually placed to serve as makeshift tables, piled high with cheap, poorly labeled vodka bottles, locally brewed murky palm wine, some charred antelope skewers, and heaps of compressed biscuits.

There were no fancy tableware, only rough military mess kits and cups.

Song Heping stood beside the ammunition box, his shadow stretched long by the blinding white light overhead. His face showed none of the superficial joy he had displayed at the presidential banquet; instead, there was a heavy calm, a calm that had been soaked in the smoke and blood of battle.

He picked up an opened bottle of vodka, and the strong smell of high alcohol content instantly filled the air.

He didn't speak, but silently and solemnly poured the clear, pungent liquid from the bottle onto the dry, oil-stained ground in front of him.

The glistening liquid was quickly absorbed by the greedy ground, leaving dark, irregular wet streaks, like two silent tears.

"Alexander, Vasily."

Song Heping's deep voice pierced the silence of the hangar and clearly reached the ears of everyone gathered around the ammunition boxes.

There was no trace of sadness in that voice, only an unwavering certainty.

"Go well."

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

In the vast space of the hangar, the only sound was the faint dripping of vodka onto the floor.

"Farewell, brother!"

Immediately afterwards, like a lit fuse, a rough, resounding response exploded out.

"Let's go!"

"Cheers, guys! Don't fucking be a pilot in your next life!"

"Plenty of vodka! Let's drink our fill and hit the road!"

The voice came from the crowd gathered around the ammunition boxes.

There was no trace of the glitz and glamour of the banquet hall in anyone's eyes, only the wildness and weariness that belonged to the jungle and desert.

They are the core members of the "Musician" defense.

Their enamel mugs collided heavily, spilling cheap liquor mixed with sand, which they then tilted their heads back and gulped down.

The liquid burned in my throat, and it also burned in my heart the unadorned tribute to my fallen comrades.

The warehouse was filled with a complex odor of alcohol, sweat, and engine oil, replacing the luxurious smell of the presidential palace.

Bai Xiong picked up the bottle and downed half of it in one gulp. His face immediately turned red. He put down the bottle, walked a few steps to one of the armored vehicles, and slammed his calloused hand heavily on the edge of a deep bullet hole, making a dull "clang" sound.

The warehouse lights shone on his sharply defined face, illuminating the mixture of sorrow and an almost fanatical excitement in his eyes.

"Fuck your mother! Look at this pit!"

He practically spat out his saliva, his voice booming and echoing beneath the steel dome.
"Those bastards from Lumar were using anti-aircraft machine guns! If it were any of those pampered NATO ladies taking that hit, they'd be dead for sure! But these old maids from our motherland? They just braved it and drove back."

He slapped the front of the car hard again, as if he were patting the neck of a loyal old horse.

"Damn it! It's fucking durable! A million times more durable than those heavily made-up British women in London!"

A burst of boisterous laughter erupted in the hangar, somewhat easing the somber atmosphere.

Collins took a big gulp of his drink, wiped his mouth, and chuckled, "White Bear, when the hell did you become so knowledgeable about British women? Be careful, if Ms. M from MI6 hears you, she'll send an agent to shoot you!" "To hell with Ms. M!"

The polar bear waved its paw dismissively and spat on the ground.

"Boss!"

He turned to Song Heping, his eyes burning, “This battle is clear! Ground fighters alone aren’t enough! We need to have wings! We need iron birds that can tear the sky apart! What happened to that old bastard Lumar? His head was whipped off by our ‘whip’ (MiG-23’s nickname)! Back in South America, we relied on two Su-24s to subdue the Colombian government forces. Here we have to borrow their planes. What’s not ours will never be ours. Looks like we should form a squadron! Get a whole squadron of Soviet-style fighters! MiG-21s, MiG-23s, and Su-25 attack aircraft would be even better! Let those opportunists and traitors on this continent see clearly that if they dare to have any crooked thoughts, I’ll send them to meet God from the sky!”

"Airplanes are not armored vehicles!"

Jiang Feng sneered, "White Bear, you're fucking drunk. Don't you have any idea how much a fighter jet costs? You're even building a squadron! Just maintaining those planes will bankrupt you!"

"Yes, yes, yes! Airplanes are not easy to maintain."

"Aircraft need not only pilots, but also ground crews. The training and maintenance of the few aircraft and crews in South America cost hundreds of millions of dollars every year. If we were to build another squadron here, the annual expenses would be no joke..."

Everyone started talking about it.

Everyone seemed to agree with Jiang Feng's view.

I think Bai Xiong is drunk and indulging in wishful thinking.

"It's okay, we can afford to raise them."

Ferrari, who had been silent in the corner, suddenly spoke up.

"It's just money, right? Money? Money is no problem!"

The last sentence, "Money is no problem," was spoken with absolute certainty, carrying the arrogance of a nouveau riche.

Song Heping lifted his gaze from the two pools of wine on the ground that had evaporated rapidly, leaving only dark marks, and looked at the Ferrari.

His face remained expressionless, though a faint hint of doubt flickered in the depths of his eyes. He picked up an old military tablet covered in oil from the ammunition box, swiped the screen, tapped a few times, and then handed it to Ferrari.

Song Heping's voice was calm, as if he had known all along: "Then tell me, how many of our 'non-problems' are there now?"

Ferrari grinned, took the tablet, and rapidly swiped and tapped across the greasy screen, bringing up a series of encrypted files and data streams.

He cleared his throat, and the shrewdness of a businessman immediately replaced his previous roughness: "Song, I know you've always only cared about fighting, not about accounts. But you'll have to listen to this today, and you'll be shocked!"

He started calculating, spitting as he went, each number like a heavy gold brick hitting the ground:

"Let's talk about South America first! Along those routes in Colombia and Venezuela, guerrillas, drug lords, and those tiny border countries that fight over the smallest things—just selling AKs, rocket launchers, mortars, and damn secondhand armored vehicles, they steadily rake in two hundred million US dollars every year! Pure cash!"

He paused, looking at Song Heping's slightly raised eyebrows, and proudly held up his second finger: "Over in Mexico, those smuggling routes we control are busier than the Americans' interstate highways! 'Goods' go north, and US dollars go south. Last year, just last year, the net turnover was five billion! US dollars! That's not just paper, it's real money! Enough to buy a whole street of casinos in Monaco!"

"And here!"

He jabbed hard at the area representing the northern mining region on the tablet screen. "The gold mines in North Darfur, plus those large mining areas in northern Senegal that we just 'helped stabilize,' diamonds, gold, and damn rare metals! Conservatively estimated, 1.5 billion a year, no less! And that's after we've already shared the profits with the Senegalese government!"

He took a breath, his eyes gleaming with an almost greedy light, and his finger traced another complex financial chart: "The most amazing thing is this! All the savings we've accumulated over the years, those shady funds scattered across the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, and Dubai, I set up several top-tier shell companies to speculate on real estate in Dubai, Qatar, London, and New York! Guess what? In just a few years, those steel and concrete things have given us another billion dollars!"

He shoved the tablet back into Song Heping's hands, spread his hands in an exaggerated gesture, and raised his voice with excitement: "That's why I say, money is no problem! Now, with 'Musician' Defense, no matter how those sons of bitches politicians and media try to smear us, no matter if you, boss, are still on their damn 'terrorist' list! When it comes to real money, when it comes to manpower, guns, and planes that can be deployed for combat, what is Blackwater? EO? That's all in the past! They'll have to think twice before they see us!"

The hangar was silent, save for the low hum of the ventilation ducts. Polar Bear gaped, nearly dropping the enamel mug in his hand.

Collins forgot to smoke, and only when the cigarette butt burned his finger did he hiss and flick it away.

Even the queen's cold and beautiful face showed a hint of shock.

The hunter's movements of wiping his dagger completely stopped. Klein pushed up his glasses, his eyes widening behind the lenses.

Even the usually composed Jiang Feng showed a rare look of astonishment.

Over the years, they've risked their lives fighting, smuggling, and risking their lives. They knew the company was rich, but no one expected it to be this damn rich!
Annual revenue exceeds $6.7 billion!

This is no longer a mercenary company; this is a massive financial and military empire hidden behind the smoke and blood!
Song Heping looked down at the long string of dizzying zeros on the tablet screen and remained silent for a long time.

The cold light from the screen reflected on his angular face, revealing no trace of the ecstasy of sudden wealth.

He raised his head, his gaze slowly sweeping over the familiar faces before him—the honest and straightforward White Bear, the shrewd and experienced Henry, the calm and reserved Jiang Feng, the lone wolf spirit of the Hunter, the cold and resilient Queen, the tech-savvy Collins, and the cynical Klein.

Every face bears the unique mark of this blood-red continent.

He put down his tablet, picked up an enamel mug, and poured himself a full glass of vodka.

The smell of inferior alcohol hits your nose.

"Bros……"

He spoke, his voice not loud, but exceptionally clear, drowning out the hum of the hangar and suppressing the restlessness brought on by the enormous wealth.

"The battle was won. Lumar is dead, and Sena is temporarily safe. The money is piled up like a mountain."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across everyone's eyes like a searchlight.

"That's enough. Enough for everyone here to find a sunny beach, a paradise, buy a big house, marry a few beautiful wives, have a bunch of kids, and live out the rest of their lives peacefully and comfortably. No more smelling this damned gunpowder, no more worrying about whether their heads will explode tomorrow."

He held up the jar: "I propose a profit-sharing arrangement. The lion's share should be distributed according to the old rules. Then..."

He took a deep breath, as if he had made a tremendous decision, "Then, those who want to leave, take your money and go. Go live a good life. This business is coming to an end."

(End of this chapter)