Siheyuan: I, Shazhu, started out as an army and became a general.

Inside Tezpur, things were in complete chaos.

The rich seem to want to tie all their wealth to the roof of their cars, honking their horns like they're calling for their own demise.

The slums were in complete chaos, with even the lizards in the corners covering their backsides and running for their lives. The dust and ashes falling from the sky were denser than snowflakes in winter.

Inside the city hall, Indian Major General Singh, who had temporarily taken over the job, was spitting into the telephone receiver, sweat streaming down his face and staining his collar with a ring of white salt.

"Support? Where am I supposed to find support now! The Chinese soldiers' bayonets are practically piercing my nostrils!"

"What? You want me to hold out to the death? You try it! That's 'Tiger' over there! The one who treated that American lieutenant general like a chick, the living devil!"

Snapped!

The call was abruptly ended. Singh's hand trembled, the receiver slammed onto the table, and he slumped into his chair, panting heavily, as if his spine had been ripped out.

Just then, a commotion erupted outside the door. Several guards stumbled in, their expressions more varied than if they had seen a ghost.

"General! Someone's outside!"

"Who? Tiger has broken in?" Singh was so startled that he almost crawled under the table.

"No...no, just one. He's a soldier who said he came to issue a challenge."

Singh paused for two seconds, quickly wiped the cold sweat from his face, and forced himself to straighten his back a little: "Please...please come in."

The curtain was lifted, and Pang Guoxing swaggered in, his hands behind his back.

He wasn't carrying any weapons; he was just wearing his faded cotton military uniform, with fresh mud stains on his trousers.

But the way this guy walks doesn't look like he's entered an enemy command post; it looks more like he's strolling back to his own backyard.

The Indian officers in the room, their hands on their holsters, trembled with tension. Pang Guoxing didn't even lift his eyelids; a mocking smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

"Alright, stop trembling. If I wanted to make a move, you'd all be dead by now."

Pang Guoxing took out an envelope from his pocket; it was written in He Yuzhu's own handwriting.

He casually slammed his hand on the table in front of Singh, a gesture that was incredibly arrogant.

"Our leader said you have 24 hours."

"Or, prepare everything according to the list, and then we can sit down and talk about how to withdraw the troops gracefully."

"Or," Pang Guoxing pointed out the window, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather, "see the mountain over there? A hundred heavy cannons have been calibrated."

Whether or not a single intact brick will remain in Tezpur by then depends on the good deeds of your ancestors.

After saying that, Pang Guoxing didn't even bother to look at them again and turned to leave.

That back view practically screamed "arrogant" on its forehead.

Singh shakily opened the envelope.

There was only one piece of paper inside, written in English with sharp strokes, exuding an unreasonable and thuggish air.

List of reparations for defeat:

1. Gold: Fifty tons. (Don't try to fool me with gold-plated gold; I want pure gold, whether it's gold bars or jewelry, calculated by weight.)

2. US dollars: Fifty million. (For every penny less, my defenses will shift forward by a kilometer.)

3. Trucks: 1,000. (They must be fully fueled. If even one breaks down on the way, I'll hold you responsible.)

4. Grain, cloth, fuel oil... (500 words of material list omitted here)

At the very bottom of the list, there is a specially marked Chinese text, along with a thoughtful English translation:

[P.S.: I heard the New Delhi Museum has quite a few treasures that we lost back then? Give me what you think is best; I don't mind giving you too much. If you satisfy me, I might consider not stripping your prisoners naked and sending them back. — He Yuzhu]

"Robbery! This is blatant robbery!"

Singh was trembling with rage after reading the list. He slammed his hand on the table. "Fifty tons of gold? Does he think I own a bank?!"

The chief of staff next to him, with a bitter face, whispered, "General...isn't he just robbing us? And he's robbing us with a cannon pointed right at our heads."

Singh instantly deflated like a punctured balloon and slumped back down.

Yes, they're blatantly robbing you. What can you do? You can't fight them, and you can't run away—that's the tragedy of a noob.

The letter was sent to New Delhi by urgent telegram.

Nehru looked at the list, his blood pressure soared to 280, and he pounded his cane on the floor with a deafening roar.

"A disgrace! This is the greatest humiliation India has suffered since the fall of the British Empire!"

"We can't give them a single penny! We'll protest! We'll go to the United Nations to denounce their atrocities!"

Defense Minister Menon, wiping away cold sweat, cautiously interjected, "Your Excellency, a protest... is probably too late."

"A telegram just arrived from the front: the Chinese advance troops are already cooking outside the city. And... they are test-firing artillery; the first shell landed right next to our armory, with an error of less than ten meters."

"That's a warning." Menon swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "That Tiger He said that if we don't see anything by eight o'clock tomorrow morning, he'll make Tezpur disappear from the map."

Nehru froze.

He looked out the window at the bustling New Delhi, and the terrifying legend of "Tiger" floated into his mind.

That's a madman, a madman who does what he says.

After a long while, Nehru closed his eyes, and two streams of turbid tears flowed down his face, making him look as if he had aged ten years.

"Give……"

"Give it all to him..."

"He'll give them anything they want, as long as they leave and don't invade New Delhi!"

That night, on the highway leading north from Tezpur, car headlights formed a long, winding dragon.

This time, however, they weren't fleeing from disaster, but delivering goods.

Trucks loaded with gold, US dollars, and supplies were continuously delivered to the Chinese army's camp, as if they were offering tribute.

Zhang Xiaowu stood at the intersection, counting things in a notebook, his mouth stretched from ear to ear in a wide grin.

"One truck, two trucks... Good heavens, these Indians are really rich! This gold, wow, it's blinding!"

He Yuzhu sat on the hood of the jeep, toying with a gold brick that had just been delivered, which was printed with the image of the Queen of England and was quite heavy.

"Boss He, we're rich now!" Zhang Xiaowu ran over, jumping for joy like a mouse that had just entered a rice jar. "With this money, the food allowance for our troops can be increased several times over! We can even buy all the brothers new clothes!"

He Yuzhu weighed the gold brick in his hand, then casually tossed it into the box next to him like a brick, making a muffled "clang".

"You're satisfied with this little bit of money?" He Yuzhu looked south, his eyes revealing an unfathomable depth. "This is just interest. The real big stuff will have to wait until the main player arrives."

"The real person?" Zhang Xiaowu was taken aback.

"Here you are." He Yuzhu raised his chin.

In the distance, a black sedan with a white flag was carefully crossing the defense line and driving this way.

Those were the negotiators sent by India.

"Let's go, Xiao Wu." He Yuzhu jumped out of the car, straightened the top button of his military uniform, and his lazy demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by a suffocating aura of authority.

"Let's go and meet these money-giving boys."

"Remember this: stand up straight from now on. We're the creditors, we need to act like creditors!"