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

Guangzhou, at the Autumn Trade Fair.

Although it is a window for foreign trade, the Canton Fair these days still has a relatively simple and unpretentious style.

Tea, porcelain, and embroidered shoes occupied half of the exhibition area, while the industrial products section was as deserted as if it had just snowed. Occasionally, a few African friends would pass by, but they would only look and not buy, mainly for companionship.

However, the booth in the most remote corner of the exhibition hall, which originally belonged to "agricultural machinery," was forcibly occupied by He Yuzhu and his men.

"It's tilted, it's tilted! Move it a little to the left!"

He Yuzhu directed Zhang Xiaowu to hang a handwritten cardboard sign directly above the booth.

The sign didn't have any fancy foreign language descriptions, just a simple, direct, and soul-searching line of bold black text:

【MDTS - Mass Destruction Tactical Solution】

(Tactical solutions for mass destruction)

Immediately afterwards, he placed one of the store's prized possessions on the table covered with a red cloth with a loud bang.

It's neither a precision missile nor a high-tech radar.

It's just a bunch of iron pipes welded with rubber tires, looking no different from the irrigation pipes in the village.

To emphasize its "agricultural" attribute, He Yuzhu also artistically placed a large bamboo broom next to it.

"Brother Zhu... no, Commander, is that all?"

Zhang Xiaowu hunched his shoulders and glanced at the John Deere booth next door. Their tractors were painted like mirrors, while his own looked as shabby as a scrap metal recycling station branch.

"We're standing right next to Americans, the contrast is... too stark! Anyone who didn't know better would think we're here to sell scrap metal."

"You don't know anything."

He Yuzhu plopped down on a small stool, waving a large palm-leaf fan in his hand like Zhuge Liang's feather fan, with a mysterious and inscrutable expression.

"Remember this, Xiao Wu: high-level hunters often appear in the form of prey. Similarly, top-tier killing weapons often look like farm tools."

Before he finished speaking, a group of "moving gold mines" swayed over.

This group of people were dressed in white robes, with white cloths on their heads and sunglasses. The one in the middle had eight large gold rings on his ten fingers, and his walk was accompanied by a background music of "being rolling in wealth".

Prince Salman of a major oil-producing country in the Middle East had just come out of the American booth, his face as black as the bottom of a pot.

The way the Americans were selling the F-104 fighter jet just now—their nostrils were practically pointing to the sky! Not only was the price ridiculously high, but it also came with a bunch of political clauses like "you can't shoot this, you can't shoot that."

The prince came to buy weapons, not to see his father.

"Oh, what is this?"

Salman stopped as he passed He Yuzhu's stall. What attracted him was not the weapons, but the ugliness.

These pipes are so uniquely ugly, they look like they belong in an industrial wasteland.

"Are you selling water pipes?" the prince asked in broken English that smelled of expensive cigars.

"No, no, no."

He Yuzhu stood up abruptly, and without needing a translator, he spoke fluent Arabic in a pure Bedouin accent, leaving the prince stunned.

"Your Highness, this is not a water pipe. This is—the wrath of God."

Salman removed his sunglasses, his eyes filled with doubt. This Chinese man speaks Arabic? And understands Allah?

"Anger?" The prince laughed, pointing to the pile of pipes that looked like they'd just been pulled from a garbage dump. "This junk?"

"Junk?" He Yuzhu grinned, revealing a meaningful smirk.

He bent down and pulled out a 107mm rocket with the fuse removed from under the table, twirling it deftly between his fingers with a movement smoother than spinning a pen.

"Your Highness, I know your sore spot." He Yuzhu lowered his voice, his tone less like a general and more like an old Chinese medicine doctor trying to sell a miracle cure to his neighbor. "Aren't American planes good? Yes! They look beautiful! But—"

"We need to repair the runway, right? We need to maintain ground crew, right? We need to run on high-grade aviation fuel, right? Once a war breaks out and the runway is bombed, those millions of dollars worth of planes will just be a pile of scrap metal."

Salman nodded subconsciously; those words struck a chord with him.

"But mine is completely different."

He Yuzhu patted the pile of iron pipes, making a crisp "bang bang" sound.

"No electricity needed, no fire control radar needed, no highly educated artillerymen needed. Just a single dry cell battery, and even..."

He grabbed a large broom from the side and made a slamming motion, his eyes sharp.

"Even a fire, or even a lit cigarette, if it's just heated to the end, it'll fly off!"

"And what's more!" He Yuzhu held up a finger and waved it in front of the prince, "It's lightweight! One person can carry it and run. Whether it's mountains, deserts, or mud pits, you can fire wherever you want. The range is eight kilometers; a volley covers an area comparable to a football field!"

"The most important thing is—it's cheap."

He Yuzhu leaned close to the prince's ear and told him a number.

Salman's pupils dilated instantly.

This price... wouldn't even buy a single landing gear tire for an F-104! But it could buy this stuff to equip an entire division!

"Really?" The prince was tempted, but reason told him that you get what you pay for. "Talk is cheap, unless you can demonstrate it."

"A demonstration?" He Yuzhu glanced at Smith, the American representative who was watching the spectacle with a cigar in his mouth not far away, and sneered. "Xiao Wu! Move this 'farm tool' to the open space outside! Tell the organizing committee that we want to conduct a launch demonstration of our 'agricultural drought-resistant and rain-inducing rocket'!"

On the wasteland outside the exhibition hall.

U.S. Representative Smith laughed so hard his dentures almost fell out: "Drought-relief rockets? Have these Chinese gone mad with poverty? How far can a few water pipes go? A hundred meters? Be careful the barrel explodes and blows you up!"

He Yuzhu ignored him, thinking it was nonsense.

He took matters into his own hands. Without any sophisticated scope, he simply extended his thumb, squinted, and gestured towards the barren mountain several kilometers away.

"Click".

To adjust the angle and for stability, I casually placed two half-bricks underneath.

The main theme is "do whatever you want".

"Fire!"

He Yuzhu waved his hand.

"Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—!!!"

That unique, soul-tearing scream exploded instantly.

The twelve rockets, like fire dragons unleashed from their cages, trailed long plumes of flame, drawing wild and untamed parabolas in the air.

After a few seconds of deathly silence.

On a barren hillside several kilometers away.

"BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!"

The continuous explosions rolled across the ground like muffled thunder, and the entire hillside was instantly engulfed in an orange-red sea of ​​fire, with smoke and dust billowing into the sky. The unreasonable and intense barrage of firepower made the ground beneath their feet tremble violently.

This isn't fighting a war; it's clearly a "whitewashing" operation!

Smith didn't even notice his cigar had fallen onto his crotch; his mouth was agape enough to fit a light bulb.

Prince Salman stared intently at the still-burning inferno, his breathing rapid and his adrenaline surging.

He already had a picture in his mind: thousands of guerrillas riding camels, carrying these things, blowing up the enemy's armored forces in the desert, and then running away with the pipes on their backs...

This is the art of guerrilla warfare!

"purchase!!!"

The prince suddenly grabbed He Yuzhu's hand with such force that it was as if he were grabbing a long-lost brother.

"I want five hundred! No, a thousand! I need one hundred thousand shells! Now! Immediately! I have US dollars! All cash!"

He Yuzhu smiled slightly, subtly withdrew his hand, and calmly adjusted the collar of his military uniform.

"Your Highness, broaden your perspective. A thousand doors is just the starting price. If you're willing to pay more, I can also throw in a 'modified version,' specifically designed to crack open tanks."

"in addition……"

He Yuzhu pointed to the American booth, raising his voice eight octaves so that everyone around him could hear:

"If your order exceeds 50 million US dollars, I will personally gift you an exclusive tactical manual—'How to Teach High-Tech People a Lesson with Agricultural Tools.' Exclusive secrets, guaranteed to teach you everything, money-back guarantee if ineffective."

On this day, the foreign exchange records at the Canton Fair were broken by this Chinese man selling "farm tools".

On this day, the foremost of the future "three great weapons of guerrilla warfare" officially revealed its fangs in He Yuzhu's hands.

He Yuzhu, with a thick wad of US dollar checks in his pocket, turned and raised an eyebrow at Zhang Xiaowu, who was staring in disbelief, his eyes burning with an intense intensity.

"Let's go back to Beijing! With this money, we'll build our Type 055 destroyer, even if it has to be made of gold bricks!"