A $50 million margin call? I'll short Wall Street.

New York, Chinatown, teahouse.

It has been raining all day.

The tea room was at the far end of the corridor, with the wooden windows half-closed. You could hear the dull sound of rain hitting the black awning outside—like someone pounding a drum with their fist.

The sounds of traffic on the street were blocked out by the thick walls, leaving only the faint crackling sound of burning sandalwood.

Uncle Lin poured each of them a cup of Da Hong Pao tea.

The sound of tea falling into the blue-and-white porcelain cup was crisp and clear, and the rising steam twisted and rose under the dim light of the chandelier. He didn't linger, and as he bowed and left, even his footsteps were as light as a cat's—with a "click," the carved wooden door closed, without even a creak from the hinges.

Only two people remained in the room.

Wang Wenyuan sat in a mahogany armchair.

He wore a dark gray jacket over a hand-ironed white shirt, the second button of the collar undone, and no tie. He was around fifty years old, with slightly graying temples and several deep forehead wrinkles.

He wasn't the kind of businessman who loved to laugh, nor did he possess the aggressiveness typical of Wall Street elites, always ready to pounce.

He sat there like a smooth bluestone polished by time and the system, calm and reserved, with eyes so deep that no one could fathom his true nature.

He quietly observed Lu Ze sitting opposite him.

A deep sea blue custom-made suit with shoulders as sharp as a knife's edge.

The minimalist platinum cufflinks refract a cool light under the lamp.

Lu Ze leaned casually against the back of the chair, his left hand resting on the armrest, his fingers tapping lightly on the wooden surface.

This young man, who kept the entire Wall Street up at night, was even younger than in the photos he had seen—he even had a slightly slender, student-like appearance.

But in those eyes, there was none of the sharpness or restlessness common in young people in their twenties; only a calm like a stagnant pool, and an extremely sharp calculation that occasionally flashed from the depths of the pupils.

"Lu Ze."

Wang Wenyuan spoke first. His voice was gentle and deep, with a slightly hoarse quality that came with the passage of time, and the distinctive retroflex consonants of Northern Mandarin.

"Uncle Lin has mentioned you to me many times. He said your father passed away early, and it hasn't been easy for you to make a living alone in New York."

He picked up the teacup, blew on it to cool it, causing tiny ripples to spread across the surface of the tea, but he didn't drink it.

"But you did a great job. So well that it surprised many people back home. To have taken such a large chunk of the business from Bear Stearns, no one on Wall Street should dare to underestimate you now."

Lu Ze looked at him but didn't reply.

He simply picked up his teacup, gently brushed aside the tea leaves floating on the surface with the lid, and took a small sip. The scalding liquid slid down his throat, carrying the unique roasted aroma and sweet aftertaste of Wuyi rock tea.

He knew this was just a prelude.

Wang Wenyuan put down the teacup, making a soft "thud" sound.

His fingers gently caressed the warm white porcelain cup, as if he were touching a fine antique.

"Since Uncle Lin is willing to act as the middleman, I'll be frank with some things."

He paused, raised his eyes, and his gaze deepened.

No matter how high you fly, your roots are still here. Now we're in a bit of trouble.

Wang Wenyuan leaned forward slightly, placing his hands clasped on his knees:

Several state-owned airlines have recently been in contact with Goldman Sachs. Goldman Sachs has been selling them a very complex fuel hedging solution. The solution is very well-designed—zero cost, unlimited upside potential, a full eighty-page PowerPoint presentation, and an Excel model densely packed with Greek letters.

Some colleagues within our system were misled by those fancy mathematical models and the prestigious reputation of Wall Street, thinking this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

"I've seen that proposal."

Wang Wenyuan shook his head, his brows furrowed slightly, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes gathered together.

"I don't deal with derivative products, but I've dealt with those foreigners several times. That thing looks wrong—it's too exquisite, too perfect."

But my researchers, using various historical backtesting data and Monte Carlo simulations, proved to me that it was safe, saying that the VaR value was controlled within a reasonable range.

He paused, a hint of helplessness in his voice:

"But I don't trust those numbers."

The rain outside the window suddenly intensified, the raindrops pattering against the glass with a dense, rhythmic sound. The air in the tea room grew even more stuffy.

Wang Wenyuan looked directly at Lu Ze, his voice lower but carrying an undeniable force:

"Lu Ze, you're a true hunter who's killed in this forest. You can see through the traps behind those glamorous models. You know how those people on Wall Street hide their knives within the Black-Scholes formula."

"If you could point us in the right direction, uncover the loopholes Wall Street hides in contracts, and help us vet our investments."

His gaze became extremely serious, even somewhat intense:

"The domestic system will not forget."

Lu Ze remained leaning back in his chair. He picked up the teacup in front of him, took a sip, and then very slowly placed the cup back on the table, making a soft clinking sound. He raised his eyelids and looked at Wang Wenyuan.

"Director Wang."

Lu Ze addressed him by his title, his voice calm and undisturbed.

What exactly does "'will not forget' mean?"

Wang Wenyuan smiled.

This is a knowing smile when facing a pragmatist—the corners of the mouth are slightly upturned, the fine lines at the corners of the eyes are smoothed out, and there is even a hint of appreciation.

He pulled a black Parker pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket; the pen's body gleamed with a matte metallic sheen under the light.

He placed the pen on the table, making a crisp "tap" sound.

"We don't maintain our friendships based on personal memories. We rely on archives and path dependencies."

Wang Wenyuan's fingers pressed lightly on the pen, as if he were pressing an invisible switch:

"If you help me with this, when I get back, I'll draft an internal report for the decision-making level—not a routine briefing, but the kind that goes in an official envelope and requires a signature and registration. As an attachment to this report, I'll include Farstar Capital's breakdown and analysis of this derivative structure, without changing a single word."

"This material will be classified as top secret. It will become our internal foundational teaching material for preventing overseas financial risks, and will be printed, bound, and distributed to the risk control departments of major state-owned enterprises. The name 'Yuanxing Capital' will be permanently recorded as an 'external reference source that provided crucial early warnings.'"

Wang Wenyuan leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees, his tone becoming extremely solemn—this was the demeanor of a high-ranking bureaucrat when issuing political bargaining chips, each word like a stamp:

"You know what this means. In the future, when national capital ventures overseas again and faces major disagreements on macroeconomic judgments, those in power will review the records. They will see that in the 2008 oil crisis, Goldman Sachs was wrong, Morgan Stanley was wrong, and even our own think tank was wrong. Only Farstar Capital provided the sole correct answer."

His voice was lowered, as if revealing some deep-seated logic of power operation:

"Lu Ze, this isn't a personal promise. This is establishing a long-term, irreplaceable credit benchmark for you within a vast national machine. As long as you repeatedly prove your accuracy at crucial moments, this system, out of inertia, will treat you as 'one of their own' for decades to come."

Wang Wenyuan pushed the pen toward Lu Ze, the nib making a soft scraping sound as it scratched the wooden tabletop.

"This bargaining chip, I think, even on Wall Street, can't be bought with money."