Did he trick the young marshal into becoming sworn brothers and then go south to Huangpu Military Ac

The liquidation department of Morgan Trust Company on 42nd Street, Manhattan.

The American man with pince-nez slammed a stack of wire transfer receipts on the manager's desk and read out a string of numbers.

"From Citibank Shanghai, US$2.3 million. Remitter: HH Kung & Co."

The supervisor looked up: "It's that warlord from over there again."

"Maybe."

The American shrugged: "My mother says this kind of remittance is embezzlement."

The supervisor ignored him, picked up an eraser, and slapped it hard on the voucher.

Before the ink dried completely, the money had already been deposited into the designated company account.

In Guangzhou, at the rear residence of the Grand Marshal.

Sister Song slammed the coded telegram that had just been transferred from the Shanghai Telegraph Bureau onto the rosewood table.

Song Ziwen picked it up, looked at it, and then looked up.

"Big sister, there's an extra 300,000."

"I know."

Sister Song sat back in her armchair: "In Taiyuan, the Qiao, Chang, and Cao families, the three banks, each increased their stakes, and with the remaining payment from the Hankou cotton mill, they managed to scrape together this amount."

"The money is already in New York."

Song Ziwen put the coded telegram back on the table.

"Dr. Lin is unaware of this."

Sister Song stood up and reached for the shawl draped over the back of the chair.

"If we had arrived any later, that man would have thought we were playing a trick on him."

"Walk."

Cheung Chau Island.

The black Ford boarded the ferry, which then dumped the car onto the muddy road of Cheung Chau Island.

The further the car drove, the more strange noises it heard.

It wasn't a drill chant, but the shouts of men, the crisp sound of slaps on thighs, and the "bang" of something hitting the wooden fence.

Sister Song frowned: "This sounds like dockworkers gambling on crickets."

Song Ziwen pushed up his glasses but didn't say anything.

The car was parked outside the row of wooden fences next to the military academy's drill ground, and the siblings got out.

A sandy smell wafted up.

The scene before him left Song Ziwen, a Harvard graduate who had witnessed Wall Street tycoons fighting in public and people getting into brawls at the Wenren Teahouse in Shanghai, momentarily speechless.

A section of land was marked out in the center of the playground, and several old straw mats were laid out.

More than four hundred students in gray military uniforms formed three layers around the perimeter, their faces flushed red, pointing and shouting wildly.

"Call on Jin! Kick! Sweep his hind leg!"

"Vice Principal Lin! Hug me! Hug me!"

"Beat him up!"

In the middle of the straw mat, two people were tangled up together.

Lin Qi, with his hair parted in the middle, military uniform sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair covered in sand.

Another barefoot man from Xiangxiang, Chen Chuanjin, with sweat streaming down his neck.

Chen Chuanjin shifted his steps, twisted his waist, and tripped Lin Qi, causing him to lose his balance.

Chen Chuanjin twisted the vice principal over his shoulder and slammed him onto the straw mat with a thud, sending sand flying three feet high.

Laughter erupted from the group of students.

"Ouch, Vice Principal Lin's fall was quite a spectacular one!"

"Call on Jin to add another dish! Press the button again!"

Sister Song stood outside the fence, not moving an inch.

She has seen many military camps from the Republic of China era over the years.

Often, a single glance from an officer can cause a lowly soldier to bite his lip until it bleeds.

Kicking over the tea-serving orderly is commonplace, and during troop drills, a single whip can easily smear the face of a lowly soldier.

The man in front of me, a god of wealth, vice principal of the Whampoa Military Academy, and head of the Shijing Arsenal, was actually thrown to the ground by a student who hadn't even graduated, and the sand on his face hadn't even been wiped off yet.

Lying there, the God of Wealth even grinned.

"Chen Chuanjin, you little bastard, you attacked me from behind!"

Lin Qi rolled over, propped himself up, and patted the sand from the crook of his elbow, his voice devoid of any anger.

"Again!"

Chen Chuanjin also laughed and scolded:

"Vice Principal Lin, you're really no good at wrestling! You talk a good game in class, but when it comes to a real fight, even my third cousin, who herds cattle in the countryside, could pin you to the ground!"

The students were laughing so hard they were slapping their thighs.

Lin Qi didn't reply, but twisted his waist and pounced on him again.

This time, he used a grappling technique he had just learned yesterday, trying to dislocate Chen Chuanjin's shoulder.

Chen Chuanjin grabbed his wrist with his backhand and hooked his foot with his foot.

"Bang".

Lin Qi went downstairs again.

This time, Chen Chuanjin simply straddled his stomach and crossed his arms into a "X" shape.

"Vice Principal Lin, should we vote or not?"

"cast……"

"Louder!"

"Surrender! Surrender!"

The students laughed so hard they almost fell over.

Hu Shoushan laughed until tears streamed down his face. Watching his idol being pinned to the ground and begging for mercy, the tension on his face instantly vanished.

Xu Xiangqian stood on the outermost circle, not laughing out loud, but the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

This Shanxi man was always stingy with praise, and when he looked at the figure in the center of the straw mat, his gaze darkened even more.

Chen Chuanjin climbed off Lin Qi and reached out to pull him up.

Lin Qi waved his hand, propped himself up to sit up, and rubbed his shoulder blades, which were sore from being pressed down. The movement showed that he was in real pain.

Several students rushed over, some offering water, some offering towels, and some trying to brush the sand off the vice principal, but Lin Qiquan stopped them.

"It's good to have a lot of sand on you, it makes you feel cool."

He draped the towel over his shoulder, walked out of the crowd, and pointed at Chen Chuanjin as he looked back.

"Chuan Jin..."

Chen Chuanjin quickly clasped his hands in a gesture of respect and said, "Vice Principal Lin, I was wrong, I was wrong!"

Lin Qi put on a stern face, but his eyes were smiling.

"I can't beat you, that's true."

Chen Chuanjin breathed a sigh of relief.

"However, the tactical simulation session is next Wednesday."

Chen Chuanjin's smile faltered for a moment.

"I'm asking you to demonstrate a mountain assault plan to the whole class. You know what the client is, right? It's about attacking that blind spot from the front."

The students were stunned for a moment, then burst into laughter even louder than when they had just fallen.

Someone patted Chen Chuanjin on the back and said, "You're finished!"

Someone suppressed a laugh: "Chuanjin, you'd better get a scolding next Wednesday!"

Chen Chuanjin bowed to Lin Qi with a bitter expression.

"Vice Principal Lin, this is called abusing your power for personal gain!"

Lin Qi ignored him, patted the dirt off his buttocks, his back was covered in sand, but he was too lazy to brush it off, and walked out of the playground with a towel in his hand.

The students burst into laughter behind him.

After walking about ten steps, Lin Qi looked up and saw two figures standing by the wooden fence under the old banyan tree.

A deep purple cheongsam with gold trim extending to the hem.

He was wearing a suit and vest, and his gold-rimmed glasses were slightly crooked.

The Song siblings.

Lin Qi didn't stop and walked straight over.

There were no formalities, and I didn't ask them when they arrived.

Upon reaching him, he reached into his breast pocket with his right hand and pulled out a piece of paper folded into four sections.

The paper was handed over.

Sister Song received it.

The paper is unfolded.

The edges are rough; it's the kind of draft paper that's usually issued by the Huangpu office.

The paper was covered with neat lines of English writing in fountain pen, the ink still quite fresh.

The characters on the edge were even a bit blurred.

When Sister Song's fingers touched the paper, her fingertips brushed against the paper, producing a few extremely fine grains of sand.

The sand rubbed against the gold trim on the cuff of her deep purple cheongsam, and three or four bright yellow grains were immediately visible, clearly picked up from the straw mat she had just been on.