Chapter 142 Time Magazine Cover Figure, the Great Emperor of Eastern Technology

The lighter's faint blue flame danced in the basement's cold air.

The light flickered restlessly, illuminating the sharp, pearly-white canine tooth on one side of Lu Jingming's face.

"Samsung and LG?"

Chu Xuan's mouth hung wide open, his dentures nearly falling onto the stainless steel countertop.

His fingers froze in mid-air, and his legs trembled uncontrollably.

"P-President Lu."

Chu Xuan swallowed a dry lump of saliva, his Adam's Apple scraping painfully against his tight throat.

"Those are super conglomerates that monopolize seventy percent of the global screen panel market!"

A dense layer of cold sweat broke out across his back, and his clothes clung to his skin, feeling ice-cold.

Lu Jingming didn't respond.

He released his thumb.

With a crisp "snap," the plastic lid closed, instantly extinguishing the flame.

"So what if they're conglomerates?"

Lu Jingming shoved one hand back into his washed-out jeans pocket.

"Those broken glass slabs from the old era belong in the trash heap."

Xinghai Technology's moves over the past few months had been truly terrifying.

Unifying smart homes, dominating the mobile ecosystem.

Pandora 2.0 had corralled software developers from around the globe into its own cage.

This commotion had long since snapped the nerves of those vampires on Wall Street.

The next morning.

A drizzling autumn rain fell over Donghai City.

In the VIP reception area on the first floor of the Xinghai building, a blond, blue-eyed foreigner sat on a leather sofa, rubbing his hands in anxiety.

This was Richard, the star editor-in-chief of the American magazine Time.

Under strict orders from headquarters, he had flown across the ocean overnight and had been sitting idly in the lobby for four hours.

"President Chu, please, I beg you to urge them for me."

Richard stood up and tugged at the sleeve of Chu Xuan's loud, red-and-green floral shirt.

He spoke in broken Chinese, sweating profusely from anxiety.

"If Mr. Lu isn't on the cover of this issue, I'll be fired by the board when I get back."

Chu Xuan dug a crumpled tissue out of his pants pocket and wiped the oily sweat from his forehead.

"Urge him, my ass. Our President Lu is busy playing video games, so just wait."

Accompanied by the "clack-clack" of high heels on the floor tiles, Shen Qingqiu walked over.

The collar of her white shirt was buttoned impeccably.

She pushed up her gold-rimmed glasses, her gaze as cold as a blade in an ice cellar.

"Mr. Richard, come upstairs with me."

Shen Qingqiu glanced at him.

"You have five minutes. Only photos, no interviews."

Richard let out a long sigh of relief.

He hurriedly grabbed his expensive DSLR camera and followed her into the elevator.

Cold sweat had soaked a large patch on the back of his high-end suit.

The top-floor office.

The air conditioner was huffing out white mist.

Lu Jingming leaned back in his leather executive chair, his legs crossed casually and sprawled carelessly over the edge of the desk.

He was still wearing that washed-out black T-shirt, the collar slightly loose.

On his feet were a pair of ten-yuan plastic flip-flops.

Richard swallowed a dry lump of saliva.

Seeing Lu Jingming's attire, the corner of his eye twitched.

"Mr. Lu, would you... not like to change into a suit?"

Richard bit the bullet and spoke, his voice wavering.

"This is a globally distributed cover; it concerns your personal image."

Lu Jingming didn't even lift an eyelid.

He reached his right hand into his worn-out jeans pocket and pulled out that one-yuan green plastic lighter.

He pressed his thumb against the metal striking wheel and rubbed it down hard.

"Click."

A faint blue flame shot up, carrying the pungent smell of low-quality kerosene.

"I'm wearing this."

Lu Jingming stared at the flame, a cold sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Take the picture or don't. If you don't want to, get lost."

Richard's legs went weak; he didn't dare utter another word.

He hurriedly raised his DSLR and pressed the shutter repeatedly, aiming at Lu Jingming behind the desk.

"Click, click."

The white flash went off several times.

Three days later.

The new issue of Time magazine air-dropped into newsstands across the globe.

The initial print run of five million copies was snapped up within half an hour.

This issue's cover had no flashy layout, nor any complex background image.

Against an all-black background, there was only a half-body close-up of a man.

A washed-out black T-shirt.

In his hand, he held a cheap green plastic lighter.

The faint blue flame danced, illuminating the side of Lu Jingming's face, which was arrogant to the bone, and his sharp canine tooth.

Below it was printed a glaring line of bold text: "The Eastern Tech Emperor (The Tech Emperor)."

This magazine, still smelling of printer's ink, landed directly on the desks of global tech giants.

Seoul, South Korea, Samsung Group headquarters.

Chairman Lee, with his head full of silver hair, stared fixedly at the magazine cover on his desk.

His cloudy, aged eyes instantly filled with fine red bloodshot lines.

He gritted his molars until they creaked, and a faint, metallic, sweet taste of blood seeped from his gums.

"Tech Emperor? A mere brat from China dares to call himself an emperor!"

Chairman Lee swept his arm violently.

The celadon teacup on the table, along with the magazine, crashed onto the wool carpet.

Boiling tea splashed everywhere.

The executive standing nearby shrank his neck in terror, his legs trembling, not daring to even dodge.

California, USA, Apple headquarters.

Cook looked at the high-definition scan of the magazine cover on his screen, the flesh on his face twitching violently.

His knuckles turned a deathly, pale blue, and his fingernails scratched deep white marks into the redwood desk.

The sense of superiority accumulated over thirty years in Silicon Valley had been pressed into the mud and ground to dust by this young Chinese man fiddling with a plastic lighter.

Donghai City.

Xinghai Technology building, top-floor office.

Shen Qingqiu held a copy of the Time magazine specimen that had just arrived.

She walked to the desk and flicked her wrist.

With a dull "thud," she slammed the magazine heavily onto the glass coffee table.

Shen Qingqiu braced her hands against the edge of the table, leaning forward slightly.

Her white shirt was pressed into a breathtaking curve.

A cold, chilling light flashed behind her lenses, like that of an actuary.

"Wall Street has deified you."

Shen Qingqiu's voice was cold, tinged with caution.

"With this label slapped on you, you've now become a living target for all capital."

Lu Jingming sat in the executive chair.

He didn't look at the magazine.

He leaned back and stretched lazily, his bones popping with a "crack."

Two tears were forced from the corners of his eyes.

He opened his mouth wide and let out a long yawn.

His eyelids drooped, giving him the lazy, unawakened look of someone who hadn't slept enough.

"It's too unchallenging."

Lu Jingming rested his chin on one hand.

His fingers casually fiddled with the one-yuan plastic lighter, making a crisp clinking sound.

He tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing a sneer of utter boredom.

"I'm about to get sick from all this idleness."