Chapter 77 Gao Tong holds a victory celebration banquet to prepare for receiving Xinghai's corpse.

The sky in California stays bright late into the evening.

But the panoramic glass dome of Qualcomm's headquarters had long since had its blackout curtains drawn.

The banquet hall was blasted with 16-degree Celsius air conditioning.

The charred aroma of roasted tomahawk steaks mingled with the cloying scent of perfume from the ladies' necks.

It drifted stickily in the air, making one's head spin.

Paul stood on a low platform covered in red velvet.

He held a slender crystal wine glass in his hand.

His fingertips rubbed against the layer of condensation on the glass.

It was icy cold.

He cleared his throat.

The heels of his custom leather shoes clicked twice against the wooden floor.

"Click, click."

The sound was crisp.

"Gentlemen, please set down your knives and forks for a moment."

Paul tugged at the corner of his mouth, his other hand habitually touching the platinum buttons on his cuffs.

"Hear me out for a second."

A faint clatter of silverware against china arose from the audience.

Cook sat in the front row.

He slowly swallowed a piece of bloody beef.

He picked up a snow-white napkin and dabbed at his greasy lips.

He placed his knife and fork neatly on the white porcelain plate.

Paul looked at the dozens of faces below, all satiated by profit.

"Let's see, that... what was it called again?"

He deliberately drew out his tone, eyebrows raised high.

"That factory in China? Xinghai?"

"Xinghai Technology!"

A pot-bellied fund manager below tilted his head back and gulped down some red wine.

He grinned, his lips stained purple with wine, and chimed in.

"That assembly plant that sells glass casings!"

"Right, Xinghai."

Paul swirled his glass.

The golden liquid bubbled with fine foam, making a hissing sound.

"This oriental monkey has been locked in a cage for three months now."

Paul took two steps, his soles sinking into the thick carpet.

"Not even a whimper. The doors are welded shut."

He shrugged and pursed his lips.

"I bet that Chinese kid surnamed Lu is squatting in a dilapidated factory with the electricity cut off."

"Munching on dry, hard instant noodles, wiping away tears."

A low burst of laughter erupted from the audience.

Someone raised their glass and gave a hooligan-like whistle.

Cook didn't laugh.

His silver fork scraped across the porcelain plate, making a grating sound.

"Paul, get to the point."

Cook pushed up the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"When exactly is your liquidation team leaving?"

"What's the rush, my old friend?"

Paul pointed at Cook with the hand holding the glass.

"Next Wednesday. The first-class tickets for my legal team have already been issued."

He looked up at the dazzling crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

"There's a Chinese term, what is it? Right, bankruptcy auction."

Paul drew a circle in the air with his free hand.

"One million empty shells without chips."

He scoffed, his face full of disdain.

"Not even worth scrap metal."

"I'm doing a good deed by going to collect his corpse."

The pot-bellied fund manager rubbed the stubble on his chin.

"How much will it cost? The land those junk factories occupy is worth something, right?"

"Who wants his rusty pipes and broken parts!"

Paul cursed, resting his elbows on the podium.

"Three million dollars. Five million at most."

He leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"To buy his Full-screen Display patent! To buy his Slide-to-unlock!"

A greedy green light flickered in Paul's blue eyes.

As these words were dropped, those in the banquet hall chewing meat and drinking all stopped moving.

Only the humming of the air conditioning vents remained.

"Once we get these things."

Paul looked at Cook and winked with his left eye.

"Won't all of Mr. Steve's recent troubles be solved?"

Cook picked up the ice water in front of him and took a sip.

His lenses reflected the cold light from above, hiding the calculation in his eyes.

"Money is negotiable."

Cook put down his glass and spat out four words.

"That's what we call the rules."

Paul straightened up with satisfaction.

"This is the price for challenging our Silicon Valley hegemony."

He raised his crystal glass high, the base reflecting a blinding white light under the spotlight.

"No matter how much this bug hopped around before."

"In the end, the fattest meat must honestly rot on our plates."

Paul grinned, revealing two rows of stark white teeth.

"To those patents about to be in our hands."

"And to that arrogant Chinese idiot."

"Cheers."

"Cheers!"

The vampires of Wall Street stood up from their mahogany chairs one after another.

Dozens of glasses were raised in the air simultaneously.

The clinking of glasses rang out in unison, reeking of a predatory revelry.

Paul opened his mouth.

The cold, cloying champagne had just touched his lips.

"Bang!"

A loud noise exploded without warning.

The two heavy, carved oak doors of the banquet hall, weighing hundreds of pounds, were pushed open.

Someone from outside had rammed them open with their shoulder.

The metal door handle slammed into the white wall, knocking off a large chunk of plaster.

White dust fell in showers, covering the floor.

Tom, the blonde assistant, came scrambling in.

He was running so fast that his legs kept tangling up.

The soles of his leather shoes tripped on the edge of the thick Turkish carpet.

"Oh, shit—"

Tom let out a half-screamed cry that cracked his voice.

He threw himself forward.

His knees hit the wooden floor with a thud, and he slid more than a meter across the smooth floor.

He clutched a tablet tightly to his chest, the corner of the screen bruising his ribs.

The skin on the back of his hand was scraped, but he didn't dare let go.

The banquet hall fell silent instantly.

Wine glasses froze in mid-air.

Paul was startled by the commotion, his hand shaking.

A few drops of golden champagne spilled out, landing on his tens of thousands of dollars worth of trousers, seeping into dark stains.

His eye twitched twice.

"Tom! Did you get your brain caught in the door?"

Paul gritted his teeth, suppressing his anger, and wiped his trouser leg with the back of his hand.

"Don't you see so many distinguished guests here? Why are you running around like a headless chicken!"

He glared at the person on the floor.

Tom knelt on the floor, gasping for air, a wheezing sound like a leaking bellows coming from his throat.

His blonde hair was stuck to his forehead by sweat, dripping with beads of water.

The color had drained completely from his face, his lips trembling, his teeth chattering.

"Bo-boss..."

Tom swallowed dryly, a "gulp" sound clearly audible in the quiet room.

"No, it's not... China... over in China..."

His tongue was tied, and his sentences were chopped into pieces, unable to get a coherent sentence out for a long time.

Paul slammed his glass onto the podium, the glass base making a crisp clinking sound.

"What's wrong with China?"

Paul tugged at his tie, his face full of irritation.

"Did Lu Jingming jump off a building because he couldn't handle it?"

"Even if he jumped, don't bother me! Let the undertakers handle it!"

Tom shook his head desperately, his neck swaying like a rattle-drum, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

He used his hands and feet to push himself halfway up from the floor, thrusting the tablet he was holding forward.

The cold light from the screen hit Paul's gloomy face instantly.

In the video feed, the young man in the black T-shirt was standing on the stage with dense flashes of light behind him.

"He didn't jump! He—he didn't die!"

Tom's throat cracked, and his tearful roar scraped across everyone's eardrums.

"Lu Jingming started a livestream!"

His hands were trembling.

"That madman is back with the chip!"