95: This request is a bit excessive.

[Confirm purchase of 7 'Light Infantry Brigades'? Total cost: 350 million US dollars.]

"Confirm."

[Correction: Due to bulk procurement, the total price is discounted to 320 million US dollars.]

Yo, there's a bulk discount?

David was delighted.

Even a tiny mosquito is still meat.

[Confirm purchase again?]

"Buy!"

[Purchase successful! 320 million US dollars deducted from the account balance, remaining balance: 310 million US dollars.]

[Please specify the location for manifestation.]

"The mountains surrounding La Paz, coordinates..."

David casually recited a string of coordinates he had planned long ago.

[Troop manifestation in progress... Estimated completion in ten minutes.]

[The 12th to 18th Light Infantry Brigades have been generated, and command authority has been defaulted to the highest local collaborator, 'Oliver.']

Done.

David snapped his fingers, picked up the juice nearby, and took a sip.

400 million US dollars, exchanged for 150,000 well-equipped, disciplined modern soldiers.

This deal was a massive profit no matter how you looked at it.

With this power, if Oliver still couldn't deal with the disobedient military leaders in Bolivia,

then he shouldn't be the Minister of Defense anymore; he should just go home and plant coca leaves.

He picked up the phone and dialed Oliver.

"Hello, Oliver, I sent you a small gift. Did you receive it?"

Oliver's voice on the other end of the line sounded like he was going crazy.

"My God! David! Was this you?! Suddenly, outside La Paz... seven brigades appeared! 150,000 men!"

"Their equipment is better than my National Defense Force! They say they will follow my command!"

Oliver spoke extremely fast, filled with shock and ecstasy, bordering on incoherence.

"Calm down, Mr. Minister of Defense," David said lazily. "It's just a small matter, don't make a fuss."

"This is a small matter?!" Oliver's voice went up eight octaves.

"Listen," David's tone was unquestionable. "I gave you the men; how you use them is your business."

"I want you to unite the entire country as one, as quickly as possible."

"I don't want to hear any dissenting voices anymore, understand?"

"Understood! Perfectly understood! Mr. David, you are the savior of Bolivia!"

"Alright, alright, stop flattering me and get to work."

David hung up the phone directly and tossed the cell phone aside.

The world was peaceful.

For the next few days, he just needed to lie here and enjoy the sun, the beach, and... beautiful women.

Night fell.

A bonfire was lit on the private beach, and explosive music echoed through the sky.

David leaned back on the sofa, with a locally famous female TV host sitting on his left.

On his right was a young model who had just won an award in the South America Model Competition.

The air was filled with the aroma of barbecue and the scent of expensive perfume.

A group of hot Latin American girls in bikinis were laughing and playing in the pool, their youthful hormones practically overflowing.

This was Bolivia, a magical country.

Girls from ordinary families, as long as they were pretty,

and had great figures, didn't mind using their most valuable assets to gain a chance at instant success.

And David happened to be the one who could offer them an irresistible price.

"Mr. David, try this; I grilled it for you myself."

The TV host held a skewer of grilled shrimp, handing it to David's mouth with seductive eyes.

She knew very well that this mysterious Chinese man in front of her was the true uncrowned king of Bolivia.

As long as she could cling to this powerful figure, the TV station director, the program director—everyone—would have to treat her courteously.

David opened his mouth to bite it off, and incidentally scratched her upturned nose.

"Mmm, the taste is good."

He had to admit, these Latin American beauties had deep-set features and fiery figures.

They possessed both the open passion of Westerners and the delicate skin of Easterners, which truly matched the aesthetic taste of him, a Chinese Transmigrator.

Just as he was enjoying this extravagant party life typical of European and American rich second generations, Juan hurried over with a satellite phone.

"Boss, it's Prince Sultan on the phone."

David took the call, and the music volume lowered.

"Hello, Sultan, what's up?"

"My friend, David." Sultan's voice was somewhat helpless. "Pyramid Country... the deal fell through."

"Oh?" David raised an eyebrow, not surprised at all.

"I relayed your exact words to their Vice President," Sultan explained.

"Full payment upon delivery. But... as you know, their economic situation has never been great."

"With a population of sixty million and an annual GDP of only 50 billion US dollars, they really can't come up with such a large sum of cash."

"So they gave up?"

"Yes, they decided to continue haggling with Eagle-chan to see if they can get installment payments."

"Heh, well, I wish them luck." David curled his lip.

"A bunch of paupers trying to play with third-generation fighters like the big boys. If you don't have the capability, don't try to look important."

This small matter did not affect his mood at all.

Hanging up the phone, he waved his hand at Juan, and the music started again.

The party continued.

Meanwhile.

In Iraq, thousands of miles away.

In a secret military base outside the capital Baghdad, yellow sand covered the sky and heat waves rolled.

A middle-aged man wearing a Chinese military uniform and bearing a general's star on his shoulder.

was standing next to an Iraqi-painted Type 69 tank, examining it closely.

He was the head of the Chinese military delegation, General Zhao Chengshun.

"Mr. Ramadan," Zhao Chengshun patted the tank's armor and smiled at a high-ranking Iraqi official beside him.

"Your army has done a remarkable job maintaining these old friends of ours."

The Iraqi man, named Ramadan, puffed out his chest, his face beaming with smiles.

"Not at all, not at all. These are excellent pieces of equipment imported from your country, so naturally, we take extra care of them."

After some pleasantries, Zhao Chengshun changed the subject, finally revealing his true intention.

"Mr. Ramadan, besides inspecting the subsequent payments for this batch of equipment, we actually... have one small favor to ask."

"Please speak, General. Anything we can do," Ramadan responded readily.

Zhao Chengshun's gaze sharpened. He stared into Ramadan's eyes and spoke word by word.

"We would like to personally take a look at the f-15 'eagle' fighter jet equipped by your country."

The smile on Ramadan's face froze slightly.

"This..."

"Please don't misunderstand," Zhao Chengshun waved his hand, his tone sincere.

"We know that your batch of F-15s was not purchased directly from Eagle-chan."

"To be honest, we are very curious about its origin, but we respect your country's secrets."

He paused, then continued, "It is time for our Chinese Air Force to upgrade its equipment."

"Eagle-chan's aircraft boast outstanding performance. We want to study them to find some references and inspiration for our own next-generation fighter."

"If we could observe it firsthand, the help to us would be immense."

Zhao Chengshun adopted a very humble stance.

Because he knew how important this matter was to the future of the Chinese Air Force.

The smile on Ramadan's face visibly stiffened for a brief moment.

Take a look at the F-15 personally?

This was no mere Type 69 Tank; this was a prized possession Iraq obtained through a mysterious channel at a great price.

It was President Saddam's ultimate trump card!

Forget looking at it; normally, even their own personnel, apart from specific pilots and ground crew, found it difficult to approach.

This request from the Chinese was a bit too much.

Zhao Chengshun noticed his difficulty, but his expression became even more sincere.