145: Chapter 145 The New King
The morning light of Medellín filtered through the estate's iron fence, falling upon the shell casings and bloodstains scattered across the ground.
The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood.
Manuel's car stopped at the estate entrance. Sitting in the driver's seat, he looked at the open iron gates, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open to step out.
Dressed in black combat fatigues, he walked into the estate step by step with his hands in his pockets.
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His pace was steady, his back ramrod straight, and his face devoid of expression. But inside his pockets, his fingertips tightened, nails digging into his palms.
A large hole had been blasted through the outer wall of the guardhouse, scattering concrete fragments everywhere. Inside lay three corpses in twisted positions, riddled with bullet holes. Manuel didn't even blink.
In the front yard, the wreckage of a dozen armored vehicles lay skewed along the roadside. The charred metal was still smoking. Bodies were everywhere—some face-down in pools of blood, others draped over the iron fence of the perimeter wall.
Manuel stepped through a pool of blood that hadn't yet dried, his pace never faltering.
He had seen battlefields far worse than this.
The Black Panther Brigade had fought guerrillas in the jungle for three years; they were survivors who had crawled out from piles of the dead.
But back then, those he killed were enemies, drug traffickers, and lackeys of a corrupt government.
Those lying here now were his former comrades-in-arms, Rojas's henchmen, whose hands were stained with the blood of the innocent.
Their deaths were not to be pitied.
The doors to the main building stood wide open, the frames riddled with bullet holes and the floor carpeted in shattered glass.
Manuel stepped onto it, the glass crunching beneath his boots.
In the hall, the chandeliers hung askew, a few still flickering, casting a pale light over the blood-streaked floor. Sofas were overturned, wine bottles lay shattered, and the carpet was so soaked with blood it felt sticky underfoot.
Manuel skirted around an overturned sofa and entered the banquet hall.
Fu Haoran sat in the seat that once belonged to Rojas, legs crossed, holding a glass of whiskey.
The liquid in the glass was amber. The bottle sat on the corner of the table—a single malt Rojas had hidden in the deepest part of his wine cellar, still bearing Rojas's personal signature.
What Rojas had cherished as a treasure yesterday had become a trophy today.
Tychus stood behind him like an iron tower, his hands still stained with wet blood.
In the shadows of the banquet hall stood a dozen fully armed Planetary Defense Force soldiers.
Their black tactical gear blended into the darkness, with only the cold glint of gun barrels visible.
Every muzzle was silently aimed at Manuel. If he made even the slightest suspicious move, he would be turned into a sieve in the next second.
In the center of the banquet hall, two corpses had been intentionally posed in chairs.
They were Rojas's most trusted henchmen—the Lyla brothers.
Manuel recognized them.
These two had defected with Rojas five years ago and had been his right-hand men ever since.
It was also they who had personally executed three of Manuel's veterans and thrown their bodies into the river.
Blood was still seeping from the bullet holes in the corpses, the metallic stench hitting him full-on.
Fu Haoran tilted his chin, pointing to the chair between the two corpses.
"Sit."
The chair was stained with blood, its back resting against a stiff corpse whose face had been half-shorn away by a bullet, exposing white bone.
Manuel did not hesitate.
He walked over and sat down between the corpses.
The hem of his clothes brushed against the corpse's arm—cold and rigid—but he didn't even flinch.
His right hand remained on the holster at his waist, fingertips resting on the trigger guard. Though his face was expressionless, his body was poised to draw and return fire at any moment.
It wasn't that he wasn't afraid.
It was that he knew all too well that showing fear now would only result in a death more gruesome than that of these two corpses.
Fu Haoran stared at him for a few seconds.
"I know you hate Rojas." He set down his glass and leaned forward, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. "I also know you don't want to be anyone's puppet anymore."
Manuel said nothing.
"But remember this." Fu Haoran pointed to the two corpses beside him. "The one who can let you live, and the one who can let you control this place, is me."
Manuel looked up, meeting his gaze.
"I understand."
His tone was calm, without flattery or tremor.
He realized clearly that he had no choice, and the proposal offered by the man before him was perhaps his only way out.
Fu Haoran smiled and leaned back.
"Medellín cannot fall into chaos," Fu Haoran said. "Rojas was destined to die, and someone new must take over."
"I can't stay here forever, and I have no interest in managing this mess."
Manuel waited for him to continue.
"I want you to be my proxy." Fu Haoran held up one finger. "Everything here will be under your command."
"I won't interfere with whatever you want to do. The ten million dollars I promised, the new identities for you and your brothers, and the European residency permits will all be settled within three days."
"The CIA has already approved it, and the ship is ready."
He raised a second finger. "But what I want must be delivered. The mines at the border must remain operational. Every week, you will ship the ore to the designated port as I instruct."
A third finger. "Those private docks in the Caribbean Sea must be kept clean. My cargo must be able to move in and out at any time without being inspected by anyone."
Manuel was silent for a few seconds.
"Can you handle the CIA?" he asked. "And Rojas's remnants—they won't just give up."
"I'll handle the CIA," Fu Haoran said flatly, but with unquestionable certainty. "I've already had Miller take Rojas and the contraband away."
"The political achievements and the cut they want—they won't lose a single cent."
"From today on, you are a CIA-certified key informant for the Medellín anti-drug operation. With official backing, the government forces won't touch you."
Fu Haoran paused and added, "As for Rojas's remnants, the CIA will provide you with their hideouts and intelligence. Is three days enough?"
Manuel nodded.
"It's enough."
"Just remember," Fu Haoran stood up, grabbed his tactical jacket from the back of the chair, and tossed it to Tychus. "If I can put you in this position, I can give you the support to stay in it."
Manuel made no grand promises or shows of loyalty. He simply said one thing:
"I won't let you down."
Fu Haoran didn't look at him again, turning toward the door.
"Handle the rest," he said without looking back. "I want results, not explanations. If anything goes wrong, you're the first one I'm coming for."
Tychus hoisted his autocannon and followed closely behind.
One after the other, the two vanished into the estate's morning light.
Sitting between the two corpses, Manuel watched their retreating figures with a complex look in his eyes.
There was restraint, ambition, and a faint, almost imperceptible sense of awe.
He stood up, pulled an encrypted phone from his pocket, and dialed his deputy, González.
"Bring the brothers over." His voice was cold and devoid of warmth. "Notify everyone: from today on, I'm the one in charge of Medellín."
He glanced at the two corpses and added, "Clean up the remnants immediately. Those who don't submit, leave none alive."
Hanging up, he walked to the window.
Outside, the roar of engines echoed through the morning mist. Fu Haoran's convoy had already left.
Manuel gripped his phone tightly and took a deep breath.
The lithium mines at the border, the docks in the Caribbean Sea—from today on, these were under his control.
He didn't know where the ore was going, nor what cargo those docks would be used for.
But he knew that as long as he held onto these two things, he could survive and lead his brothers to live like human beings.
He reached down and touched the sidearm at his waist, remembering how Rojas had slapped his face yesterday and called him a dog.
For the first time, a smile of relief touched the corner of Manuel's mouth.
From today on, he would never be anyone's dog again.
Meanwhile, inside the main building, the search continued.
A Planetary Defense Force soldier pried up the floorboards under Rojas's bed, revealing dozens of waterproof bags neatly stacked. Unzipping them revealed bundles of hundred-dollar bills, ten thousand dollars per bundle, perfectly organized.
"Sir, we found something under the bed," the soldier reported into his headset.
Fu Haoran walked into the bedroom and scanned the scene.
Dozens of bags, with at least five hundred thousand in each.
That was another twenty million or so.
"Keep searching."
A bookshelf in the study was pushed aside, revealing a hollow wall behind it.
Smashing through the drywall revealed gold bars stacked into a low wall.
The bars were stamped with Swiss bank marks, each weighing one kilogram.
In the garden, several cultists detected an unusual signal with ground-penetrating radar.
Digging up the lawn revealed a dozen military oil drums buried half a meter deep.
Prying open the lids, they found not gasoline, but sealed bundles of US dollars.
The drums were lined with moisture-proof paint, and the bills were as crisp as if they had just come from the mint.
In the changing room by the pool, a massive oil painting hung on the wall.
Lifting the painting revealed a wall safe. After cutting open the door, they found dozens of passports, stacks of stock certificates, and over twenty gold bricks, each weighing ten kilograms.
In the estate's warehouse, seven luxury cars were parked.
Bugattis, Ferraris, Lamborghinis—the trunk of every car was stuffed with cash, and bags of gold coins were hidden under the seats.
The cultists pulled several large suitcases from a corner of the warehouse; inside were Rolexes, Patek Philippes, and Cartiers, the diamonds on their faces glinting in the morning light.
Tychus emerged from the study carrying a crate of gold bars, cursing with a grin, "This bastard has enough money to build a house out of it."
In the basement, Fu Haoran crouched before the vault door, took the key from Rojas's body, and inserted it into the lock.
The heavy blast door slowly swung open.
The scene inside even made Fu Haoran, who was accustomed to the wealth of the Warhammer World, pause for a moment.
Bundles of US dollars were piled into a small mountain, stacked stack upon stack all the way to the ceiling.
Gold bars, diamonds, and jewelry were scattered on shelves, along with several unopened boxes of Rolexes.
In the corner were dozens of transparent plastic bags filled with raw diamonds—some as large as a thumb, others the size of soybeans.
"Jarvis, give me an estimate," Fu Haoran said.
The phone vibrated: [Conservative estimate: approximately 600 million USD in cash, 200 million USD in gold and jewelry, and 100 million USD in raw diamonds. Watches and luxury cars are separate. Total value exceeds 1 billion USD.]
Fu Haoran smiled.
He spoke into his headset, "Miller, arrange for people to handle the asset inventory for the rest. I want to see the official seizure documents by tomorrow noon."
Fu Haoran smiled.
He spoke into his headset, "Miller, arrange for people to handle the asset inventory for the rest. I want to see the official seizure documents by tomorrow noon."
On the other end, Miller's voice sounded a bit dry. "...Understood."
Soon, bundles of cash were being continuously moved out from the basement, bedroom, study, garden, and warehouse. Cash transport vehicles came trip after trip, leaving full and returning empty to be loaded again.
Tychus, carrying two crates of gold bars, walked from the study to the entrance and back, making over a dozen trips without even wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Moving money is way more exhausting than fighting," he grumbled.
At the estate entrance, Miller's convoy arrived shortly after.
Standing outside the cordon, he looked at the shell casings and corpses littering the ground, his expression very uneasy.
At that moment, Fu Haoran emerged.
Behind him, Tychus followed, carrying Rojas over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Mr. Fu," Miller walked over quickly, unable to hide the smile on his face.
"The vault inventory is complete. There's 470 million USD in cash, plus 200 million in gold and jewelry. Including the other strongholds, a conservative estimate for seized illegal assets is over 1 billion USD."
"The 30% handover as agreed?" Fu Haoran asked.
"30%," Miller nodded. He didn't dare say no, and as for the actual total, no one dared to ask.
"The remaining 70% will be at the disposal of the operation's lead party according to the agreement. Give me an account number, and I'll arrange the transfer by dawn."
Fu Haoran flicked his cigarette ash. "No rush."
He turned to look toward the mines deep within the estate—there were several abandoned lithium mines Rojas had controlled, which now belonged to him.
"Miller, let me ask you something."
"Please, go ahead."
"Who was buying from these Colombian mines before?"
Miller paused and thought for a moment. "The mines Rojas held were nominally under a shell company. The volume wasn't high because Rojas didn't care about the mines at all; he just used them for money laundering."
"Are the channels still there?"
"They should be." Miller hesitated. "You want to continue selling?"
"Why not?" Fu Haoran smiled. "The mines are in my hands, and the channels are too. It would be a waste not to sell."
Miller didn't ask further.
He only wanted to get his political credit as soon as possible. Whether Fu Haoran wanted to sell ore or arms was none of his business.
...
Far away in East Asia, Cheng Beixiao felt like he hadn't been sleeping soundly lately.
It wasn't that he had a guilty conscience, but rather that he was too idle.
He was getting paid seventy thousand a month, but had nothing to do!
Aside from a busy period when he first started, he had been idle ever since.
Cheng Beixiao worried he might be laid off.
After all, following foreign corporate habits, cost-cutting and efficiency measures usually started with people like him.
He had hadn't received a mission in nearly three months, to the point where Cheng Beixiao suspected the company had forgotten about him.
As the saying goes:
Monthly salary 10,000: I don't agree with what the boss says, but I keep my mouth shut.
Monthly salary 20,000: Whatever the boss says goes, as long as I get paid.
Monthly salary 30,000: Everything the boss says is right; if it's wrong, it must be my fault.
Monthly salary 50,000: 996 is as natural as breathing.
Monthly salary 100,000: I don't need to get off work.
Although Cheng Beixiao's base monthly salary was only seventy thousand, with daily travel allowances and performance bonuses, his take-home pay could push close to a hundred thousand.
Cheng Beixiao now just wanted the company to assign him some work.
Tonight, Cheng Beixiao was supposed to go on a date with his girlfriend. While she was doing her makeup, he habitually checked his phone. Finding no messages, he could only set it aside.
His girlfriend, Lin Wan, was dissatisfied. "Do you even care about me? You're staring at that damn phone all day."
Cheng Beixiao ignored her complaints. She was his former classmate whom he had pursued for four years, and they had only recently gotten together. He knew the reason well—it was just to save on rent.
Recently, Cheng Beixiao had discovered that the goddess he had chased for so many years seemed rather ordinary.
Suddenly, his work phone chimed with a notification.
Cheng Beixiao immediately grabbed the phone and saw the mission:
[Tomorrow, head to Baosteel, HBIS, and Shagang to negotiate orders. The parent company wants to sell iron ore.]
Cheng Beixiao immediately grabbed his pre-packed bags. "I'm going on a business trip. I can't stay with you."
Lin Wan was furious. "Cheng Beixiao, we agreed tonight was our official date. If you dare leave, we're breaking up."
Without looking back, Cheng Beixiao replied, "As you wish."
The sound of things being smashed came from behind him, but he didn't turn around.
Between a girlfriend and a monthly income of nearly a hundred thousand, Cheng Beixiao knew exactly where his priorities lay.