After Divorce, I Can Hear the Future

Chapter 76: Malice Surges Like a Tide

"Only $6.2635 million?"

By dawn, Lu Liang had completed his trades and closed his positions. After a detailed calculation, his total profit was $6.289 million. Deducting $25,500 in fees, he pocketed $6.2635 million.

Investing $10 million and achieving a 62.63% profit in less than a week would seem like a remarkable success, but Lu Liang still found it underwhelming. Such modest gains didn’t match the spectacle of witnessing a nation's leader fall from strength to decline under dual economic and political pressure.

This time, Anshan had gone from a "mighty man descending from the heavens" to a "faded egg man." Lu Liang felt a tinge of melancholy, a “when the rabbit dies, the fox grieves” sentiment.

"The real issue is that my capital is too small," he muttered.

If he had the hundreds of billions of dollars of a quantum fund, he could have been the leading actor in this international drama. With only $10 million, he was left to watch others take center stage, feasting on the big profits, while he could only nibble at the scraps.

Humming a tune, Lu Liang left his office for the bathroom to wash up. After an all-nighter, he was oily-haired and haggard. Just then, he ran into Tang Caidie.

“President Lu, were you at the office all night?” she asked, astonished.

“Will you be back this afternoon?”

“Why?”

“The business license documents should arrive by noon, along with the financial audit report. Both require your signature.”

At the start of each month, Lu Liang’s schedule was jam-packed with tasks like payroll, expense reports, and investment audits. While Tang Caidie handled preliminary reviews, the final signatures and authorizations always required Lu Liang’s personal attention.

“I’ll come in later this afternoon,” he replied, understanding that these documents couldn’t be delayed. Without his approval, the workflow would stall, and projects would grind to a halt.

Back home, Lu Liang had barely slept a few hours when his phone, though on silent, buzzed incessantly like a jackhammer. Stifling his anger, he answered the call, hearing Meng Changkun’s excited voice on the other end.

“Bro, you’re amazing!”

“Huh? What nonsense are you talking about?” Lu Liang mumbled groggily, his brain still half-asleep.

“Oh, right, sorry! You’re probably resting now. I’ll call you later,” Meng quickly said, realizing his mistake.

Lu Liang instinctively hung up and shut his eyes again. But after a few minutes, something felt off. A quick glance at his phone revealed an abnormal number of missed calls and unread messages. And how did Meng know he was resting?

Suddenly wide awake, Lu Liang immediately called Meng back. “Kun, what were you talking about earlier?”

Meng chuckled. “Did you short the yen last night?”

After a brief hesitation, Lu Liang admitted, “Yeah, I did.”

“Those Devils  are calling you the god of speculation now!” Meng exclaimed, his pride evident. “Check WeChat—I forwarded you the news!”

If Meng had to choose between a Russian and a Japanese woman, he would unhesitatingly pick the Japanese one—purely out of a sense of avenging historical grievances from a century ago.

Lu Liang’s takedown of Japan’s national wealth had him brimming with vicarious satisfaction. If this operation had been Meng’s doing, he might have earned his own chapter in the family genealogy—a pinnacle of honor for a Chaoshan native, second only to funding the construction of an ancestral shrine.

Meng had forwarded four or five articles. As Lu Liang read through them, his expression darkened, as if he had swallowed a fly.

"The Eastern Soros"

"China's God of Speculation"

"Sweeping Tens of Millions Overnight"

"A Catastrophe in the USD-JPY Forex Market"

"This Man’s Name is Lu Liang…"

“Bro, you’ve become world-famous in one fell swoop!” Meng’s hearty laughter echoed over the speakerphone. But Lu Liang exhaled deeply, his expression grim. “Kun, do you believe I made that much money?”

The malicious tide rising against him was palpable, as if determined to drown him. The problem wasn’t whether he had actually made that much—it was that the news was treating leveraged trades as if they were pure profit.

Meng paused, laughing nervously. “Now that you mention it, journalists do tend to exaggerate.”

Lu Liang sighed. Hearing the doubt in Meng’s voice, he said, “I’m home. If you’re free, come over.”

“Tomson Riviera, Building B?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll head over now.”

Meng’s tone grew serious as he realized the situation might be more complicated than it seemed.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Lu Liang smoked a cigarette. Only when it burned down to the filter, scorching his fingers, did he snap back to reality. He stubbed it out and went to wash up, his thoughts gradually clearing as he brushed his teeth.

This was clearly a case of pengsha—praising someone to their ruin.

After getting dressed, Lu Liang left the bedroom. The housekeeper, Aunt Liu, had prepared a lavish lunch spread. Smiling, she handed him a glass of warm water. “Mr. Lu, you’re awake. Have some water to soothe your throat.”

“Aunt Liu, you can head home for now. I’m expecting a guest shortly.”

Taking the glass, Lu Liang stepped onto the balcony and dialed Zhao Haisheng’s number. In a cold tone, he demanded, “Which bank handled the transaction?”

He had closed his positions around 7 a.m., and the news had leaked by 9 a.m. In such a short time, only two parties could have done it: either Guotai Securities, his broker, or the bank Guotai used for the funds transfer.

“Mitsui Sumitomo,” Zhao replied, his voice trembling. He had been on edge all morning, waiting for Lu Liang’s call.

When Zhao saw the news, he was stunned. Lu Liang had only put up $10 million—how could the reports claim he’d made $70–80 million? Zhao had also kept an eye on last night’s forex market. Given the constant reversals, $10 million leveraged 100 times would have been wiped out several times over.

As a semi-insider, Zhao immediately suspected foul play. But every time he tried to call Lu Liang, the line was busy.

“Mitsui Sumitomo…” Lu Liang narrowed his eyes. “I see.” He quickly pieced together the incident and its implications.

A glance at the forex charts showed the USD-JPY rate had already dropped to 128. In one week, it had fallen 20 points, an 18.5% drop.

The Japanese central bank had issued 485.5 trillion yen in total currency, and now 89.72 trillion yen had evaporated into thin air. Someone had to take the blame.

Anshan wouldn’t shoulder it—he couldn’t. Admitting fault would mean instant impeachment, not to mention his economic policies were based on monetary easing. Acknowledging the failure would be self-defeating.

Wall Street, as the primary beneficiary, also wouldn’t take responsibility, as Anshan didn’t want to provoke anti-American sentiment among the public, especially after antagonizing Lucian over the New Security Law.

Japan’s domestic conglomerates? They had already slammed the door on citizens trying to exchange foreign currency, trapping and slaughtering them, and might even have been part of the short-selling force. But Anshan wouldn’t point fingers internally—suicidal eight-gun salutes weren’t his style.

Anshan needed a scapegoat to divert public outrage, just as Soros and the Quantum Fund had been in ’97.

Back then, Soros, known as the “Western Poison,” had been the public face of the assault. Yet, his actual profits had been modest. The real winners remained hidden, basking anonymously in their success.

This time, the ideal target was someone from a "certain great power." The Russians were out of the question—their financial systems were practically nonexistent.

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