A little game for everyone: guess who Director Wang is meeting. The answer will be revealed in the text.

Lieutenant Colonel Churchill was a short, stout man. Analyzing him from an anthropological perspective, Wang Zhuo was certain this fellow was not of pure Nordic descent; he looked more like a cross between Mediterranean and Gypsy stock—one of the uglier examples of a white man.

Not only was he ugly, but when he spoke, he frequently stuttered, often repeating the same sentence several times. Wang Zhuo had just overcome the language barrier, only to run into a communication obstacle with him. Even with his strong learning ability, he could only sigh in defeat.

Even Zhou Jiyuan, who knew next to nothing about spoken English, privately complained that this Lieutenant Colonel Churchill had terrible delivery, yet acted incredibly pompous, sitting with an air of arrogance and superiority. Sharing a meal with him was truly unpleasant.

If Zhou Jiyuan had a better grasp of history, he might have guessed that this Lieutenant Colonel Churchill had some minuscule connection to the famous British Prime Minister Churchill from World War II. Unfortunately, his breadth of knowledge was too narrow, and neither Wang Zhuo nor Li Mingxu, who had spotted the connection, bothered to tell him.

This breakfast was held with Prince Maimun from Abu Dhabi and others. During the meal, Maimun acted as if nothing was amiss. After finishing, everyone left to rest for ten minutes before setting off. However, as they exited the dining hall, Maimun pulled Wang Zhuo aside to share a piece of information.

He had visited the best hospital in London yesterday for a check-up and was diagnosed with a viral pneumonia whose symptoms were subtle. If caught early, there would be no issue, but if treatment were delayed, there was a risk of fluid buildup, hardening, and even cancerous development in the lungs.

In other words, that casual comment Wang Zhuo had made had done him a huge favor. The more powerful and influential people were, the more they cherished their lives and placed extreme importance on their health; thus, this debt of gratitude had to be acknowledged.

“Magical Chinese medicine, magical Chinese friends,” Maimun said sincerely and generously to Wang Zhuo. “You must visit us in the UAE. I will treat you with the highest state honors, ensuring you will never want to leave.”

Maimun, of course, didn't know Chinese idioms, so he expressed these sentiments in English. Still, Wang Zhuo understood his meaning: this handsome Arab had just made a lifelong friend in him.

Maimun was thirty-six, in the prime of his life, old enough to be Wang Zhuo’s “elder brother.” Yet, he dared not underestimate Wang Zhuo, his “younger brother.” Although the Arabs were wealthy due to oil, their wealth was finite, whereas Wang Zhuo possessed true capability—the ability to create fortune with his own two hands—making him someone worthy of respect.

Consequently, for the journey, Wang Zhuo no longer needed to ride in the standard-issue business vehicle provided by the British side. To see how wealthy the nouveau riche of the oil kingdom truly were, one only needed to look at the two extra-long Rolls-Royce luxury cars Maimun and his entourage were traveling in. These vehicles could only be custom-ordered; they weren't mass-produced for direct sale anywhere in the world!

Maimun generously lent them one of the cars. A single vehicle of this size could comfortably fit two mahjong tables, and its exquisitely luxurious interior left even Wang Zhuo speechless, let alone the others like Zhao Yu, who looked like they had just entered the Grand View Garden for the first time.

“Damn, are Arabs this damn rich?” Zhou Jiyuan finally couldn’t hold back and swore.

“How much do you think this car costs? Is one million enough? I mean in Euros,” Li Mingxu asked Wang Zhuo.

“I really don’t know,” Wang Zhuo replied with a dry laugh, scratching his head. “For the car itself, maybe one million wouldn’t be enough, but look at the armrest under your elbow... that’s gold-plated…”

The Arabs’ penchant for gold was well-known. Hearing Wang Zhuo, everyone immediately looked down in astonishment at the armrests. Kang Yangqiu, the ship maintenance specialist, even took a fingernail and tried to scratch it hard. The resulting assessment confirmed what Wang Zhuo had said: it was gold-plated, not merely covered in a thin layer—this was serious!

The group was momentarily speechless. The interior of the car was opulent. At first glance, they assumed the decorations were merely expensive, but now they realized the materials themselves were astonishing. Sharkskin seat covers, gold-plated armrests, perhaps even the plush carpet was made of sable fur. This level of extravagance could only be described as squandering wealth like dirt.

Wang Zhuo had expected the itinerary to involve driving to a pier on the Thames and then taking a boat out to sea. Instead, despite the British Ministry of Defence being notoriously short on funds, they maintained a grand posture. Four cars arrived at the underground parking lot of a specific building, where Lieutenant Colonel Churchill led them via the elevator straight to the rooftop, stepping out onto a helipad equipped with three landing spots.

Two medium-sized helicopters, which Wang Zhuo couldn't name, rested silently on the tarmac. Zhao Yu, however, exclaimed their identity in surprise.

“Super Puma?! Good heavens, what a beast!”

The two helicopters before them were indeed large; how could they not be? They could hold twenty people! This type of helicopter was a multi-role aircraft, used by many countries worldwide for rescue operations, and it was also a formidable asset in troop insertion maneuvers—a highly mature design.

After boarding the aircraft, Zhao Yu nearly became overly excited again until Li Mingxu gave him a couple of sharp words. Everyone looked forward to the journey, anticipating the aerial view of London. Li Mingxu, using his broken English, gestured and spoke animatedly to Heidegger, learning that photography was permitted. He then excitedly started taking selfies with Zhao Yu and the others.

Maimun and his party were far calmer. In comparison, Wang Zhuo’s group resembled tourists on an excursion, while Maimun’s seemed to be there for serious business.

After waiting a bit longer, the elevator door on the far end of the rooftop opened again, and more than ten people emerged. Wang Zhuo focused his gaze, his eyes first lighting up, then suddenly shining brightly!

These people were clearly two separate groups brought together by sharing the same elevator. What made Wang Zhuo’s eyes light up initially was none other than Irene Top, whom he had met briefly the night before. She was accompanying a man in his seventies, dressed in pale yellow casual wear that barely concealed her alluring figure, though her face still held a trace of unvanquished youthful innocence, captivatingly beautiful and charming.

What caused Wang Zhuo’s vision to suddenly blaze, however, was a figure he absolutely had not anticipated. This man had distinctly oriental features, stood a commanding six-foot-three, tall, ruggedly handsome, and imposing. He was walking with three other Chinese men and one Chinese woman, speaking fluent English with a young man in Irene Top’s group. It was Liu Jieming, Wang Zhuo’s old flame whom he had never met face-to-face!

What is he doing here?! Wang Zhuo was overwhelmed by a massive surprise. Irene’s presence wasn't that strange; she was a native Londoner and now a rising star in the arts and social circles. Events like auctioning off decommissioned aircraft carriers drew only the rich and powerful. It was easily understandable that she would be invited to observe as a friend of one of the parties. But for Liu Jieming, a man who had fled to avoid trouble, to now be thriving and cheerfully attending this maritime tour group—and running right into Wang Zhuo—made one marvel at the capriciousness of fate!

The world is vast, yet sometimes it feels incredibly small. So vast that two classmates living in the same small city might not see each other for twenty years, yet so small that Wang Zhuo, having traveled thousands of miles from China to London, England, would run into his old nemesis, Liu Jieming—the man who had once tried to poison him to death—on a mere rooftop helipad!

Watching the group, led by an officer, walk towards the other helicopter, Wang Zhuo’s gaze became infinitely more complex. Although Wang Zhuo and Liu Jieming had never met, not even exchanged a single phone call, he had seen many photos of Liu Jieming. Conversely, Liu Jieming certainly wouldn't forget Wang Zhuo's appearance. They would recognize each other instantly upon meeting.

Because of the white mist swirling around the rooftop and the obstruction from the helicopter frames and glass windows, Liu Jieming couldn't possibly spot Wang Zhuo. He merely glanced at the “other helicopter” before proceeding toward his own, like everyone else.

What should be done? Wang Zhuo stroked his chin, contemplating. This was British territory, after all; he couldn’t just walk over and deck the guy like he might back home. Moreover, this personal feud was entangled with many private reasons not suitable for outsiders. To strike someone without understanding the context would surely cause him to lose face in front of the foreigners.

On the other hand, because his online activity times differed from Irene Top’s, although they had become friends and she had even greeted him with an “i,” to which Wang Zhuo had replied “ei, girl,” they still hadn’t had a direct conversation. Wang Zhuo felt he should appear before her suddenly and give her a surprise.

Looking past the fuselages of the two helicopters, Wang Zhuo watched Liu Jieming and his friends sit down, laughing and talking, a playful smirk creeping onto his own face.

Liu Jieming, Liu Jieming—you probably never expected to bump into your brother like this in London, did you? Truth be told, I don't hate you that much anymore. You sent me an attempted car crash; I gifted you a set of green-tinted headwear. Should we call it even now?

Thinking of this, Wang Zhuo involuntarily recalled Yang Ru’s appearance. While one couldn't exactly describe her with words like 'ethereal beauty,' her highly distinctive 'snake-spirit' face was incredibly delicate and seductive. Especially her enchanting figure, standing at five-foot-seven, paired with her snow-white complexion—the way she writhed beneath him was beyond just 'satisfying.'

A wicked smile began to spread across Wang Zhuo’s lips. Although he had already enjoyed Yang Ru's pleasures and attained what Liu Jieming never could, such matters were inherently private, leaving a slight regret of being a 'nightingale in fine clothes'—enjoying glory in secret. Now, seeing Liu Jieming in person gave rise to an ineffable sense of smugness and schadenfreude. He finally understood why the Japanese ‘Wife-Stealing’ film genre was so popular; there was a secret pleasure in that aspect!