Chapter Twenty-One: The Summit Begins

The main hall of the International Fintech Summit was a grand, golden-domed chamber spacious enough to accommodate three thousand guests. Massive Swarovski crystal chandeliers, like inverted galaxies, cast their soft yet dazzling glow over every well-dressed face. The air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne, Cuban cigars, and that peculiar confidence—bordering on arrogance—belonging only to the elite.

This was one of the nerve centers of world finance; every individual present wielded enough influence that a simple tap of their foot could send tremors through some nation’s stock market.

Xiao Ran, or rather, “Rebecca Shaw—European Financial Regulatory Policy Researcher,” held a glass of champagne, moving with effortless grace through this forest of wealth and power. Her face bore a polite, scholarly smile as she discussed the complexities of “Basel III” and “quantitative easing” with nearby financial titans. Her expertise and insight earned her frequent nods and words of approval.

But beneath those rimless glasses, her cold eyes worked like the highest-precision radar, silently scanning every corner of the hall, greedily absorbing any valuable information into her mind.

…

Meanwhile.

Above the heads of these glamorous guests, hidden in the stifling, labyrinthine crawlspace of the backstage ceiling, Lin Feng—or, as he was now, “Zhang San, proud electrical maintenance intern”—was crawling forward, sweating profusely, like a lizard navigating the narrow air duct.

A pen-shaped mini flashlight clenched between his teeth, his grimy blue coveralls soaked with sweat and clinging to his body, exuded a pungent blend of machine oil and perspiration.

“Mouse, report position,” he muttered in a low voice to the tiny communicator at his collar.

“Copy, boss!” chirped his AI assistant, “Mouse,” its childlike voice crackling in his earpiece. “Based on the gyroscope and thermal sensor in your ID card, there’s a high-pressure steam pipe ahead to your left—temperature, 180 degrees Celsius. Below and to the right is the exhaust vent for the ladies’ restroom; I suggest not lingering there! Our target—the central exhaust vent of the main server room—is straight ahead, thirty-three meters away.”

“Got it.” Lin Feng sighed, feeling he’d never been in such a sorry state.

A king in the virtual world, able to stir up storms at will, now reduced to wrestling with a hot water pipe in a cramped air duct, risking a thorough roasting at any moment.

Such was life, perhaps.

…

At exactly ten o’clock, the summit’s main forum officially began.

As the host, in an exaggerated tone of reverence, uttered the name “Anderson,” the entire hall erupted in thunderous applause.

Anderson took the stage.

Beneath the spotlight, he wore a perfectly tailored white linen suit, his golden hair meticulously combed, blue eyes gleaming with the magnetism of a born leader and a certain… almost “divine” gentleness.

He was the undisputed center of this arena of fame and fortune.

Unlike the other guests who stood behind the podium, he paced the stage like Steve Jobs, holding a wireless microphone, delivering his speech in a stirring, conversational tone.

He spoke not of technology or data, but of “dreams.”

“…We live in an unprecedented age,” his voice, resonant and magnetic, reached every ear through state-of-the-art speakers, “an era of transformation, but also of anxiety. The old order is collapsing, and the shape of the future remains unclear. So where do we go from here?”

He paused, sweeping the audience with his gaze.

“My answer is cooperation. It is to set aside prejudice and embrace our ‘rivals.’”

His eyes, almost inadvertently, flicked toward Xiao Ran’s direction.

…

“Just yesterday, I shared a cup of coffee with a friend from China’s ‘Huaxin Technologies.’ I must admit, they are a company worthy of respect—diligent, focused, and innovative. They are our formidable ‘rivals,’ but more importantly, they are our future’s most important ‘partners!’”

His words drew another round of thunderous, amicable applause, especially from the Chinese entrepreneurs in the audience.

Yet Xiao Ran, watching this radiant, almost saintly figure on stage, felt her gaze grow ever colder.

Her special glasses, capturing and analyzing Anderson’s every micro-expression at sixty frames per second, flagged two red warnings at the edge of her retina as Anderson smiled and uttered the words “Huaxin Technologies” and “partners.”

[Left corner of the mouth twitched down for 0.12 seconds. Emotion: Contempt.]

[Pupils showed abnormal contraction for 0.08 seconds when mentioning ‘cooperation.’ Emotion: Disgust.]

This man was a born actor.

A devil, perfecting hypocrisy to its absolute extreme.

…

As Xiao Ran was growing increasingly nauseated by Anderson’s performance, backstage in the ventilation ducts, Lin Feng finally reached his destination—directly above the main server room.

Carefully, he unscrewed the four bolts of the central exhaust vent, lifting the slatted grate just enough to peer through.

The scene below was like something out of a science fiction film: a vast server room, hundreds of cabinets arranged in neat rows, blue indicator lights pulsing like the rhythm of breath.

Everything seemed normal.

But Lin Feng’s eyes were immediately drawn to the very center, to a rack physically isolated by glass walls.

That cabinet, entirely black and aggressively designed, stood out starkly among the ordinary white units.

Above it, barely noticeable, a logo was etched with laser precision:

A serpent, ravenously devouring its own tail.

The Ouroboros.

Lin Feng’s heart skipped a beat.

He immediately relayed this discovery to Xiao Ran via encrypted communication.

“Xiao Ran! I found it! The Ouroboros emblem! Right in the main server room!”

But before he could celebrate, he noticed something even more troubling.

“Wait… Something’s wrong!” His voice turned grave. “That cabinet is physically isolated, like a showpiece! None of its cables are connected to the summit’s main network! Damn it… This isn’t their core server! It’s a… trap!”

A trap set specifically for unwelcome guests like themselves.

…

In the main hall, Lin Feng’s urgent warning buzzed in Xiao Ran’s earpiece.

Before her eyes, a more bizarre scene unfolded.

As the audience’s applause faded, Anderson did not return backstage to the VIP lounge like the other guests. Instead, he spoke quietly with a mysterious Asian man in a black tunic suit, his presence sharp and menacing, almost like a bodyguard.

Then, the two of them slipped out of sight, entering an inconspicuous side door beside the main hall.

Xiao Ran’s pupils contracted sharply.

On one hand, there was Lin Feng’s warning of a “trap.”

On the other, the sudden appearance of a “big fish.”

Which should she choose?

Her inner struggle lasted less than a second.

Speaking into her communicator in a tone that brooked no argument, she ordered, “Lin Feng, hold your position and continue monitoring! The bait has surfaced!”

With that, she set her glass on a passing waiter’s tray and, without drawing attention, followed after.

She chose to step into what might well be a trap.

…

At this moment, it was as if the camera split in two.

On one side, Xiao Ran’s resolute figure moved toward the dim corridor—the corridor ending at a heavy iron door marked, “High Voltage Switch Room: Authorized Personnel Only.”

On the other side, in a secret security monitoring room filled with surveillance screens, Anderson stood shoulder to shoulder with the man in the tunic suit.

On the giant monitor before them played the live feed of Xiao Ran, step by step, approaching that iron door.

In a hoarse voice, the man asked, “Sir, do you need… her dealt with?”

Anderson slowly lifted a cup of coffee from the table, taking a delicate sip.

A familiar, cat-and-mouse smile—graceful yet cruel—appeared on his face.

“No rush,” he replied, watching the beautiful prey about to step into the snare.

“You see, as I’ve always said…”

“The cleverest hunter is often…”

“…the one who enters the trap as prey.”