After Jing Hong came to a stop, the elevator rose quickly and smoothly, finally coming to a halt at the top floor. Zhou Chang’s assistant gestured with a “this way, please,” letting Jing Hong exit the elevator first, and then led him all the way to the innermost general manager’s office in the building.

Many CEOs of large American companies didn’t even have private offices, working instead out of cubicles. Although Zhou Chang had studied and worked in the US for many years, he was clearly not quite that Westernized.

The office was rectangular and, along with a few other offices, extended outward from the main body of the building. As a result, three sides featured floor-to-ceiling glass windows, offering excellent lighting and stunning views, though it was extremely space-inefficient. The Qinghui Building was a rectangular block, but the very top floor shaped into a straight-up-and-down truncated cone. The few offices extending outward looked, at first glance, like a few petals gently capping the top floor of the building.

Zhou Chang’s office had the best view.

Similar to Jing Hong’s, the style of Zhou Chang’s office was actually very modern. It was evident that after taking over Qinghui, Zhou Chang had also renovated the office.

The interior was simply composed of three colors—black, white, and gray—with the reception area on the outside and the work area on the inside.

In the center of the reception area sat a long black sofa, flanked on both sides by two short sofas of the same color, surrounding a coffee table. Against the wall behind the long sofa leaned a bookcase. Jing Hong glanced over and noticed that inside were not only professional books and papers related to IT, but also many from other industries—such as agriculture—as well as quite a few on sociology, even including religion, race, and various other topics.

The work area featured a long L-shaped desk that was very minimalist and modern. On the short side was a personal computer, while some files lay on the long side. Behind the desk stood a rack, which held not books, but commemorative items released after each of Qinghui’s product launches. Most were merely decorative discs engraved in the middle with “Product X, Month Day, Year,” yet they represented the deep, indelible marks of Qinghui Group’s thirty-year history.

To the left of the desk, positioned against the wall, was a large whiteboard with notes written on it, used for executive briefings.

The assistant led Jing Hong inside.

Zhou Chang was personally tinkering with a coffee machine on one side of the room. Seeing Jing Hong, he smiled and asked, “President Jing, would you like some coffee?”

Whenever the two met officially, they were always impeccably polite.

Jing Hong paused briefly, then smiled: “President Zhou certainly has leisure and elegant taste.”

Zhou Chang gave a dry laugh: “Just learned how. One has to learn to be self-reliant, after all.”

While speaking, Zhou Chang had already brewed a cup. He handed the coffee to his assistant, gesturing for him to serve it to Jing Hong, and then looked at Jing Hong, adding: “Care to try it? I wonder if it suits your taste.”

The assistant took the cup of coffee, walked over to the reception area, bowed slightly, and gently set the coffee cup along with its saucer onto the dark coffee table. He then straightened up, gave a slight nod to Jing Hong, and left without staying a moment longer.

“Thank you.” After expressing his thanks to Zhou Chang, Jing Hong walked into the reception area. However, he didn’t sit down. He turned around—with the coffee table in front of him and the sofa behind him—placing one hand in his pocket as he looked across the coffee table at Zhou Chang, who had already walked over to the opposite side.

“President Zhou,” Jing Hong said, “my purpose in coming over today is to discuss the acquisition of Med-Ferry.”

“Oh?” Zhou Chang raised his tone slightly. “How shall we discuss it?”

“It’s very simple,” Jing Hong got straight to the point. “Fanhai will transfer all of its 18.9% stake in Med-Ferry to Qinghui at Qinghui’s offer price. Fanhai will then withdraw from this bidding war for Med-Ferry. However, once Qinghui successfully acquires Med-Ferry, it must sell Med-Ferry’s AI drug development subsidiary to Fanhai at a price of 200 million euros.”

Zhou Chang listened quietly until he finished, then asked: “But… why should I do that? That AI drug development company is currently the best asset in all of Med-Ferry.”

“Talking in riddles isn’t interesting,” Jing Hong smiled. “Fanhai currently holds 33.5% of the voting rights in Med-Ferry. Qinghui wants to split up and restructure Med-Ferry as quickly as possible, right? According to the law, Qinghui needs more than two-thirds of the affirmative votes, and Med-Ferry’s articles of association contain no special provisions to the contrary. Don’t forget, Fanhai has also read Med-Ferry’s articles of association word for word.”

Fanhai held 8.9% of Class A shares and 10% of Class B shares—which carried ten votes per share—adding up to exactly 33.5% of the voting rights, just barely crossing the one-third threshold. For major matters such as a corporate spin-off, the laws of the vast majority of countries require at least a two-thirds majority vote, including Sweden, and including China. In other words, if Fanhai did not consent, it would be extremely difficult for Qinghui to successfully complete the spin-off and restructuring of Med-Ferry.

Yet Qinghui also had “Weikang Medical.” Qinghui wanted to transfer some of Med-Ferry’s assets and resources under Weikang Medical, and then spin off Med-Ferry’s distribution department to develop independently—no longer required to submit to the leadership and control of R&D, nor restricted from selling orthopedic devices from other companies. That way, it could help Weikang Medical open up the European market as quickly as possible and push for the title of the “First 3D-Printing Stock.”

Hearing the words out of Jing Hong’s mouth, Zhou Chang didn’t seem surprised at all. He just listened quietly, maintaining that seemingly earnest expression.

“Therefore,” Jing Hong said—the morning light in Zhou Chang’s office was exceptionally bright, casting a soft glow over Jing Hong’s face—”if Qinghui withdraws from this bidding war, Fanhai will naturally take over Med-Ferry, without a doubt. But if Qinghui wants to continue with this acquisition, then there’s considerable room for cooperation between our two sides—Fanhai transfers its 18.9% stake to Qinghui, allowing Qinghui a high probability of securing 100% of Med-Ferry’s equity. You can spin off what needs to be spun off and handle things however you like; Qinghui will be the sole shareholder, while Fanhai gets that AI drug development company. However, if Qinghui wins Med-Ferry but refuses to cooperate with Fanhai… these 33.5% voting rights in Fanhai’s hands might not be so obedient.”

Saying “might not be so obedient” actually meant they wouldn’t be obedient at all. They would oppose Qinghui on every single front, vetoing proposals for spin-offs, proposals for restructurings, and even vetoing every single motion brought to the table.

After a brief pause, Jing Hong added, “Besides, Fanhai only holds an 18.9% stake. The cost isn’t extraordinarily huge, so we can afford to treat it as throwing money into the water just to make a splash. But I wonder if Qinghui is equally willing to do the same.” Obviously, if Qinghui were to acquire the remaining shares, its expenditure would far exceed Fanhai’s.

Zhou Chang raised his chin slightly, gesturing for Jing Hong to continue.

“Furthermore,” Jing Hong pressed Zhou Chang further, “the acquisition price is already very high right now. If we continue to bid against each other, the final price will skyrocket. Under such a premise, even if that AI drug development company is transferred to Fanhai for 200 million euros, it’s still a pretty good deal for Qinghui, isn’t it? Otherwise, Qinghui will end up spending far more.”

“200 million euros is too low—it’s even lower than the price Med-Ferry paid to acquire that company several years ago.” After a moment, Zhou Chang finally spoke up, letting out a small smile: “Is this price non-negotiable?”

“Regrettably,” Jing Hong said, “non-negotiable.”

Zhou Chang merely nodded, saying nothing more.

For mega-corporations of Qinghui and Fanhai’s stature, haggling was simply not their style. Qinghui’s approach had always been to accept if it works, or part ways if it doesn’t.

He simply asked: “Does Fanhai have a new acquisition target?”

Jing Hong didn’t dodge the question and nodded.

“You really calculated every move brilliant, didn’t you?” Zhou Chang’s expression remained calm and composed as he smiled. “If I remember correctly, Fanhai initially bought that 8.9% stake at 9 euros per share? Now you’re transferring it to Qinghui at 15 euros per share? That means Fanhai directly nets over 100 million euros on this single deal alone? Combined with Med-Ferry’s termination fee, this is practically equivalent to taking that AI company off my hands for free. Isn’t President Jing being a bit too ruthless?”

Jing Hong said: “This is called a win-win.”

He wasn’t wrong.

If Fanhai continued to bid, Qinghui’s final total acquisition price would certainly exceed the baseline by far more than 200 million.

Finally, Jing Hong applied one last push: “In short, between Med-Ferry’s AI drug development subsidiary and the spin-off and restructuring of Med-Ferry, Qinghui can only choose one. President Zhou had better decide quickly. Right now, all those funds out there know that Fanhai and Qinghui are in a bidding war, and they’re buying in one after another. Med-Ferry’s stock price is still rising; the longer Qinghui delays, the more money it will cost.”

Across the coffee table, Zhou Chang quietly looked at Jing Hong for a moment, seemingly contemplating something. Finally, he gave a nod and said: “OK. Deal.”

Hearing the word “Deal,” Jing Hong let out a hypocritical smile: “Great. I’ll leave the rest to both our legal teams then.”

Zhou Chang nodded once more.

“I won’t disturb you any longer,” Jing Hong said, taking one hand out of his pocket. “President Zhou’s schedule must be packed.”

Zhou Chang, however, lowered his gaze to look at the cup of coffee. Taking his hand out of his suit trousers pocket, he raised a hand and asked: “President Jing really won’t give the coffee a try? This is my first time serving someone—is President Jing going to deny me face like this?”

Jing Hong hesitated slightly, but in the end, he picked up the coffee cup, stood his ground, tilted his head back, and downed it in a few gulps.

Finishing it, Jing Hong placed the coffee cup back onto the saucer and said: “Thank you.”

Zhou Chang was relentless, looking at Jing Hong as he asked: “How was it? Suit your taste?”

Jing Hong offered a polite response: “Not bad.”

“That’s good.”

A few seconds later, Zhou Chang’s gaze shifted from Jing Hong’s eyes to the corner of his mouth. Pausing there, he raised his chin to remind him: “President Jing, the corner of your mouth.”

Prompted by the reminder, Jing Hong realized that a bit of coffee might have stained the corner of his mouth, as it indeed felt slightly cool. Indifferent, he raised his right hand, wiped it away with his index finger, and casually rubbed it off on the cloth napkin in the saucer. With a hint of mild sarcasm, he asked: “May I leave now?”

“Sure,” Zhou Chang didn’t try to keep him either. “I’ll have an assistant see you out. Qinghui is quite large, and some areas have access controls.”

With that, Zhou Chang walked over to his desk and dialed an extension number. Before long, the same assistant from earlier walked back in, gesturing politely with a sweep of his right hand: “President Jing, this way please.”

Jing Hong nodded, slid one hand into his pocket, and strode briskly toward the door.

Zhou Chang watched his retreating back from behind.

According to Zhou Chang’s past experience, very few people could walk with such clean, crisp confidence while being stared at from behind; most felt as if needles were sticking into their backs. But Jing Hong was different—his pace was always unhurried and steady.

I’ve been played… Zhou Chang thought.

Jing Hong had guessed one of the most vital reasons behind Qinghui’s bid for Med-Ferry. He then completely disregarded the attitude of Med-Ferry’s board of directors, using “hostile” means to boost his voting rights to 33.5%. He had seized Qinghui tightly by its soft underbelly, threatening Qinghui and forcing it to transfer Med-Ferry’s AI drug development subsidiary to Fanhai at an extraordinarily low price.

Jing Hong knew that although Qinghui also desperately wanted that AI drug development company, if forced to choose between the two, Qinghui would most likely abandon it. After all, during previous negotiations, Qinghui had never abandoned its intention to “spin off and restructure Med-Ferry,” going so far as to raise its offer and form a consortium with Antai Fund. Compared to Weikang Medical’s IPO, that subsidiary simply paled in importance.

In the realm of “acquisitions,” people usually wracked their brains and made meticulous calculations, aiming to achieve victory in a single decisive stroke—where success made one king and failure an outcast, with no middle ground. Yet Jing Hong had somehow forged a completely different path.

This time, he himself had lost.

Watching Jing Hong’s back, Zhou Chang unconsciously bit down on his back teeth.