Special Forces: At the beginning, An Ran pulled him to get his certificate.

Chapter 1536 Controlling the Scene

The South Vietnamese leader stared blankly at Chen Jun.

He had lived for so many years and met many people—politicians, soldiers, businessmen, negotiation experts… all sorts of people, each with their own unique aura. But he had never met anyone like Chen Jun.

He only glanced at you in the crowd, and you felt like you couldn't breathe.

There was light in those eyes.

It's not an exaggeration; there really is light—an indescribable light that seems to penetrate all pretense and reach the depths of the heart.

Whenever that gaze fell upon him, he felt as if he had been stripped naked and stood in the freezing cold, with all his thoughts, calculations, hesitations, and fears exposed.

It's as if something terrible will happen if you don't go along with this person.

The feeling was strange, even absurd. He was the leader of South Vietnam, the nominal highest leader of this land, while Chen Jun was just a foreign general. Yet at this moment, he had the illusion of facing a higher dimension.

He managed to speak, his voice somewhat dry:

"General Chen... this..."

He paused, carefully choosing his words:

"The delegation from the United States came here specifically after hearing about our approval of the stationing of troops from Yan. Their attitude was very tough. I had no choice."

Chen Jun looked at him but didn't speak immediately.

The silence lasted for about three seconds, but to the South Vietnamese leader, it felt like three hours.

Then Chen Jun gave a soft, cold snort.

The cold snort contained no obvious anger or sarcasm, only a simple "I understand." Strangely, however, the South Vietnamese leader felt the pressure on him suddenly lessen. His gaze softened, no longer as aggressive as before.

Chen Jun spoke, his tone calm:

"It seems you were threatened too."

The South Vietnamese leader nodded hastily, then, feeling that nodding too quickly was undignified, slowed down and nodded again. His posture resembled that of a dog cautiously trying to please its master after being scolded.

Chen Jun ignored the details. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze passing over the South Vietnamese leader and looking out the window at the foreign sky. His voice was low, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps offering the other person a way out:

"Actually, your Southern Yue people are not particularly opposed to the presence of Yan troops."

He paused.

"What you reject is that country that loves to station troops everywhere."

The South Vietnamese leader's eyes lit up; he understood what Chen Jun meant.

Yes, that's the truth.

South Vietnam didn't care who stationed troops there—this land had witnessed too many changes of suzerain states and had long since learned to go with the flow. But what they cared about was: if Yan became the country "stationing troops everywhere," what would America be then? Would that self-proclaimed "world police," treating the whole world as its backyard, stand by and watch its territory be invaded?

What they truly fear is never the troop presence itself, but rather the chain reaction it triggers, the anger of the United States, and the potential sanctions and subversion.

Chen Jun withdrew his gaze and looked back at the South Vietnamese leader. His gaze held a hint of scrutiny, and also something that could be called a "commitment":

"As long as you don't have any ulterior motives and cooperate well with Yan Kingdom, there will be no problem."

The South Vietnamese leader responded almost immediately:

"General Chen, if you can handle the American delegation, then I have absolutely no problem!"

His tone was urgent and eager, like a drowning person grabbing onto a piece of driftwood.

Chen Jun nodded.

He stood up and turned his gaze to the other end of the conference table.

There were seven people sitting there.

Seven Westerners. Six men and one woman.

They were all dressed in impeccably tailored suits, their postures haughty and their expressions cold. From the moment Chen Jun entered, they scrutinized him with condescending eyes, as if he were a wild beast that had strayed into a forbidden area. They occasionally exchanged glances, sometimes whispering a few words, a subtle sneer playing on their lips.

American delegation.

Chen Jun walked towards them.

His pace was slow, even leisurely, his military boots making a steady rhythm on the marble floor. The eyes of the seven men were all fixed on him, like seven searchlights, trying to stop him with pressure.

He did not stop.

He stopped before them, his gaze slowly sweeping over the seven faces from left to right. Then he spoke, his voice soft, but each word clear as if etched into the air:

"The seven of you."

He paused.

"You can leave now."

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

Some people stared wide-eyed, some instinctively sat up straight, and some opened their mouths but couldn't utter a sound. The directness, the rudeness, the unquestionable tone—it wasn't a suggestion, not a request, not even a negotiation. It was an order.

With a whoosh.

A man suddenly stood up. He was a tall, middle-aged man with neatly combed blond hair and a flushed face from offense. He placed his hands on the table, leaning forward like a bull about to pounce.

"What do you mean by that?!"

His voice was loud, echoing in the empty conference hall:

"Is Yan Kingdom going to become the world's hegemon? Are they going to decide for us whether we should stay here or not?!"

The others also stood up one after another. Although they weren't as agitated as him, their expressions weren't pleasant. The woman crossed her arms, a cold smile playing on her lips, waiting to see how Chen Jun would react.

Chen Jun was not angry.

He even laughed.

The smile was faint, just a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. But for some reason, the blond man who stood up felt a strange chill run down his spine.

Chen Jun looked at him and said:

"overlord?"

He paused for a moment, then his smile deepened slightly:

“Look me in the eyes.”

The blond man was stunned.

"Me...what?"

“Aren’t you very courageous?” Chen Jun said, his tone as calm as if he were chatting. “Come on, look me in the eyes. Let me see how much courage you really have.”

The blond man's lips moved as if he wanted to say something in rebuttal, but his gaze had already involuntarily met Chen Jun's eyes.

It only lasted a moment.

Something seemed to stir deep within those eyes.

The blond man's pupils suddenly contracted.

What did he see?

He couldn't explain it himself. But at that moment, his mind went blank; all his anger, arrogance, and condescension vanished without a trace. His knees buckled, his hands slipped from the table, and he slumped back into his chair as if his bones had been removed.

His lips moved, uttering some indistinct, uncoordinated sounds:

"God...God..."

He tilted his head back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, a strange, almost ecstatic expression on his face. It was like a devout believer finally seeing the god he had worshipped all his life, or a lost child finally returning to his father's embrace.

"Peter! Peter!"

His companion next to him shook his shoulders vigorously:

"What's wrong with you?! What nonsense are you talking about?!"

Peter didn't respond. He kept his head tilted back, still muttering "God," a satisfied smile even appearing on his lips. To onlookers, that smile was eerily unsettling.

Someone realized what was happening and abruptly turned to Chen Jun, their voices filled with barely suppressed fear and anger:

"What did you do to him?!"

Chen Jun stood there, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, his face expressionless. He glanced at the person who had questioned him, his tone calm:

"I didn't do it to him."

He paused.

"He's just gone mad."

"you--!"

The man was about to say something when another voice interrupted him.

The high heels clicked crisply on the marble floor. The woman stepped out, her stilettos at least ten centimeters high, yet her steps were as steady as if she were walking on flat ground. She walked up to Chen Jun, raised her chin, and looked him directly into the eyes:

"I do not believe."

Her voice was cold, carrying an almost defiant confidence:

"I'd like to see what you can do to me—"

Her voice stopped abruptly.

Because her gaze had already met Chen Jun's eyes.

In that instant, she saw a spinning black hole. It wasn't a metaphor, not an illusion; it was a real, concrete, bottomless black hole spinning right before her eyes. It rotated slowly, like an eye that never blinks, silently watching her.

Then, a voice came from the depths of the black hole.

The sound wasn't loud, but it seemed to resonate directly in her brain:

"Go back."

The voice paused.

"Otherwise, you stay here."

She froze.

Her lips opened and closed, then opened again, like a fish pulled ashore. Her pupils contracted, dilated, and contracted violently, her face changing from fair to deathly pale, then from deathly pale to an almost transparent gray.

"I……"

She only uttered one syllable.

Then she turned and ran.

The sound of her high heels clicking on the floor was rapid and chaotic, like a burst of intense drumbeats. She ran to the door, stumbled, and almost fell, but she didn't stop, not even looking back. She rushed out of the conference room, into the corridor, and disappeared from everyone's sight.

The entire conference hall fell into a deathly silence.

The five Westerners still standing looked at each other, speechless. They stared at the empty doorway, at Peter still sitting in his chair muttering to himself, and at Chen Jun, who stood with his arms crossed and expressionless.

Nobody knows what happened.

No one dared to ask.

That silence was like an invisible hand, gripping everyone's throat.