Casare thought for a moment, "Boss, it's fine to get promoted, but spending over a billion US dollars at once—don't you think that's a bit too extravagant?"
"You're acting like a whining woman."
"The brothers for one reason: to eat meat. So we stuff their cheeks full. Remember, as the leader, you can be greedy but never stingy."
Victor spoke like a wise elder brother to Casare.
He turned to look at the mirror, feeling something was missing, "Ah, fetch my brooch, first box in the left drawer."
The secretary by his side jogged over and quickly retrieved a small box.
Victor opened it and took out a brooch—a flying crested caracara eagle. He nodded with satisfaction, "Let's go."
He was heading to the grandstand to greet the incoming guests.
This was called etiquette.
The main parade route had been washed by water trucks since early morning, perfectly clean. And the road had been closed off five days ago, with all vehicles prohibited from approaching.
If a stranger walked over, dozens or even hundreds of pairs of eyes would stare them down.
It could be considered one of the safest places in the world.
At 7:30 in the morning, representatives from other countries started arriving. The first to show up was Venezuela's Nicholas Maro Moro. He immediately gave Victor a heavy hug, shaking hands excitedly.
A typical little fanboy look.
Victor comforted him with a couple of pats on the shoulder, praising his domestic stance on anti-drug measures.
Apparently, after returning home last time, he commanded the government to crack down on drugs, reportedly offending plenty of people in the process.
"Sir, besides attending the ceremony, I've come seeking assistance." Nicholas Maro Moro looked pitiful, resembling a child bullied outside, coming home to seek protection.
"No need to worry. Speak, and we'll do our best to resolve it." Victor said, smiling, while patting his shoulder.
29-year-old Nicholas Maro Moro was a year younger than him. His unease was written all over his face, "My anti-drug declaration has made me a thorn in the side of drug cartels and guerrilla groups. I'm willing to fight, even sacrifice, for my ideals—but I… I fear for my wife and children."
His eyes betrayed nervousness as he spoke.
"I hope to send them to Mexico for protection and education."
The black market had placed a bounty on his head.
Two million US dollars!
And for each of his wife, children, and other relatives, the reward was 100,000 US dollars per person.
Venezuela had no shortage of desperados; he'd already survived at least ten assassination attempts—barely escaping each time. He feared failing before succeeding and feared his wife and children becoming victims.
So, he sought out the big boss, hoping for help.
Victor looked at him with worry, "Has the situation really gotten this dire?"
Nicholas Maro Moro nodded bitterly.
"Rest assured, as a member of the Anti-drug Alliance, I won't tolerate harm coming to our comrades. Send your wife and children here; they will be my family. I'll personally take care of them. Additionally, for your safety, I'll dispatch a 30-person unit from the Special Service Bureau to protect you—don't decline."
"On the path of anti-drug efforts, we are in this together."
"Don't worry. I'll stand behind you."
Nicholas Maro Moro was moved to tears by these words, clasping Victor's hand tightly, shaking it. Eventually, Casare patted him on the shoulder, "The General still has others to meet. Let's talk more later."
Only then did Nicholas reluctantly move to the side of the grandstand.
"Seat him next to me," Victor shouted.
The staff in charge of seating arrangements hesitated, then looked slightly troubled, "General, next to whom?"
"Who's currently beside me?"
"The United Kingdom and the United States."
"Switch out the United Kingdom. What caliber do they have, sitting next to me?" Victor spoke calmly, but to those nearby, his words carried an undertone of dissatisfaction.
Casare's left eyebrow twitched, glancing at his boss. Being as intuitive as a worm in Victor's gut, he immediately understood his intentions.
Clearly, Victor was retaliating for the British remarks during the previous ceremony.
The boss held grudges tightly.
Offend the big man, and you still dream of dining on beef?
Casare nodded to the staff, who quickly acknowledged and guided Nicholas Maro Moro to the central seat. Having listened on the sidelines, the Venezuelan representative was touched once again.
Next, Victor hosted representatives from Europe and Latin America. On the surface, everyone seemed polite. When the U.S. representative, General Mason Leonard, arrived, tensions ran high—expecting drama. But as the two shook hands, they exchanged polite smiles.
This left the countries waiting for a spectacle puzzled.
Could it be that the U.S.-Mexico relationship had improved?
Or had they reached some unspeakable secret agreements?
The Canadian representative felt especially uncomfortable.
"Brother~ I'm your sweetheart in North America. You can't let some third party join our marriage!"
General Mason Leonard exchanged a few words with Victor before moving to his seat, eyes fixed on the main parade route, not conversing with anyone nearby.
"Who hasn't arrived yet?" Casare asked a subordinate.
Fat Casare squinted. These British were hopeless idiots. Checking his watch, only two minutes remained. He glanced at the boss, who subtly nodded.
Casare was about to step forward and signal the parade to begin when the British waltzed in at the last minute, proudly displaying their arrogance. Honestly, the British train of thought was incomprehensible—sometimes they were utterly "two dogs," just like the Indians.