The young man’s tone was harsh, barking at Ye Qiu to get lost.
Ye Qiu’s brow twitched, his hand itching to slap the kid across the face.
The youth pressed on, “This seat’s mine. Get the hell out now.”
“Your seat?” Ye Qiu sneered. “It doesn’t have your name on it. What makes it yours?”
The youth clearly hadn’t expected Ye Qiu to talk back. He laughed in fury, “Oh, you’ve got guts mouthing off to me. Tired of living, huh? Boys, what do we do with him?”
“Beat him down!”
Instantly, the lackeys behind him cracked their knuckles, ready to pounce.
“Sorry, young master, we didn’t know this was your seat. We’ll move, we’ll move,” Elder Longmei said, tugging at Ye Qiu.
Ye Qiu didn’t budge. He could tell at a glance—these goons didn’t know martial arts, just a bunch of spoiled rich kids.
As for this loudmouth youth, Ye Qiu didn’t give him a second thought.
He’d faced down Bai Yujing and Xiao Qingdi—why would he fear these small fries?
“Little brat, get up!” Elder Longmei glared at him.
Reluctantly, Ye Qiu stood, letting Elder Longmei drag him to the back row to sit. The old man whispered, “Don’t stir up trouble. The Celestial Master Token’s what matters.”
Ye Qiu grumbled, “I’m not the one stirring trouble—it’s that punk picking a fight.”
“He’s just a nobody. Why waste energy on him?”
As the so-called “Young Master Zhang” settled into the front row, the auction kicked off.
A stunning woman in a qipao stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand, and announced, “Honored guests, ladies, gentlemen, friends—welcome!”
*”Rising talent pierces the clouds, bold strokes defy the frost.”*
*”Ink falls, fragrance draws butterflies; paper lifts, colors sing with flowers.”*
“We’re gathered here today for Baoli Auction House’s annual summer-autumn special. I’m your host and auctioneer. Without further ado, let’s begin.”
“Look at the screen, please.”
The big screen lit up, displaying an ink painting.
“This piece is called *Autumn Reflections*, inspired by Yuan Dynasty poet Ma Zhiyuan’s verses. It captures the mood of ‘withered vines, old trees, dusk crows; small bridge, flowing water, homes; ancient road, west wind, lean horse; setting sun, a broken heart at the world’s end.’”
“What’s fascinating is the artist left no signature. Any guesses on who painted it?”
The host paused, teasing the crowd.
The room buzzed with chatter.
“The paper’s yellowed—must be ancient, probably by some old master.”
“The intent’s lofty, composition flawless, lines smooth, bringing autumn’s mood to life. Definitely a masterwork.”
“Ma Zhiyuan’s from the Yuan Dynasty, so the painter’s likely post-Yuan. Judging by style, maybe Ming Dynasty.”
Then Young Master Zhang stood up, declaring loudly, “No need to guess—it’s obviously Tang Bohu’s authentic work.”
His words sparked a wave of flattery.
“Young Master Zhang’s got a sharp eye, spotting Tang Bohu’s handiwork instantly. I’m humbled!”
“I was stumped, wondering who could paint this well. Young Master Zhang’s nudge cleared it up—thank you!”
“Young Master Zhang’s insight is unmatched. We can’t compare—admirable!”
Zhang basked in the praise, grinning smugly.
But then Ye Qiu spoke up.
“It’s not Tang Bohu’s painting!”
The room fell dead silent.
All eyes turned to Ye Qiu.
Zhang whipped around, his face darkening when he saw it was Ye Qiu.
Staring at the screen, Ye Qiu continued, “The paper looks old, but the artist is absolutely modern.”
“If I’m not mistaken, the painter’s young—between twenty and thirty.”
“Everyone knows *Autumn Reflections* is about solitude, but this painting doesn’t show a shred of it.”
“As for composition and lines, two words: childish!”
…
Backstage.
A girl in a white dress, cap, and mask watched the monitor, hearing Ye Qiu’s every word. She huffed coldly.
A female bodyguard behind her said, “Miss, this guy dared call you childish. I’ll go deal with him later.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t worry, Miss, I’ll keep it light—won’t kill him.”
“I’m worried *you’ll* get beaten.”
The bodyguard: “…”
The girl stared at Ye Qiu’s clear, handsome face on the screen, muttering to herself, “You said you don’t know art when I asked.”
“Now you’re rattling off like an expert?”
“Liar!”
…
In the hall, silence reigned.
The bidders looked at Ye Qiu with pity.
Young Master Zhang said it was Tang Bohu’s, and you contradict him? Looking for trouble?
Sure enough, Zhang’s expression turned sour.
“Kid, let me tell you—art’s not for posers who don’t get it. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”
Ye Qiu ignored him, asking the host, “Am I right?”
The host smiled, “This gentleman’s spot on. It’s not Tang Bohu’s work.”
Zhang felt a sting, like he’d been slapped.
The host added, “He’s also correct about the artist being young—a student, in fact.”
A student?
Zhang’s anger flared. He snapped at the host, “Don’t you auction masterpieces? Why’s a student’s trash up here?”
The host explained with a smile, “Young Master Zhang’s right—we’ve always auctioned works by renowned artists since our founding.”
“But there’s a reason for this piece.”
“The artist requested all proceeds go to charity. We couldn’t refuse such a kind heart.”
“Enough, enough, start already. No one’s buying this junk,” Zhang cut in impatiently.
“Very well, bidding starts now. *Autumn Reflections*, base price ten thousand, increments of at least five thousand. Please bid.”
Silence followed her words.
Seconds ticked by—ten, twenty, thirty…
No bids.
Zhang laughed loudly, “Told you, who’d want this garbage? Next lot—”
“Ten million!”
A voice cut through the room like a thunderclap.
