Chapter Eighty: The Banquet Auction
Leaving Feiteng Company, Zhao Fan drove the car he bought after getting his driver’s license and visited two supermarkets. Just as he was about to leave, he suddenly received a call from Mu Tianrong.
“Mr. Zhao, do you have time to take a walk?” Mu Tianrong? Zhao Fan thought to himself, it had been a while since he’d been in touch with Mu Tianrong. Because of that, Zhao Fan answered decisively, “Of course, I have time.”
“Tonight at eight, there’s a dinner on the top floor of Tianyuan Hotel.”
“I’ll be there on time.”
The call ended. Zhao Fan stared at his phone, a little puzzled. Mu Tianrong either didn’t show up or, when he did, always invited him to a dinner.
Tianyuan Hotel...
Zhao Fan put away his phone. He was curious to see what this dinner invitation from Mu Tianrong was about.
At seven-thirty that evening, Zhao Fan arrived early at Tianyuan Hotel. As he entered, a waiter stopped him. After he mentioned the top floor, the waiter immediately pressed the elevator for him.
The top floor was already arranged. Not long after Zhao Fan arrived, quite a few others came in succession. There was no conversation; each person chose a seat, and though there was the occasional murmur, it quickly faded. It seemed everyone understood the situation and waited quietly.
The hall gradually filled. Zhao Fan saw Mu Tianrong, who was following behind a man. Like a signal, the moment the two appeared, the hall dimmed and everyone looked up at them.
“Welcome, everyone, to tonight’s auction. I am the host, Wang Er,” the man announced.
“I am the host, Mu Tianrong,” Mu Tianrong added.
As they introduced themselves from above, Zhao Fan sat up a little straighter. Since when had Mu Tianrong become a host? And for an auction, no less?
Just then, staff began distributing number cards to the tables.
“Our staff are handing out bidding number cards. Once everyone has one, the auction will officially begin. Until then, please place your mobile phones on the table in front of you.”
Zhao Fan: ...
He had never heard of an auction where you had to put your phone out in plain sight. Was this a prelude to confiscating phones?
Some people voiced doubts among the crowd.
Wang Er smiled, “Please, don’t misunderstand. Simply place your phones on the table. As long as no one uses them during the auction, there will be no issues whatsoever.”
He emphasized the phrases “no one uses them” and “issues,” making their meaning clear.
After some confusion, most complied, placing their phones on the table.
Zhao Fan’s eyes flickered. With all these procedures, anyone would suspect something was off about this auction.
Suddenly, Zhao Fan thought of Fang Tiancheng, who was investigating an antique smuggling case. Could it be related to this kind of auction?
Damn it, he didn’t have Fang Tiancheng’s contact info—otherwise he could call him right now.
Pushing aside his thoughts, Zhao Fan cooperated and placed his phone on the table when staff handed him a number card.
After about twenty minutes, Wang Er spoke again, “Everyone has their number cards. Now, the auction will officially begin. Staff, please bring out the first lot.”
A staff member in a bright red cheongsam appeared, carrying a tray. The object on the tray was covered with a red cloth; it looked sizable, but nothing else could be discerned.
Wang Er made a gesture and Mu Tianrong stepped forward, unveiling the item together.
“The first lot is a modern imitation of a Song Dynasty painting...”
After a brief introduction, Wang Er announced the starting price.
“A dead auction at fifty thousand, each raise no less than ten thousand.”
“Sixty thousand.”
“Seventy thousand!”
...
“Alright, one hundred thousand, sold!”
The atmosphere of the auction gradually heated up, as the lots became increasingly ancient.
Zhao Fan watched calmly, his expression shifting. The people here acted recklessly; the earlier items weren’t particularly significant, but as the auction progressed, the lots became more and more precious.
Until...
“A Ru ware porcelain bowl, a thousand years old, authenticated by Christie’s.”
Wang Er gave a brief introduction, smiling, “No need for more detail—the name Christie’s alone speaks for itself. Starting price: five hundred thousand. Each raise no less than fifty thousand.”
“Five hundred fifty.”
“Six hundred.”
...
The bids rose one after another. For previous lots, bidding slowed as the auction went on. But for the Ru ware bowl, the pace quickened; no one wanted to miss out on the treasure before them.
Soon, the price reached three million.
That was the price Zhao Fan had paid for the Song shadow porcelain vase previously, but the bidding hadn’t stopped.
“Five million!”
A sudden bid raised the price by two million, plunging the hall into silence.
The voice sounded familiar to Zhao Fan. He instinctively looked over, and when he recognized the bidder, his pupils contracted sharply—it was Wu Qingfeng, the second master of Yuanhong Group.
Why was he here?
Zhao Fan recognized him, but others didn’t, and murmurs broke out.
“Who is that? Raises the price by two million just like that.”
“No idea, but anyone here isn’t short on money.”
...
Zhao Fan thought, of course money wasn’t an issue—the entire Yuanhong Group belonged to him. If he wanted, money would be like paper.
The bidding continued for several more rounds, each ending with Wu Qingfeng’s dominating bid. By then, the price had reached eight million.
It paused at eight million for a few seconds. Those bidding against Wu Qingfeng gradually withdrew, leaving only one hesitant bidder.
“Eight—eight million and fifty thousand.”
“Eight million five hundred thousand.”
Wu Qingfeng, calm as ever, suppressed the bid.
In the end, the Ru ware bowl was won by Wu Qingfeng.
Just when Zhao Fan thought there would be more lots, he saw Wang Er and Mu Tianrong tidying up on stage, then announcing the start of the banquet.
Staff quickly collected the bidding number cards. The tense atmosphere vanished, replaced by a lively one, as if it had always been that way in the hall.
The banquet lasted an hour, with people leaving in succession.
Zhao Fan considered it and decided to leave with the crowd.
But just as he exited the hall door, someone stopped him, “Mr. Zhao, good evening.”
Zhao Fan paused, recognizing the person as one of Wu Qingfeng’s associates.
“Is he asking for me?”
Given the number of people around, Zhao Fan didn’t mention Wu Qingfeng’s name directly.
“Yes, he’s downstairs.”
Downstairs?
Zhao Fan instinctively turned his head, realizing Wu Qingfeng had vanished at some point.
“Please lead the way.”
“Right this way.”
Downstairs, Zhao Fan saw Wu Qingfeng.
“Second Master.”
“Second Master? Didn’t you used to call me President Wu? Why the change?” Wu Qingfeng smiled warmly, teasing with the ease of one speaking to an equal.
Zhao Fan smiled back. Wu Qingfeng could be casual, but he could not afford to be.
At this stage, the gap between them was enormous.
“It’s time for a change.”