Chapter 60
Chapter 60: Mental Breakdown, the Prince of Yan
Zhou He Chen broke off mid-sentence. Sheng Yun Yi’s ears rang as she snapped her head up, stunned.
When she realized the voice had come from the VIP box in the middle of the second floor, she finally couldn’t hold back her smile.
This auction hall was divided into VIP boxes, regular private rooms, and general seating.
Sheng Yun Yi had received an invitation too and had been assigned a private room—just not a VIP one. Hers sat in an ordinary spot on the second floor.
On her way up, she’d deliberately studied the VIP box, trying to guess who was inside. She hadn’t seen anyone, but it was obvious the guest was someone important.
Someone like that—why would he invite Ye Wan Lan upstairs for tea?
“Move.”
Ye Wan Lan’s voice was even flatter than before.
Sheng Yun Yi stepped aside, flustered, and watched the girl walk into the VIP box.
The curtain fell. Everything vanished from view.
Heat surged into Sheng Yun Yi’s face. She hurried back to her own room.
As soon as she sat down, she forced a shaky smile. “He Chen… From the sound of it, he’s a young man. Could it be…?”
Zhou He Chen’s expression turned icy.
They were thinking the same thing—Ye Wan Lan couldn’t stand being ignored, so she was climbing into someone else’s bed to find a higher branch.
“He Chen, if that’s true, then we’re in trouble.” Sheng Yun Yi looked genuinely uneasy. “You can respect her and keep your hands to yourself, but other men…”
“If she likes it, that’s her business.” Zhou He Chen’s opinion of Ye Wan Lan dropped again. He didn’t want to hear her name. “Focus on the lots. If you see something you like, bid.”
Sheng Yun Yi smiled. “Thank you, He Chen.”
—
Meanwhile, in another VIP box upstairs, Yan Ting Yue ended a call and slipped her phone away.
Ye Wan Lan’s voice still echoed in her ears.
“Teacher, I ran into two friends. I’m at the auction with them, so you don’t need to worry.”
Yan Ting Yue had laughed in relief. “Good, good. Now I can relax. Later we’ll have a meal together and properly thank them.”
Across from her, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes caught a glimpse of the sachet peeking from her pocket. His expression shifted instantly.
“Senior Yan… is that…?”
Yan Ting Yue took it out and smiled faintly. “A gift from my little disciple.”
Her tone was casual, but the pride underneath was impossible to hide.
The man finally saw the pattern on the sachet. “Su Embroidery?!”
That girl looked so young. Not only did she know Kun Qu Opera—she could do Su Embroidery too?
“She didn’t embroider it herself.” Yan Ting Yue shook her head, amused by the misunderstanding. “An employee at her company made it.”
She added lightly, “A Lan is preparing to scale up Su Embroidery products. She made a few samples first and gave them to me.”
The middle-aged man went quiet.
If she hadn’t explained, it would’ve been impressive enough. Now it sounded terrifying.
Scaling up Su Embroidery?
That was practically impossible.
Where would she find that many craftsmen who knew Su Embroidery? Too many stitches had been lost, and machines couldn’t replicate them.
He wiped his forehead. “Y-Your disciple… who exactly is she?”
Yan Ting Yue thought for a moment, then added as if it were nothing, “She also plays the pipa. Your suggestion was good—I’m planning to combine the pipa with Kun Qu Opera later.”
The middle-aged man stared at her.
Something in his brain finally snapped.
—
Twenty minutes later, the auction officially began.
“It’s an honor to gather with everyone here,” the auctioneer said with a smile. “You’ve traveled far, and we’ve prepared a few special gifts for you.”
“Some of the lots aren’t listed in the catalog,” he continued, “because they’re simply too valuable.”
The private rooms burst into excited chatter.
“There are three,” the auctioneer announced.
Images rotated on the screen behind him. “First, an antique brought back from the Nan Ming Kingdom, with a history of over a thousand years. Second, a jade hairpin. And the third…”
He paused deliberately as the image changed again.
A gasp rippled through the hall.
“That’s right.” The auctioneer’s smile widened. “An authentic work by Princess Yong Ning.”
“What? My God!” Rong Yu sat up straight. “When did South City get its hands on a Princess Yong Ning piece? Brother, you have to take it.”
Authentic works by Princess Yong Ning were vanishingly rare—not only because she had died young, but because three hundred years ago, during the Wan Jun Zhi war, an unknown invading force had burned the Imperial Palace treasury.
After that, the battered remnants of Shen Zhou were looted again by surrounding tribes, and even more relics vanished.
Yan Ting Feng narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing.
“According to our assessment,” the auctioneer said evenly, “this painting was created by Princess Yong Ning at the age of twelve. The style is not yet fully mature, but the cultural and historical value is immense.”
“Princess Yong Ning studied under Imperial Tutor Han Yun Sheng. Master and disciple both excelled at landscapes and flowers-and-birds, but Princess Yong Ning’s brushwork was even sharper than her teacher’s. Please look at these strokes—”
The lights tightened on the mountain peaks in the painting.
The lines were steep and bold, the momentum grand.
The auctioneer sighed. “To paint something like this at twelve… Princess Yong Ning truly was a rare genius.”
Rong Yu nodded hard. “The starting price won’t be low. Eight figures is the minimum. The final price will hit nine figures.”
The last authentic Princess Yong Ning piece had sold for 450 million.
Ye Wan Lan glanced at the screen once and spoke calmly. “Fake. Don’t bid. It isn’t worth a cent.”
She had never painted that.
If she ever had, Han Yun Sheng would have been waiting with the trash can he always kept ready.
Rong Yu blinked, lost. “Fake? How can you tell?”
“Given Princess Yong Ning’s status in the Ning Dynasty,” Ye Wan Lan said, “even if it wasn’t a tribute piece presented to Emperor Zhaozong, it couldn’t possibly lack anti-counterfeit measures.”
“Otherwise anyone could fake her name, parade it in front of the Xiang royal clan, and ruin her reputation.”
“That’s true,” Rong Yu admitted, then hesitated. “But I’ve never heard of any anti-counterfeit feature. I’ve seen the paintings in the Yun Jing museum.”
“There is one,” Yan Ting Feng said suddenly.
Rong Yu turned at once. “There is?”
“Rumor says Princess Yong Ning had a Seven-Aperture Exquisite Heart—brilliant to the point of being uncanny.” Yan Ting Feng’s voice stayed mild. “After finishing a painting, she stamped it with a seal. The pigment was crafted by experts of the Ning Dynasty, and in the dark it gives off a faint glow.”
Ye Wan Lan looked at him. “You know a lot.”
Yan Ting Feng chuckled. “Only in the most ordinary way. I’ve never met Princess Yong Ning in person. It’s all hearsay.”
“If you met her,” Rong Yu muttered, “you’d already be dead.”
Ye Wan Lan nodded once and looked away. “Do you have the auction catalog?”
“Of course.” Rong Yu reached for it.
Before his fingers could touch his pocket, Yan Ting Feng had already placed the catalog in Ye Wan Lan’s hands, his voice gentle. “See anything you like?”
Rong Yu froze.
All right. He was the extra.
Ye Wan Lan flipped through quickly.
South City lived up to its reputation—nearly every lot tempted her. But she didn’t pause until she saw a single name.
She tapped the line. “I want this.”
Rong Yu leaned in. “A fragment of Mystic Iron Gold-Thread War Armor? Who was that supposed to belong to?”
“The Prince of Yan,” Ye Wan Lan said.
Yan Ting Feng’s gaze sharpened.
Onstage, the auctioneer had reached the same lot.
“Everyone, this is a fragment of the Mystic Iron Gold-Thread War Armor,” he announced. “In 1710, the Northern Continent presented the Mystic Iron Gold-Thread War Armor as one of its gifts to Emperor Zhaozong. Emperor Zhaozong then bestowed it upon the Prince of Yan.”
The name alone made many guests sit up.
“Unfortunately,” the auctioneer continued, “after the Prince of Yan died in battle, the armor shattered as well. Some fragments ended up among civilians, some overseas. Restoration is no longer possible.”
The Prince of Yan had defended the Northwest—Shen Zhou’s first line of defense.
The histories recorded that when foreign armies invaded, he fought to the death and never retreated. He was later buried on Yan Mountain.
“Right, that armor.” Rong Yu slapped his palm. “But are you sure? It’s only a fragment. It’s not even palm-sized. The collector’s value isn’t high.”
“It’s enough,” Ye Wan Lan said quietly. “I only want this.”
Rong Yu nodded quickly. “I get it. Girls these days all like the Prince of Yan. Who doesn’t? He went to war at twelve, was made a prince at sixteen, wiped out the Northwest bandits in four years—strong, deadly, and handsome. I like him too.”
Ye Wan Lan raised an eyebrow. “You have good taste.”
Rong Yu nearly choked. “You… praised me?”
Ye Wan Lan gave him a look. “No. I’m taking it back.”
Yan Ting Feng spoke as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “If Miss Ye wants it, then we’ll take it.”
He turned to Bing He. “Tell the auctioneer to pull that lot. Have it delivered later.”
A moment later, the auctioneer pressed a finger to his earpiece, clearly receiving instructions. Surprise flashed across his face.
Someone would pay a high price for a scrap of armor that small?
Still, he steadied himself and continued through lot after lot.
At last, the hall reached the piece everyone was waiting for—the so-called authentic Princess Yong Ning painting.
“He Chen,” Sheng Yun Yi whispered, unable to hide her excitement, “that one is real. It’s worth it. The Fang Family’s painting is only from the Yong Ning school. It can’t compare to Princess Yong Ning’s brushwork.”
“If you like it,” Zhou He Chen said, “then we’ll bid.”
“Starting bid: thirty million,” the auctioneer announced, raising his gavel. “Please begin.”
“Forty million,” Zhou He Chen called first.
Before the auctioneer could speak again, another voice cut in.
“Fifty million.”
Yan Ting Feng sounded almost bored, as if the money meant nothing.
Rong Yu’s heart clenched. “Miss Ye already told you it’s fake. Why are you still bidding?”
Yan Ting Feng hummed, noncommittal.
When Zhou He Chen raised to fifty-one million, Yan Ting Feng spoke again, just as casually.
“Ninety million.”
Zhou He Chen’s eyes turned ice-cold. He threw aside the curtain and stepped out of his room.
He wasn’t about to let anyone snatch what Sheng Yun Yi wanted.
He was going to see which blind fool was bidding against him.