Chapter 4: The Anniversary of Her Death

In the video, the man hurriedly presented his family’s credentials and name.

“This is my uncle. Everyone should have heard of him. I can’t possibly be a plant, so please be kind with your words. I was initially drawn in by how beautiful the girl was and thought I’d have some fun, but I didn’t expect she’d have real skills and see through everything with just one glance.”

The comments section erupted with gifts; traffic soared instantly!

Zhong Huayan felt her luck was truly remarkable—her very first client turned out to be a real gem.

Soon, her second client, an elderly gentleman, joined the video call.

He spoke with a thick Beijing accent, holding a birdcage, and unfurled an ink painting.

“Young lady, I saw you appraise a painting just now—you were quite impressive. Take a look at this one of mine.”

The ink painting depicted two little birds perched on a rock; the scene was delicate and pure, every feather rendered vividly with clear brushstrokes. A few willow leaves drifted down in a Jiangnan landscape, the wind lending the scene the feel of a noble’s private collection in the capital.

The old man deliberately covered the signature on the painting.

Zhong Huayan had frequented auctions for years. Her love for artifacts led her to establish a private museum for the enjoyment of ancient relics. Such things rarely escaped her discerning eye.

“The brushwork is exquisite and refined—truly elegant. Chinese paintings have long been cherished. This set of four bird-and-flower screens was auctioned off ten years ago and fetched a million at the time. This is a genuine work by Yan Bolong, who was renowned for his lifelike depictions of birds and flowers. Unfortunately, you have only one panel out of the set. It’s worth about three hundred thousand.”

The old man was immediately excited, shaking his birdcage.

“Hey! This young lady really has some skill! I thought the last one was just a plant.”

[I've never seen such finely detailed feathers. Host, you deserve a super rocket! Amazing!]
[What does the host do for a living? She isn’t from an appraisal center or an auction house, and she’s even more beautiful than a celebrity!]

Next, another client sent a gift worth a hundred before presenting a string of yellow beads.

The beads interwove shades of yellow and white, gleaming with a smooth, oily sheen.

“Teacher, do you know how to appraise huanghuali?”

“These aren’t huanghuali. Where did you get swindled?”

The man was almost in tears. “Are you sure?”

Zhong Huayan had played with such items before; her home was full of all kinds of antique tables, from those dating back to the Western Zhou to huanghuali from the Qing dynasty, and golden-threaded nanmu tables with dragon-scale patterns. She could judge them with absolute certainty at a glance.

“No, this looks like golden-threaded nanmu with tiger-stripe or golden-line patterns. Huanghuali doesn’t have golden threads. You can take a sniff—see if it has the distinctive scent of nanmu.”

The man was on the verge of tears. “But I spent tens of thousands on this.”

“You can ask for compensation. This is consumer fraud.”

[Exactly! You should get even more back that way!]
[My relatives also have a huanghuali table they bought for over a million. I wonder if it’s real?]
[I have a bracelet too, a friend gave it to me, but I’ve never known its value.]

Zhong Huayan continued to appraise various craft items through the night, with authenticity split down the middle. Everyone preferred to get their treasures appraised on her live stream; at traditional appraisal centers, you’d never get such straightforward answers—some places might even scam you.

Crafts and curios have always lived in a gray area between real and fake. Those formal appraisal centers are often evasive, worried about industry backlash.

[Followed! This is such an entertaining stream. Are you live every day?]
[I have a treasure too—I’ll bring it tomorrow. There’s no way she’ll recognize it.]
[She’s really amazing! My cousin has been an appraiser for over a decade and still isn’t as sharp as this young lady. She can identify the age, origin, and composition with just a glance. I’m speechless!]

She received a flood of skepticism and admiration, patiently streaming for two hours.

By the end, she’d earned several thousand yuan, mostly from the man with the thangka and the old gentleman with the bird-and-flower painting, who kept sending her gifts. Her follower count soared.

By rights, she should have been pleased—she’d expected a tough start, but the foundation was strong.

Yet, today had begun on an unexpectedly auspicious note.

—

In a quiet villa.

The vulture’s blindfold was removed, and it swiftly and accurately snatched up its prey. But as soon as it looked toward the man standing by the window, the vulture folded its wings and shook its feathers, instantly tamed.

“Mr. Fu, the owner of that Beijing venture capital firm has returned from abroad.”

“Did he smell the bait?”

With refined features and dressed in a perfectly tailored gray suit with subtle patterns, he exuded an air of noble austerity. Even the black trousers hinted at his muscle tone. His gaze was like an endless tunnel—intimidating without anger. He was a silent tsunami from the coast, swallowing everything in its path.

His assistant always found his boss’s presence daunting, but he’d never quit, not even if it killed him—because Mr. Fu was generous. He was wealthy enough to rival a nation.

“We’re still tracking him, sir. Here’s Miss Li’s file.”

“Virtuous, gentle, with no criminal record…”

He let out a soft laugh, remembering today’s events. If Xu Yaochuan showed up late, the entire hotel would be wrecked by her.

“Sir, the records are accurate. But even a rabbit will bite if cornered.”

He pondered for a moment. “Look into it more thoroughly.”

“Are you worried someone might use a double to set you up?”

He remained silent.

Then, he walked over to the desk, pressed a cigarette into the ashtray, rolled up his sleeves, and gently took a painting out of a bamboo tube, untying the string and unfurling it.

It was a portrait of a woman strikingly similar to Li Yanyan.

No beauty mark by the eye, brows arched sharply. Her features were almost gaunt—more proud than gentle. The woman in the painting had a cold, rebellious look, dressed in a modified silken robe of blue and yellow, the collar embroidered with an intangible cultural heritage technique. Her frail, fair frame radiated a fierce vitality.

She rarely smiled, and when she did, it was as cold as a waterfowl.

It was as though her whole life was that of a butterfly pinned under glass, doomed to a sorrowful end.

This was the look nurtured by gold and silver, forged in harshness and callousness.

She was the eldest daughter of the once-wealthiest Zhong family, and after her body was scattered, this self-portrait was all she left behind.

Moreover, it had been painted by the chairman himself, then embroidered with gold thread by special commission.

“Keep an eye on the Xu family. When the time is right, go for the jugular. I want to present him to my sister. Last night, I dreamed my sister told me she was so lonely…”

The assistant broke into a cold sweat. So many had been sent to accompany the eldest miss in death—surely, she couldn’t be lonely anymore.

“Tomorrow, pick some gardenias from the yard.”

The assistant glanced at the date; tomorrow was Miss Zhong’s death anniversary.

“Boss, then… whose ashes shall we bring to Miss Zhong this time?”

“She always liked her second uncle best. Bring his, let her be happy.”

The assistant felt that the longer one stayed with Mr. Fu, the more twisted one became.

Ever since the eldest miss was killed, the boss had become more and more like neither man nor ghost.

“All these years, I’ve helped countless people. Why won’t she wake up? Does she blame me for not protecting her, for refusing to see me?”

He’d heard his boss mutter this at least once a day.

He didn’t believe in such superstitions at all…