Chapter 66: A Secret Crush and a Gift

Today, Zhong Huayan met the most extravagant client she had ever encountered.

The video began abruptly with a screen of red and black, edged in golden amber. The enormous screen stood before her, at least four meters high. The floor was covered with a red carpet that exuded an imperial, vintage air from the screen itself, the folding panels gathered at the sides. Only faintly could she hear the man holding the phone speaking.

“Teacher, look at this—how much do you think this screen is worth?”

“Invaluable. It’s authentic. I almost suspect you’re in a museum. This screen dates back to the Western Han dynasty. Such screens were once discovered in the tomb of the King of Nanyue. They were immediately sent to the museum at the time. They also found royal concubines buried with the king in that tomb. I wonder, where did you get such an item? Artifacts like this are priceless and beyond the market.”

The man on the other side merely chuckled softly.

Zhong Huayan found the voice familiar, yet couldn’t quite place it.

“Well then… I have a few more screens. Would you like to look at them and see if any catch your fancy?”

When he uttered those last words, there was an unmistakable note of ambiguous entanglement.

Murals were inlaid into the screens, depicting groves of trees and plump women at leisure, while the lower portions showed aged ducks, their feathers in varying hues—mostly red and blue.

But as Zhong Huayan saw the few screens that flashed by on video, she could no longer sit still. She couldn’t help but exclaim inwardly—good heavens, is this man running a museum?

“These aren’t just screens; those are murals set into the screens. The trees and women on the murals have the distinct charm of the Tang dynasty. The folds and borders of the murals are unmistakably ancient. Another mural was also excavated from the Tang era, but it’s unusual—not from the Central Plains. Judging by the style, it should be a wind mural from Astana outside the Pass. Also authentic, and all of them are artifacts you’d only find in a museum.”

“Teacher, I remember you’re quite skilled at Kunqu opera. I have several Su-style costumes here, would you like to appreciate them? If you like any, I can give them to you.”

His lavishness set the comment section ablaze.

[Is this really the world of the wealthy? This isn’t something money alone can buy.]

[Impressive—those screens alone dazzled me, and now he’s giving away opera costumes?]

[I think this young lord from Beijing has his eye on our Yan…]

Zhong Huayan examined the costumes. “Su-style costumes—there are Eight Treasures, Eight Immortals, and Antiquities motifs. These garments are ‘Full Tricolor,’ ‘Plain Tricolor,’ and ‘Wild Five Colors,’ and rare ones at that, embroidered with both silver and gold thread—elegant and refined. The ones at the back aren’t Su-style, but court Kunqu costumes, made from summer cloth and purple floral fabric, lined with velvet—one is a civil official’s robe, the other a martial one. Judging by the style, these aren’t antiques, but the craftsmanship is exquisite and they must be worth a fortune. I appreciate your kindness, but I can’t accept them for free; I’ll pay according to market value.”

The man inadvertently revealed his wrist and hand.

They were so white, slender, and beautiful that the comment section erupted in demands for a face reveal.

[Those hands are as white as ivory, no, even paler—a true aristocrat!]

[How can a man’s hands be so delicate? Is this a man or a woman?]

[His fingers are as thin as chopsticks, but pleasing to the eye—not a single flaw.]

Suddenly, Zhong Huayan remembered something. Half joking, she asked, “Young master, have we met recently?”

There was a brief silence on the other end. “Yes. But I truly do want your expertise—I have many items at home, gifts from others, gathering dust.”

In that moment, Zhong Huayan realized who he was. That soft-spoken voice, and those hands—it was Fang Wenjin.

“Who would dare give you burial screens from the Han and Tang dynasties?”

“No, I have museum certificates. The screens were gifts I received. They’ve given me many minor artifacts too—would you like to see if there’s anything you fancy?”

Fang Wenjin almost fell into her trap. He walked into a storeroom, opening it to reveal shelves of ancient treasures.

Both Zhong Huayan and the viewers watching the stream were dazzled. To be precise, the value of these items was no less than that of the previous screens.

“So? I’ll give them to you.”

“…Are you sure? Black pottery egg-shell cup, jade Yue with divine figures, Liangzhu jade ceremonial piece, jade beast-face and bird-patterned pendant… Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

His gentle affirmation sent the livestream’s viewers soaring to seventy thousand.

Gifts flooded in instantly.

“Thank you, but these things are hard to circulate if I collect them. I’ll buy a few costumes and keep them. Wait, could I take a look at the murals on your ceiling beams?”

She had noticed, almost by accident, the vast murals on the ancient ceiling.

Encased in transparent glass, the paintings depicted herds of red-maned ponies galloping, with grass and trees below, dominated by shades of red and white, filling the entire ceiling.

“This painting is extraordinary. Without a museum certificate and the right connections, it would be impossible to obtain—let alone see. This is an image of the Heavenly Steed from the Sixteen Kingdoms era. It’s beautiful—I nearly missed it just now. Such murals are usually excavated from massive royal tombs, their value incalculable. Without state approval, it would never be allowed to leave the country.”

“That one was a gift from a friend abroad. At the time, I got museum permits and paid a fortune to keep these pieces. There are two more: a Dragon and Phoenix silk painting, and an Imperial Dragon silk painting, both from the mid-to-late Warring States period—all of which I’ve since handed over to the state. There are other items, also ancient, that I’ve submitted as well.”

Zhong Huayan recalled that the Fang family originally ran a museum, and later opened an art gallery. The Fangs were renowned for their scholarly pedigree; since the grandfather’s generation, their weddings and marriages had all involved artists, collectors, musicians, and writers from high society. Whether siblings or grandchildren, every member of the family was immersed in the world of art and collecting.

“Later, teacher, remember to message me privately about the costumes.”

Every time she heard Fang Wenjin address her as “teacher,” she would remember that winter when he had just started middle school, clutching a pipa, his eyes red, looking as pitiful and obedient as could be, trembling as he called out, “teacher.”

She had only taught him for an hour in total, and he had called her “teacher” more than twenty times, always replying with utmost respect, lips quivering, gaze timid.

Now he had become the true young master of the Fang family, a pianist of unprecedented fame and genius, no longer a mere substitute.

When he said “teacher” now, his voice still quivered, but it was no longer as immature—gentler, deeper.

Perhaps Fang Wenjin’s reputation was simply too great, for the comment section was wholly absorbed in discussing him.