The sound of Murong Jie’s sneering laughter lingered over the three hundred collectors in the amphitheater. Up on the second-story balcony of VIP Box One, Murong Jie leaned smugly against the brass railing. He puffed on a thick Cuban cigar, blowing gray rings toward the chandelier. Beside him, Song Zihao rested his chin on his good right hand, his lips curled in a venomous grin.
Every eye in the auditorium was locked onto Lin Mo in Row One.
Eight hundred million yuan for a sealed sword that nobody could draw was already an absolute absurdity. In the eyes of the provincial elite, any further bidding was pure financial suicide. If Lin Mo folded now, Murong Jie would brag across the entire province that Taichu Group was a paper tiger that had run out of liquid cash.
Chu Lingxiao leaned toward Lin Mo, her slender hand gripping his dark wool coat sleeve.
“Chairman Lin, please do not bid,” she whispered urgently. Her clear eyes were filled with anxious concern. “Eight hundred million is enough to build three modern hospitals and feed an entire prefecture. It is just an ancient piece of steel. I do not want you to waste your wealth on my account.”
