Situ Hao adjusted the lapels of his burgundy velvet dinner jacket, looking down at Curator Wen with cold, arrogant eyes.
“Curator Wen,” Situ Hao sneered, his voice loud enough to carry across the crowded red carpet. “Your patched Zhongshan suit smells like mothballs and damp basement paper. You came here tonight hoping to beg our Eight Chaebols to donate three Ming dynasty scrolls to your museum for free?”
Curator Wen stood upright, his silver hair ruffled by the winter wind. He held his canvas satchel against his chest with both hands.
“Young Master Situ,” Curator Wen said, his voice firm and dignified. “Those three river landscapes were painted by master Shen Zhou five hundred years ago. They are national treasures of our cultural heritage! In nineteen thirty-seven, my teacher risked his life hiding those scrolls inside a hollow brick wall to protect them from invaders. After the war, your family used wartime black-market loans to seize those paintings from his widow! They belong in a public museum where school children can study them, not locked away in a private cellar as tax evasion collateral!”
Situ Hao chuckled with cruel amusement, turning to his sycophants.
“Listen to this old fool,” Situ Hao laughed, shaking his head. “National heritage? In Yanjing, an antique is only worth what a billionaire will pay for it. If my family wants to hang Shen Zhou’s paintings in our wine cellar to soak up humidity, that is our aristocratic privilege. You museum parasites produce zero economic value…
