The Taichu Golden Sky-Cruiser touched down in London, and Lin Mo’s Spirit-Array Rolls-Royce glided into Mayfair through a freezing drizzle. Instantly, the [Benevolence Distress Radar] on his wrist flashed crimson outside the Sovereign Royal Auction House.
The midnight air bit through heavy wool coats, but eighty-two-year-old Master Wen [Goodness: 95 / 100] stood firm on the wet granite steps. His weathered, calloused hands—cracked from decades of fine woodworking and carpentry—tightly clutched a frayed leather briefcase against his chest. Inside that worn case lay his entire life savings: a cashier’s check for four hundred thousand pounds. He had gathered it penny by penny from forty years of eating cold bread and repairing antique cabinets across East London.
Beside him under the stone portico stood twenty-eight-year-old British provenance archivist Dr. Eleanor Vance [Goodness: 92 / 100], her glasses fogged with rain. Her academic tweed blazer was soaked through at the shoulders, yet her spine remained rigidly straight against the wind.
“Master Wen, you shouldn’t have brought your life savings here,” Eleanor whispered. Her voice trembled slightly as she glanced up at the towering mahogany double doors of the auction house. “Lord Alistair Sterling and the Ouroboros Syndicate didn’t list those looted Huaxia bronzes for honest repatriation. They rigged the catalog. Even if you hand over four hundred thousand pounds, they will declare your deposit insufficient and throw you back into the street.”
