Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: A Down-and-Out Heir Meets a True Tycoon

Shang Qinghui had studied piano since childhood. His fingers were exceptionally strong: when they landed on piano keys, the sound was clear and ringing; when they landed on someone’s skin, they weren’t any gentler.

Back when his family had just gone bankrupt, his classmates had tentatively tried to bully him.

The result was a set of Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms, delivered with such sharp smacks and such a fine sense of rhythm that, if you listened closely, they had a touch of Horowitz’s crisp precision.

From then on, he earned a name across campus as the “slap virtuoso.”

No one dared mess with him again.

Unfortunately, no one could spend their whole life in an ivory tower like a school.

Once he entered the working world, people started picking on him again.

He had a part-time job playing piano at a restaurant.

A spoiled rich kid sauntered over with a glass of wine and leaned against the piano. He tilted his head, listened for a moment, then suddenly reached out and tapped the rim of his glass against Shang Qinghui’s wrist. “Hey, pretty boy. Come have a drink with me. You’ll make more than you do just playing piano.”

“Sir, please don’t interrupt my performance,” Shang Qinghui replied.

As he spoke, Shang Qinghui looked up, trying to catch the restaurant manager’s eye and ask for help.

But the manager turned away, pretending not to see.

Shang Qinghui understood. This guy must have some serious backing if even the manager didn’t dare offend him.

The spoiled rich kid wasn’t annoyed. He turned his wrist and set his glass on the piano lid, then edged closer. His fingers slid slowly along the body of the piano, finally stopping above the hand Shang Qinghui was playing with.

Shang Qinghui dodged as if he’d seen a slug crawling toward him.

The spoiled rich kid laughed. “Why so nervous? I can’t even touch you?”

“Of course you can’t!” Shang Qinghui was astonished. How could these rich young masters say such completely unreasonable things with such confidence?

I don’t remember acting like that when I was a spoiled rich kid!

The rich kid’s expression darkened. “Why put on airs? I’m being nice to you—that’s me doing you a favor. If you don’t know what’s good for you, I’ve got plenty of ways to stop being nice.”

Shang Qinghui thought, I’m doing you a favor too! My Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms are itching to come out! And you just keep shoving your face closer!

The spoiled rich kid was about to reach out and grab the pretty boy.

The pretty boy was also quietly gathering strength beneath the table, fingers slightly spread, aiming squarely at the man’s left cheek.

But just as the moment grew electric, the arrow was nocked and the tension reached its peak, a voice cut in. “Young Master Shang, is that you? It’s been a while.”

At the sound of the voice, the spoiled rich kid turned around—and froze.

Shang Qinghui was surprised, too.

The newcomer wore a linen suit, impeccably tailored yet comfortable, clearly custom-made. He stood at the edge of the light, tall and slender, his features strikingly defined.

The spoiled rich kid’s bravado shrank by half. “Y-you… It’s you, President Li.”

Li Huating ignored him, his gaze settling on Shang Qinghui’s face.

Shang Qinghui knew Li Huating, too. Who from their circle wouldn’t? They’d both grown up in the same world, but even back when the Shang family was flourishing, an uncrossable gulf had separated them. They’d had nothing to do with each other, and at best could have been called casual acquaintances who nodded in passing.

No—not “nodding acquaintances.” More like “nodding-and-bowing acquaintances.” Shang Qinghui had bowed along behind his parents, while Li Huating did the nodding.

He hadn’t expected that, though they’d never crossed paths when he was doing well, he’d run into Li Huating after falling on hard times.

Even more surprising, the distinguished Li Huating actually remembered him, a down-and-out heir.

Seeing the spoiled rich kid’s stunned expression, Shang Qinghui realized this was his chance to borrow Li Huating’s prestige.

He sprang to his feet and smiled at Li Huating. “That’s right, President Li. Long time no see. I should have visited you more often, but I didn’t want to impose. I never thought we’d run into each other here. What a stroke of luck—one of those happy coincidences you couldn’t arrange even if you sent out invitations!”

He spoke with such warmth, as if he and Li Huating really were on friendly terms.

The spoiled rich kid’s expression changed several times. His earlier arrogance collapsed in an instant, and he managed to force a smile at Shang Qinghui. “So you’re a friend of President Li’s! No wonder you have such a distinguished air about you. I was out of line just now. Please don’t take offense.”

As he spoke, he retreated half a step, quietly lifting his glass off the piano lid.

Shang Qinghui would have loved to slap him twice. But then he remembered that he wasn’t really Li Huating’s friend. If he overplayed his hand and the act fell apart, he’d be the one left looking foolish.

So Shang Qinghui gave him a mild smile, striking a magnanimous pose. “All right, off you go. Don’t interrupt my playing.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.” Holding his glass, the spoiled rich kid bent at the waist, bowing to Li Huating and smiling apologetically at Shang Qinghui as he backed away in little steps.

Li Huating glanced at Shang Qinghui’s hands. “It’s a bit of a waste for you to be playing here.”

Shang Qinghui was a little surprised. From Li Huating’s tone, it sounded as though he really did know him—and remembered him rather well.

So he replied, “As long as it pays my rent, it’s not a waste.”

“You don’t have anywhere to stay?” Li Huating asked, sounding a little surprised.

“That’s right.” Shang Qinghui answered matter-of-factly, without the slightest embarrassment. “Rent’s 1,800 a month. I make 300 for a night of playing here, so it takes six nights to cover it. Utilities are extra.”

He said it openly, with a hint of pride in his voice—as though to say, Look, even a flower raised in a greenhouse can keep itself alive.

“Oh, I see,” Li Huating said. “Then would you like to come stay at my place?”

Shang Qinghui froze.

It wasn’t the bluntness of the question that caught him off guard.

What surprised him more was that he wasn’t even a little angry.

Maybe it was because Li Huating’s tone was nothing like that sleazy rich kid’s just now?

He spoke like an old friend, casually offering a practical suggestion.

Shang Qinghui even wondered if he was reading too much into it, if Li Huating didn’t mean anything suggestive by it.

Shang Qinghui’s mind stalled for a moment. Then he said, “Sure. I get off at ten-thirty.”

Li Huating checked his watch. “You’ll play until ten-thirty and make 300 yuan?”

“That’s right.” Shang Qinghui nodded.

“I’ll give you 3,000,” Li Huating said. “Can you leave now?”

The instant the last syllable of “thousand” left his mouth, Shang Qinghui’s butt was already lifting off the piano stool.

That was how a down-and-out young master did business.

Li Huating’s house was halfway up a hill on the outskirts of the city. The car wound around several bends in the mountain road, passed through the security gate, then drove on for quite a while before the main house came into view. It had gray-and-white walls, broad panes of glass, and clean, crisp lines.

Inside, the entryway was bare, without even a single painting on the wall. The living room, however, was surprisingly spacious, with one whole wall of glass overlooking the city lights spread out below. There wasn’t much furniture, and the colors ran cool. Beside the leather sofa stood, of all things, a Steinway grand piano.

“Play that one,” Li Huating said, pointing to the Steinway. As he spoke, he casually draped his jacket over the back of a chair.

Hearing what he wanted, Shang Qinghui thought, Oh, so I really did misunderstand him. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He just wants to hear me play.

Well, well. A tycoon who really has risen above vulgar interests.

Shang Qinghui sat down at the piano and said, “That 3,000 is for making me ditch work. President Li, playing the piano costs extra.”

Such a beautiful face, such an elegant frame—and such a mercenary thing to say.

Li Huating gave a rare smile.

When a cool, aloof beauty smiled, it was the most captivating thing in the world.

Shang Qinghui almost stared. He clearly heard his own heartbeat skip a beat. It was strange, like a piano key that hadn’t been pressed all the way down, yet the string had already begun to ring.

“Mm.” Li Huating opened a drawer beside him. Inside, neat rows of red banknotes were stacked like bricks. “Take as much as you like.”

Shang Qinghui’s eyes nearly blurred at the sight. “President Li, are you sure? I’m not like those refined, high-minded pianists. I can take a lot!” If I’d known, I would’ve brought a sack.

Li Huating smiled again. “Go ahead, you mercenary pianist.”

Shang Qinghui had always been proud of his long fingers, which seemed made for the piano. Now he discovered another advantage to them: they could grab a whole lot of banknotes at once.

He suppressed the urge to start grabbing money first. He still had a little of a civilized person’s dignity left, after all.

He cleared his throat, sat up straight on the piano stool, and asked, “What would you like to hear, President Li?”

“The third movement of ‘Moonlight,’” Li Huating said.

Shang Qinghui paused. He had played Beethoven’s sonata countless times as a boy: fiery and urgent, like a raging storm. After falling on hard times, he’d been stuck playing gentle background music at restaurants and rarely got to touch music that demanded everything he had. He steadied himself and lowered his fingertips. The first chord cleaved through the silence of the night.

The music poured out like a river that had been gathering strength for years, finally bursting through its dam.

The more he played, the more absorbed he became. His shoulders leaned forward slightly, his wrists flying over the keys.

It had been so long since he’d played an instrument this good. The sound was crystal clear, the keys exquisitely responsive, as if every string were answering him. When he reached the impassioned middle section, his eyes grew warm, and he nearly burst into tears.

When the piece ended, he was so moved that he almost said, “I’ll play for free—just let me play the Steinway a little longer!”