Chapter 70: Please Continue Your Performance

"Mr. Qin, from the moment we met until now, I have shown you every courtesy and restraint, yet you persist in overstepping boundaries. Now you have the audacity to claim that my painting is a forgery. Do you even understand what respect means?"

Fu Tingxiu seized this perfect moment to strike back, even changing the way he addressed him from ‘Brother Qin’ to ‘Mr. Qin’—as if to say, "I have tolerated you long enough, but your behavior is intolerable, and I am left with no choice but to respond."

This maneuver had an immediate effect. At the very least, Lin Wanyu was swept up in Fu Tingxiu’s momentum; she glared fiercely at Qin Chuan. Though she said nothing, the coldness of her expression made her meaning very clear: if you do not provide a reasonable explanation, today’s matter will not be so easily resolved.

Lin Jiancheng, however, remained as composed as ever, even showing a hint of interest, clearly wanting to hear Qin Chuan’s insights.

"You really are the type who won’t shed a tear until you see the coffin, aren’t you?"

Qin Chuan gave Fu Tingxiu a glance as if looking at a fool, then his expression turned solemn.

"Judging by the inscription, this is supposed to be a fine landscape by Wang Hui, one of the Four Masters of the early Qing. From the surface, the painting exudes antiquity and seems to align with the brushwork of the Four Masters. But if you analyze the brushwork as a whole, the outlines of the mountains are especially stiff. In Wang Hui’s genuine works, the brushstrokes are gentle and smooth, reminiscent of Hetian jade. This piece, however, is nowhere close in that regard."

"The treatment of the trees and houses is passable, but a closer look reveals that the branches are flat and lifeless, and the figures are crudely drawn, lacking spirit. This is likely a clever imitation from the late Qing."

"A genuine landscape of this size by Wang Hui would fetch at least fifteen million at auction. This imitation is worth, at most, thirty thousand. Yet you claimed to have spent three million on it. When I say you’re foolish with your money, am I wrong?"

Qin Chuan’s analysis was irrefutable, leaving Fu Tingxiu utterly speechless. He knew nothing about antique paintings—he had only bought this piece for three million in hopes of currying favor with Lin Jiancheng, never expecting he’d been duped.

Still unwilling to concede, Fu Tingxiu protested, "That’s just your opinion. Who knows if you’re making this up?"

This time, Lin Wanyu didn’t rush to his defense, for she noticed her father looking at Qin Chuan with an expression of admiration. She knew what that meant—her father had given her the same look when she was accepted into a prestigious university or made some remarkable achievement.

In other words, her father, to some extent, already agreed with Qin Chuan’s assessment.

“Dad, aren’t you going to say something?”

Lin Wanyu urged him softly, and Fu Tingxiu also looked over, hoping for a dissenting opinion.

But reality is often harsh. Lin Jiancheng spoke slowly, “Xiao Chuan’s eye for authentication is no less than that of the experts. Xiao Fu, I happen to have an authentic Wang Hui in my collection. Why not compare them directly?”

A moment later, Lin Jiancheng took down a long brocade box from the top of a bookshelf and withdrew a painting about the size of an A4 sheet. He unrolled it and placed it alongside the other, comparing the details Qin Chuan had mentioned. Even Lin Wanyu and Fu Tingxiu, who were not experts, could now discern the differences.

“And you—bringing a counterfeit as a gift—do you know what respect means? Or did you know all along it was a fake, and assumed Uncle Lin wouldn’t see through it, so you exaggerated the price to claim credit?”

Qin Chuan’s pointed questions left Fu Tingxiu so ashamed he wished the ground would swallow him, his cheeks burning as if he’d been slapped.

He had indeed been thoroughly humiliated, for just moments ago he’d accused Qin Chuan of disrespect, only to have the accusation turned back on himself.

Qin Chuan’s words were especially malicious: if he admitted to being duped, he’d merely be a gullible fool. But if he admitted to the latter, it would be a question of character—a black mark he could not afford. If that happened, not only would he fail to win over Lin Jiancheng, he’d be blacklisted, and any hope of pursuing Lin Wanyu would be a hopeless dream.

“Uncle Lin, I trusted a friend in the antiques business too much. I didn’t examine the painting closely myself. The fault is mine for being careless. Please forgive me.”

Fu Tingxiu perfectly embodied the art of damage control: sincere attitude, shifting blame, and downplaying the issue. His explanation left him with nothing worse than a charge of carelessness, deflecting the brunt of Qin Chuan’s pointed questions.

“This kid is quite slippery,” Qin Chuan thought to himself.

Lin Jiancheng waved a hand. “No matter. Even renowned experts can be fooled from time to time. Treat it as a tuition fee.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Uncle Lin,” Fu Tingxiu replied, all humility and gratitude.

Lin Jiancheng smiled. “You’re too polite. But you did spend a lot on this painting, and I really have no reason to accept it—”

“Uncle Lin, whether it was three million or thirty million, it’s a token of my respect for you. Please don’t refuse,” Fu Tingxiu said earnestly.

Lin Jiancheng hesitated, then nodded. “Then I will accept, but I intend to pay for it—at its true value. I trust you have no objection?”

In this way, Lin Jiancheng accepted Fu Tingxiu’s gesture while still maintaining a degree of distance; even if Fu Tingxiu wished to ingratiate himself further, he could hardly object.

The four of them chatted a while longer before Li Yulan called them to dinner. Tonight’s banquet had been meant as a thank-you for Qin Chuan, but with the unexpected arrival of the interloper Fu Tingxiu, all the matchmaking plans the Lin couple had prepared were rendered useless.

Seeing her parents hesitate several times to speak, Lin Wanyu felt a touch of pride, convinced that her maneuver had been more successful than she could have hoped.

After dinner, when the Lin couple went upstairs, claiming to leave the young people some space, Lin Wanyu saw her chance to give Qin Chuan a lesson. She took the initiative, “Senior Fu, I heard from classmates that after you went abroad to study, you spent several years in the military. Is that true?”

“Who would have thought you paid such close attention to me, Wanyu! If I’d known that back when I was fighting on the front lines, it would have given me even more strength,” Fu Tingxiu replied with a half-joking tone.

A blush crept across Lin Wanyu’s face. She had wanted to explain herself, as Fu Tingxiu’s words were rather suggestive.

But noticing how Qin Chuan’s fists tightened and his expression darkened, she changed her words to admiration: “A true man should prove his worth on the battlefield, striving for honor without longing for home. Only by enduring the trials of war can one become a real hero.”

Across the table, Qin Chuan’s face showed a flicker of surprise—he hadn’t expected Lin Wanyu to be so interested in the smoke and fire of battlefields.

“What’s so fascinating about a hellscape filled with death and destruction?”

A faint, bitter smile touched Qin Chuan’s lips. Recalling how his master, to sharpen his instincts against danger, had once abandoned him on the North African front for years, a wave of unease swept over him.

“Qin Chuan, what kind of expression is that?”

Lin Wanyu caught the hint of disdain on his face and immediately challenged him.

Fu Tingxiu stepped in again, with false good will, “It’s understandable—Qin hasn’t been to war, so he can’t know the thrill of real combat.”

“Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right,” Qin Chuan replied carelessly, then opened his right hand and smiled, “Please, go ahead and continue your performance.”