Chapter 11: Guanyin of Water and Moon

Zhong Huayan remained silent.

Then, she shot forward without warning—the sports car screeched against the pavement, sparks and skid marks flying, spinning a full circle for good measure.

The students nearby choked on the smoke, turning to stare.

Some recognized Xu Yaochuan’s car and pulled out their phones to snap photos for social media.

Xu Yaochuan hadn’t planned to grab the handrail, but as the car tore through the night, he found himself clutching it in silence.

In the dazzling lights of the capital, streams of cars surged through the city. The white Aston Martin had already broken the speed limit, thundering through the traffic!

She spun the wheel sharply, weaving between cars; even the slightest miscalculation and both of them would have been smashed to pieces.

He didn’t dare distract her—he was afraid to die.

But Zhong Huayan showed not a trace of fear; at worst, she’d drag him to the grave with her.

Yet, suddenly, she remembered—the Xu family’s debts of blood were owed by more than just Xu Yaochuan.

She executed a sudden drift at the roadside, the asphalt scoring beneath her tires.

Cars ahead, glancing nervously in their rearview mirrors, saw the white blur approach—missing them by barely a centimeter.

Xu Yaochuan barely held himself together, nearly retching from the relentless chase. For over ten minutes they blazed from the city’s east to its west, death looming at every turn—he was nearly scared out of his wits.

“What’s wrong? Oh—I guess I forgot to mention, I do know how to drive a sports car,” she said lightly.

The man’s freshly styled hair was already disheveled.

“Thank… goodness… you’ve driven before,” he stammered.

Otherwise, a few more bursts of acceleration and she’d have sent him straight to the afterlife.

“Master Xu, is this what counts as street racing in your circles? Pathetic,” she mocked, pure provocation.

Xu Yaochuan lit a cigarette, offering only three silent judgments: This woman is mad, reckless, and—damn it—she can drive.

She was like a white flower blooming in hell—seemingly pure at first glance, but deadly poison upon closer look.

“Master Xu, thanks to you, I just lost ten points on my license, got fined five hundred, and I might even have it revoked.”

“No problem. I’ll take care of it. Come on, let’s hit the bar.”

She glanced at her phone. Last time, a client from Tangka messaged her—a family member had just returned from overseas after acquiring a peerless antique, seeking her authentication for a fee of one hundred thousand.

“I have to appraise an artifact now. Sorry, Master Xu, I don’t have time to play.”

“Who? You know how to appraise antiques?” Xu Yaochuan gave her a once-over. Though she weighed barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, there was something undeniably aristocratic about her bearing.

Her hair was loosely tied, her face bare of makeup, her clothes plain—yet her poise could not be concealed.

“Who are you looking down on?” she retorted.

“I’m coming too. Who knows, maybe I’ll know someone there.”

Side by side, they entered the restaurant. The elevator descended to the basement, where all was quiet.

A brook meandered through the room, conjuring images of rustic bridges and slender horses on ancient roads. Above them, a replica Ming dynasty coffered ceiling and Qing dynasty latticework; ahead, carved screens draped in white gauze shielded the guest seats.

At the entrance, a refined lady played the pipa—a masterful performance, though she found it only passable.

A massive Buddhist scripture hung in the hall, suggesting today’s appraisal would be of a Buddhist statue.

The hostess wore a black-and-gold cheongsam, each worth thousands. Only she was dressed simply and inexpensively.

The restaurant was a true paradise—rock gardens, winding pools, a world apart.

“Hello, are you Miss Li? I’m Li Yang, son of the abbot from Xiufu Temple. Last time, you authenticated that Tangka in your livestream.”

The man before her wasn’t remarkable in looks, but was impeccably polite.

“Of course I remember—you were my first client.”

She leaned in and whispered, “By the way, that so-called Qing dynasty folding fan in your hand, it looks like sandalwood at first glance, but it isn’t. It’s a high-quality imitation. Most people wouldn’t notice.”

Li Yang started—he’d carried that fan for years, and no one had ever seen through it.

“Please, Miss Li, have a seat. The artifact will be brought out shortly.”

Xu Yaochuan raised an eyebrow. How had she managed to spot the truth in a single glance?

Li Yang then noticed Xu Yaochuan, and quickly tried to ingratiate himself. He knew well the reputation of the Xu family’s eldest son—vast influence, but notorious for his exploits.

Zhong Huayan took a seat, noting that the main guest’s table was strangely quiet; only the soft flutter of a sleeve betrayed a hand raising a porcelain bowl of tea.

Everyone seemed to be watching the main guest from the corners of their eyes—he was the most mysterious, never uttering a word, with the restaurant owner personally attending to him.

Zhong Huayan knew: such a seat was always reserved for someone of great importance.

Her own father, once among the capital’s elite, had always sat at the main guest’s place.

“When will the Buddha statue be presented, Young Master Li?”

“All of us auction houses have been waiting in eager anticipation!” someone exclaimed.

Only then did Zhong Huayan realize—so, this was a competition, with all the leading auction houses present.

“Thank you all for waiting. Now, we’ll unveil the main event. Whoever appraises and explains it most thoroughly will have the right to auction it.”

The massive white gauze at the front was drawn up, the lights dimming to focus on the stage.

Seven minutes later, the gauze fell—

And to everyone’s astonishment, it wasn’t a Buddha—it was a statue of Guanyin.

The Guanyin’s shoulders were long and graceful, the chest powerfully sculpted and brimming with unrestrained energy—a striking contrast to the approachable, gentle features found in southern Buddhist statues.

The face, half-rounded as if drifting between sleep and wakefulness, was even more expressive than Tang dynasty sculptures.

The clothing was loosely draped, with many folds and vivid patterns, more pronounced than those of the Tang. The earlobes were knotted in segments.

Most astonishing of all were the hands and knees—smooth as moonlit water, elegant and unrestrained, the posture and aura as mighty as the rolling Yangtze.

Squatting, slender hands resting carelessly on the knees, the gaze casual yet full of haughty contempt.

A true Buddhist statue is easily recognized—if, even from afar, it exudes an imposing presence, it is of the highest grade.

The spirit seemed to have transcended its shell, soaring like a thought. As soon as this Guanyin appeared, all the auctioneers were left speechless, overcome with awe.

The main guest sipped his tea. This was a rare treasure he’d acquired overseas, and now, wishing to do a good deed, he intended to auction it back to the homeland for no profit.

His assistant poured his tea, murmuring quietly, “President Fu, this young woman has stumbled into something extraordinary.”

He said nothing, but glanced at her. Though simply dressed, she outshone every other woman in the room. Her aura was increasingly familiar.

For a fleeting moment, her radiance stirred ripples in his calm heart. If resurrection were possible, one should live as vividly as the girl before him.

But resurrection—was it nothing but a desperate fantasy?

To gaze at the moon’s reflection in water is, perhaps, to find solace for a wounded heart.

The room buzzed with discussion, or else fell into stunned silence at some tables.

Yet, not a soul dared speak up to appraise the treasure.

Such an artifact—should anyone err in judgment, they’d ruin their own auction house’s reputation among half of the capital’s elite. Even experts hesitated.

Until, at last, Zhong Huayan spoke, her words flowing clear and gentle as a mountain spring.

“The Bodhisattva perceives the world’s cries, robed in yellow and crimson—this ancient wooden Guanyin is a Water-Moon Guanyin of the Liao dynasty.

The pose is known as ‘Water-Moon Seated,’ inspired by the Avatamsaka Sutra.

The Liao and Jin peoples were once nomads, descendants of the Xiongnu. After converting to Buddhism, the Liao and Jin dynasties built many temples. This statue has endured the ravages of time, bearing the marks of countless years.”

Everyone was stunned as she stepped forward, an ethereal presence shining through her.

Clad in plain white, bathed in golden Sanskrit, she stood as if she understood the words of Guanyin herself.

“No, this Guanyin should be Ming dynasty—the painting style doesn’t match Liao craftsmanship,” someone argued after a heated debate, offering a professional dissent.

The room was thrown into controversy.