Chapter 98

Late September, Manhattan.

The golden mirrored elevator doors reflected the tall, broad figure of the visitor as the cabin descended smoothly to the underground third floor and opened. The first to step out was a middle-aged man dressed in a woolen double-breasted suit, who respectfully gestured for the others inside the elevator to exit.

As the two inside stepped out, Terren, the auction house’s consultant, was already waiting outside. He smiled at the youngest man between them and said, "Mr. Duncan."

Zeiss nodded, seeming somewhat absent-minded. Beside him, the family secretary, Liao Wenbo, smiled at Terren and said, "Thank you for your trouble."

Terren was a brown-haired, black-eyed American in his mid-forties, not particularly tall, but meticulously groomed from his bowtie to his cologne. Specializing in Asian clients, he spoke fluent Chinese and immediately engaged Liao Wenbo in polite conversation about their journey and the day’s weather.

Along with another manager, Mac, whom they had just met, the four quickly passed through a gallery displaying modern artworks and master paintings, heading toward the innermost part of the auction house. They eventually stopped before a door of phoebe zhennan wood carved in European style.

Terren swiped his fingerprint on the wall-mounted device before pushing the door open and ushering everyone inside.

Unlike the antique decor of the other rooms and halls in the auction house, the interior was a sleek, modern metallic space. Glass display cases were arranged in the spacious, high-ceilinged room, each illuminated by a cold light that cast vivid or muted hues over the famous paintings and sculptures.

This was the vault of the century-old auction house, dedicated to storing auction items and serving as a private exhibition hall for a select few VIPs.

It was also a testament to Terren’s meticulous approach as a top-tier buyer’s manager—though this client had come for a specific piece, bringing them into the private exhibition hall increased their exposure to other valuable items. Many lucrative deals were born this way.

The dominant alpha was dressed in a dark brown checkered single-breasted suit. Seventeen hours earlier, he had been in Las Vegas but had flown to New York specifically for this painting. Yet, he seemed uninterested in art, unmoved by Terren and Mac’s engaging and tasteful introductions to the masterpieces. His focus was unwavering as he followed the group deeper inside.

"Mr. Liao, we were truly honored to receive your commission. We never expected Mr. Duncan to place his trust in us. I’ve only had the privilege of serving Mr. Duncan’s mother twice before, back in 2017," Terren said with a smile as he addressed the two Chinese gentlemen.

Before he could finish, the group arrived at the innermost section of the vault. Unlike the artworks displayed in climate-controlled glass cases, this area was brighter and exclusively featured paintings of varying sizes—some as tall as a person, others no larger than a book. Not all were mounted on easels; some were wrapped in canvas and leaned against the wall, clearly of lesser value.

"Liao Shu," Zeiss spoke for the first time since entering, addressing the salt-and-pepper haired Liao Wenbo in a low voice.

Liao Wenbo nodded at Terren and said, "Mr. Terren, we’d like to see the painting we commissioned you to find."

Terren smiled. "Of course, we’ve already prepared it."

With that, the American walked to a nearby easel where a massive oil painting, roughly a meter in size, was draped in burgundy velvet cloth. At the signal, Mac stepped forward and gently lifted the covering.

A monumental classical oil painting was revealed, depicting a powerfully dramatic scene from the famous Greek tragedy *Oedipus Rex*—the moment Oedipus confronts the shepherd.

"This painting was briefly exhibited at the National Gallery after winning an award in Luxembourg in early 2014. Later, the artist failed to meet the shipping requirements within the stipulated time. After contacting the artist’s school, his teacher entrusted a gallery to sell it, but it went unsold for a long time. It passed through many galleries and dealers before we received a request from a Hong Kong collector in 2020 to locate it. We only traced it to a British gallery two months ago."

Seeing the buyer’s intense gaze fixed on the painting, the experienced Terren knew he should continue. Switching to English, he added:

"*Oedipus and the Shepherd*—technical mastery, grand composition. There are eleven figures in total, with Oedipus at the center, standing atop the palace steps as he interrogates the shepherd who knows the truth. Unaware that he is about to learn he himself is the murderer of his father and the husband of his mother, the tragedy predates its revelation. The tone and style are austere and solemn, immersing every viewer in its despair and tragedy.

"Yet, the artist was reportedly very young when he painted this. It’s unclear why he chose such a heavy theme or how he arrived at such insight. But this is also why the painting languished unsold and fell into obscurity. After all, Greek mythology is no longer a hot collecting topic this century, and *Oedipus Rex* is esoteric even within the classical painting canon. The more familiar works are limited to a few masterpieces, such as Gustave Moreau’s *Oedipus and the Sphinx* from 1864."

"Additionally, the artist was said to be a student at the time, one touted as a rising star by China’s painting industry. But after completing this piece, he inexplicably vanished. Without the fame of subsequent works, the painting’s collectible value diminished further. Still, judged purely on its own merits, it’s unquestionably a masterwork. The dimensions are 89 by 92 centimeters, framed in high-quality cedarwood."

As he spoke, Terren ran his fingers along the frame, the deteriorated varnish noticeably rough under his touch. He maintained a composed smile, but he and his colleague couldn’t help wondering—what was the allure of this work of negligible market value that had drawn two Chinese collectors to seek it out?

Terren’s description had been generous. In reality, after the first gallery went bankrupt, the painting had been bundled and sold off to regional galleries before ending up with a British dealer. When the auction house’s team found it in a converted refrigeration warehouse, it had been piled like old textbooks among other unknown artists’ works. It was a miracle it hadn’t suffered water damage or rodent damage.

At that moment, Zeiss reached out and gently touched the painting, his fingertips brushing the furious face of Oedipus.

Manager Mac smiled and added, "It seems Mr. Zeiss is clearly engaged with this work. The theme is fascinating—an adaptation of the fourth act of Sophocles’ *Oedipus Rex*. There’s no greater tragedy than this: a righteous king, seeking the source of divine punishment for his people, only to discover he himself is the patricide who married his mother. The tragedy predates its revelation—existentially resonant."

In Zeiss’s mind flashed the image of a sullen young man from a photograph—half-up long hair, loose black T-shirt, cargo pants, standing before the painting with his teacher and classmates. His pale face was like autumn lake waters, quietly gazing at the camera and the person beyond the lens.

"I’ll take it. You may begin the acquisition process," Zeiss said, straightening up and meeting Mac’s eyes.

Mac and Tyron locked eyes, their faces flickering with unreadable expressions. Tyron then smiled softly and said, "Like we said earlier, Mr. Duncan, this painting was commissioned by a Hong Kong collector back in 2020. We only tracked it down last month—bad timing. Then you hired us too, so now we're stuck."

Zeiss didn’t blink, his tone flat. "Pay the breach fee. I’ll cover double your commission on top of the painting’s price."

Tyron hesitated. "But our rep’s on the line here. Since you’re so into this piece, we can arrange the nearest auction for you and Mr. Tang to bid against each other."

"Six times total—you take five, I cover the rest," Zeiss said coldly. "This stays in my private collection; no exhibitions. Just tell him it got lost or damaged."

Five times the fee could buy a modern masterpiece—far beyond what this painting would ever fetch at auction. Mac paled, but Tyron dug in his heels, still torn as he glanced between Zeiss and Liao Wenbo.

Liao Wenbo gave a grandfatherly laugh and looked at Tyron. "Sorry, Mr. Tyron, Mr. Duncan must have his reasons. If he doesn’t want a public auction, how’s eight times sound? And if you’re worried about credibility, we’ll pay the other buyer double the penalty too."

That made it ten times the penalty. Tyron was speechless—this painting wouldn’t sell for scrap later. With that kind of money, why not buy a Cézanne or a Mitchell instead of some nameless thing from storage?

But money talks, and this offer far outweighed any "reputation" concerns. Especially in the art trade, this worthless painting wasn’t enough to justify refusing the Duncan family’s prime alpha and leaving a bad impression.

"If it’s Mr. Duncan’s wish," Tyron said with a forced smile, shaking hands with Liao Wenbo and Zeiss, "then we’ll make it work."

As they stepped out of Rockefeller Center, rain misted the air. Zeiss lifted his gaze to the towering buildings, but the next moment, half the sky was obscured.

Zeiss turned to Liao Wenbo, who was holding an umbrella. "Uncle Liao, let me."

With that, Zeiss took the umbrella from the elderly secretary. Standing a head taller, he made the gray-haired Chinese man feel at ease, so Liao Wenbo said nothing as they walked toward the street.

"Young Master Jingzhi, I’m actually quite happy you asked me to help with this painting," Liao Wenbo said, his Hunan roots still coloring his English after thirty years in the U.S.

"Why?" Zeiss glanced down at him.

"Art’s never been your thing. Back when Madam wanted to take you to auctions or galleries, you’d always refuse—such a contrarian through and through, hating to follow the crowd." Liao Wenbo chuckled. "Though you’re still like that now."

Zeiss replied, "I still don’t like it."

"I thought so," Liao Wenbo nodded.

"Do you like this painter?"

Zeiss hesitated before shaking his head. "No. I’m just curious."

Curious about what, exactly?" Liao Wenbo froze.

Zeiss’s expression remained calm. "Curious about what happened back then that made him feel so much pain."

By then, they had reached the roadside outside the plaza. A black Maybach was already waiting, and a black-suited bodyguard stepped out, holding an umbrella.

Zeiss handed his umbrella to Liao Wenbo and took the one offered by the bodyguard. "Aren’t you coming back, Young Master?" Liao Wenbo asked.

"No. I’m returning to Las Vegas in two hours. My work isn’t finished yet."

Liao Wenbo fretted. "Then let the driver take you."

Zeiss smiled at the old man. "I’d like to walk around a bit. You go ahead, Uncle Liao."

Under the rain, Zeiss strolled along the art district’s streets. The overcast sky had prompted every luxury store and restaurant to turn on their lights early, light bleeding through the glass, creating the illusion of warmth and opulence.

Painter.

Zeiss found his current feelings odd. Suddenly, he recalled a memory from years ago in southern Africa, where a lack of barbershops had left his bangs too long. Joyce and Fujino, two beta girls, called him artsy-fartsy.

Back then, what had he thought?—How could someone so crude, rude, and dull have anything to do with art?

But when he saw the person's previous paintings in the paper archives, even someone with little involvement in art could sense the spiritual resonance through the mechanical reproductions.

Why did he embark on two diametrically opposed lives? Why did he choose to paint such disturbing themes? What exactly did he know, what did he experience, and what was going through his mind?

Zeiss looked up and suddenly saw a giant poster on the famous auction house building across the street, announcing next week's auction of contemporary painters' works.

"So dazzling," flashed through the high-ranking alpha's mind—the words that summarized the beta's first half of life in the meeting room. He tilted his head, gazing at the lush green poster against the gray sky, muttering under his breath:

"—A brilliant life?"

He had no idea how long he’d stood there, but the young man finally withdrew his gaze and prepared to flag down a cab headed straight for the airport.

But then, from the corner of his eye, he seemed to catch sight of something. He frowned, spotting a silhouette beyond the café’s floor-to-ceiling window across the one-way street.

And that silhouette—he seemed to recognize it.

"Ding—"

The bell on the café door kept jingling.

The person sitting in the corner seemed to have known he would come. By the time Zeiss, gripping his dripping umbrella, reached the table, the waiter had just placed the second cup of coffee opposite the figure.

"Why are you here?" Zeiss asked incredulously, staring at the unruffled figure before him.

"—Laura?"

"Well," the brown-haired woman in a trench coat folded her hands and gave an expectant smile, "What if I said it was fate's coincidence? Would you believe me?"

"You're following me," Zeiss said coldly.

"Absolutely no sense of humor," Laura made a face, feigning boredom. "After all these years, you're still the same poker face—not fun at all. Ah, you’re even past the age where you could've been fun."

"You still tell the lamest jokes," Zeiss retorted bluntly. "In fact, they’ve gotten worse."

Laura rested her chin in her palm, smiling as she watched the high-ranking alpha take a seat. "So, how was it?"

Zeiss lifted his gaze. "How was what?"

"Your long-overdue team-up with my apprentice," the woman in her forties—who looked no older than thirty, whether due to good care or sheer poise—blinked playfully. "Your exploits have been blowing up on Ocean. Even I, stuck out on the frontlines, have heard plenty."

Zeiss kept a straight face. "Not great. My mission went poorly. Edmund's, on the other hand, went well. He's already happily on leave."

The female police superintendent froze for a second before laughing her ass off.

Zeiss sat stiffly in the booth, arms crossed, watching coldly as the European Bureau's Police Superintendent, 1st Class, laughed uncontrollably.

"You really don't seem like a child of the Duncan family," Laura said, lifting her eyes to the high-ranking alpha with a flicker of warmth in her gaze.

"Why?"

Laura stirred her coffee and murmured, "You’re too softhearted. And over the years, you've changed more and more."

Zeiss felt his face twitch—if not for the chill in the air earlier, it definitely would have. He frowned, unable to hold back. "Are you talking about me?"

"Of course you’d deny it," Laura chuckled. "How is Edmund?"

Zeiss wanted to say, *You're his teacher—why don’t you ask him yourself?* But after a brief silence, he replied, "Not great. But he’s convinced he is."

"So that's how it is," Laura seemed to recall something. "You ran into Xia Qing, didn't you? Edmund taking this mission was quite a coincidence. I never thought he’d accept."

Zeiss replied, "If you already know everything, why bother asking me?"

"I don’t have all the answers. Like you, there are many things I still don’t understand even after all these years," Laura took a sip of coffee and looked out the window. "Or perhaps—"

"Truth is, I see things less clearly now."

Laura turned her gaze back to Zeiss’s face.

Zeiss caught the implication and glared coldly at the Police Superintendent, 1st Class before him.

"Laura, why are you looking for me now?"

Laura looked at him without speaking.

Zeiss fixed his eyes on the female alpha and said slowly, word by word, "Why seek me out right after your mission instead of Edmund?"

He knew A Ying had always missed her terribly. He hadn’t understood before why the beta held such special feelings for Laura, a famously unreliable, ice-cold instructor.

Not until he dug up the 2007 case files.

Only then did he learn that Laura, he, and that young chairman of LSA had been entangled since their youth.

So, in the end, it was just about who got there first.

But the next moment, when he raised his eyes, he saw Laura quietly staring at him. She spoke softly:

"I feel terribly sorry for you, but there’s a mission I’ve thought about for a long time, and I still can’t think of anyone more suitable than you."

Zeiss was slightly taken aback. He truly saw that unfathomable abyss of complexity in Laura’s eyes again.

Sure enough, accompanied by a sense of ominous foreboding, Zeiss heard the woman whisper:

"Will you take on that same mission from five years ago—one more time?

—To monitor Edmund, the Police Superintendent of AGB’s Asia Branch."

Late September, Guangzhou.

A Ying stood at the door, stretching out his hand and then looking up at the sky before straightening up cheerfully. Holding a bouquet, he hurried down the sidewalk.

The drizzling rainy season had finally ended. Even here in the south, autumn finally got its turn.

Wearing a white shirt and jeans, same as years ago, A Ying held a bouquet of flowers bought from a roadside shop and walked across the zebra crossing under the traffic lights toward home.

A Ying checked his watch and noticed it was almost 6 p.m. The sunset was already coloring the distant skyline. In the final days of September, Xia Qing was settling into life as a 28-year-old. Their lab’s replication experiments were complete, and the research papers and experimental data were nearly all organized, so he no longer had to work overtime lately.

He’d arranged to meet Zhao Yang and Qi Feng to have dinner together tonight at the house he and Xia Qing currently lived in. His vacation was about to end, and he intended to return to duty before Xia Qing attended that LSA conference. So, before they’d be spending more time apart than together, he wanted to spend as much time as possible with these few people.

A Ying carried groceries in one hand and flowers in the other. Rounding the last corner, he saw a car parked in front of the house, with a person standing beside it, arguing with two others at the doorstep.

"Are you done yet? Quit butting into people’s lives. If you consider Xia Qing family, your Lin family should’ve made their move ten years ago."

"I’m not butting in, and This isn’t your business, is it? Zhao Yang."

Beside the two who were arguing fiercely, Qi Feng, wearing a pink-striped long-sleeved shirt, was squatting on the porch steps, spacing out. Suddenly, her eyes blinked, and she jumped up. "A Ying, you’re back!"

The bickering cut off abruptly as all three whipped around to see A Ying at the corner.

The two men, flushed with anger from their argument, turned their heads and froze at the sight of the young man in white, holding groceries in one hand and flowers in the other.

"Hi," Xu Zhangying greeted, feeling slightly self-conscious under the trio's strange gazes, as if he were dressed in some bizarre costume. He hesitantly lifted the groceries. "Coming for dinner?"

"Damn," Zhao Yang was the first to snap out of it, his tone disbelieving. "Did you just get married or something?"

Xu Zhangying stumbled, nearly face-planting onto the ground. He whipped around and snapped at Zhao Yang, "What’s your problem, Zhao Yang?!"

Lin Shuhua, standing nearby in formal attire, rubbed his temples, trying to gather his thoughts for a proper response. But just as he lifted his head, he heard the beta angrily add, "If anything, I’d be the main wife!"

Lin Shuhua sighed—his barely eased headache was back in full force.