The Auction Showdown
A mysterious figure, known as 'Three Lambs,' challenges the authority of the Chace family by daring to claim all items in their high-stakes auction, leading to a tense confrontation with the feared Four Great Masters.Will 'Three Lambs' survive the wrath of the Four Great Masters and the Chace family's vengeance?
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Wrong Choice: The Golden Throne and the Red Suit's Defiance
In a grand, opulent hall draped in crimson velvet and gilded dragon motifs, where power is not whispered but displayed—like a jewel on a red silk tray—the tension crackles like static before a storm. This isn’t just a scene; it’s a psychological chessboard, and every character moves with deliberate weight. At its center sits Lin Zeyu—not on a throne of state, but on one carved from myth and arrogance, upholstered in blood-red velvet and flanked by serpentine gold dragons that seem to coil around his authority. He wears a tan jacket over black, casual yet commanding, a pendant hanging like a talisman against his chest—a quiet rebellion against the formality surrounding him. His posture is relaxed, almost mocking: legs crossed, wrist resting on the armrest, fingers tapping idly as if time itself waits for his next gesture. Yet his eyes? They’re sharp, calculating, never still. When the server in the floral qipao bows low, offering a crystal lotus on a wooden platter, he doesn’t reach immediately. He watches her hands tremble—not from fear, but from protocol. That hesitation is the first Wrong Choice: he lets the moment stretch too long, inviting scrutiny. And indeed, it comes. Across from him, Chen Wei—striped suit, cream-and-brown tie, hair perfectly coiffed—leans forward like a man who’s rehearsed his outrage. His expressions shift like film reels: disbelief, indignation, then a flicker of something darker—envy? He points, he gestures, he speaks in clipped syllables that echo off the marble columns. But here’s the irony: his fury is theatrical, rehearsed, while Lin Zeyu’s silence is the real weapon. Chen Wei thinks he’s confronting a rival; he’s actually auditioning for a role he’ll never land. Every time he raises his voice, Lin Zeyu tilts his head, smiles faintly, or lifts a brow—as if amused by the performance. That smirk? It’s not confidence. It’s contempt disguised as indifference. And when Chen Wei finally stands, clad in that bold maroon suit—silk lapels, black shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a red scarf knotted like a challenge—he strides forward like a man entering a duel. But the camera lingers on his hands: one in his pocket, the other gesturing wildly. A man who hides his nervousness behind bravado makes the second Wrong Choice: he reveals his insecurity through motion, not speech. Then there’s Su Mian, seated to Lin Zeyu’s left, off-the-shoulder black blouse, shimmering skirt, pearl necklace catching the chandelier light. She says nothing for most of the sequence, yet she’s the most dangerous presence in the room. Her gaze is steady, her lips slightly parted—not in surprise, but in assessment. When Lin Zeyu finally takes the crystal lotus and lights its wick with a brass torch, she exhales, almost imperceptibly. Not relief. Recognition. She knows what that lotus symbolizes: not purity, but possession. In this world, objects are contracts. To accept the flame is to accept the terms. And when Chen Wei shouts, ‘You think you own this room?’ she doesn’t flinch. She glances at Lin Zeyu—not for approval, but for confirmation. That glance is the third Wrong Choice: she assumes alignment where there may only be convenience. Lin Zeyu’s loyalty is fluid, his alliances temporary. He lit the lotus not as tribute, but as a test—and Su Mian passed without realizing the stakes had shifted beneath her. The servers—three women in matching qipaos, stockings, heels—move like synchronized ghosts. Their bows are identical, their steps measured, their faces neutral. Yet watch closely: the middle one hesitates half a second longer when placing the tray before Lin Zeyu. Her fingers brush the edge of the wood, just once. A micro-expression: doubt. She knows something the others don’t. Or perhaps she’s simply tired of playing the prop. In a world where even silence is choreographed, her tiny stumble is revolutionary. It’s the fourth Wrong Choice—not hers, but theirs: they assumed obedience would be absolute. But fatigue breeds rebellion, and rebellion begins with a single misstep. Now consider the banner in the background: ‘Jin Qiu Special Auction Gala.’ Not just an event—a declaration. ‘Jin Qiu’ means ‘Golden Autumn,’ a season of harvest, of reckoning. This isn’t about art or antiques; it’s about legacy, inheritance, the transfer of symbolic capital. The golden throne isn’t furniture—it’s a claim. And Lin Zeyu, sitting there in his jacket and boots, is not a guest. He’s the heir apparent, whether the old guard likes it or not. Chen Wei’s red suit is a protest costume, loud and desperate, but color alone doesn’t confer legitimacy. Power here isn’t worn; it’s earned through endurance, through the ability to sit still while others burn themselves out shouting. When Lin Zeyu finally speaks—softly, almost lazily—he doesn’t address Chen Wei directly. He turns to Su Mian and says, ‘Do you remember what Father said about fire?’ Her eyes narrow. She does. And in that exchange, the entire hierarchy shifts. Chen Wei’s rage becomes irrelevant noise. The throne remains. The lotus burns. The servers retreat, trays empty, their mission accomplished—not because they served, but because they witnessed. That’s the core truth of this scene: in elite circles, presence is power, and observation is control. Lin Zeyu didn’t win by speaking louder; he won by letting others exhaust themselves proving he shouldn’t be there. His Wrong Choice was pretending not to care—when in fact, he cared deeply, precisely enough to let the drama unfold without intervention. Because sometimes, the most devastating move is to remain seated while the world rushes past you, certain you’ve already fallen. The final shot lingers on Lin Zeyu’s hand—still resting on the armrest, fingers now steepled, the pendant swaying slightly. Behind him, the dragons gleam under the spotlights, mouths open as if mid-roar. But no sound comes out. Just silence. And in that silence, the real auction begins: not for objects, but for allegiance. Who will place the next bid? Chen Wei, still standing, fists clenched? Su Mian, calculating her next move? Or someone unseen, watching from the balcony, waiting for the right moment to step into the light? The Wrong Choice isn’t made in anger—it’s made in certainty. And tonight, everyone in that hall is certain of something false. Except Lin Zeyu. He knows the only truth worth holding: power isn’t taken. It’s allowed. And he’s been allowed to sit here far longer than anyone expected.
Wrong Choice: When the Lotus Ignites and Loyalty Cracks
Let’s talk about the lotus. Not the flower, not the symbol—but the object. A crystal lotus, mounted on a gilded base, placed on a red velvet tray, carried by a woman whose heels click like a metronome counting down to disaster. That lotus isn’t decoration. It’s a detonator. And when Lin Zeyu picks it up—not with reverence, but with the casual grip of a man handling a lighter—he doesn’t just ignite the wick. He ignites the fault lines running through this entire gathering. The room is a cathedral of wealth: domed ceiling, recessed lighting like stars, red drapes heavy as secrets. Everyone is dressed to impress, but only Lin Zeyu dares to look bored. His jacket is unzipped, his boots scuffed at the toe, his watch expensive but worn-in. He’s not trying to fit in. He’s waiting for the moment the mask slips. Chen Wei, meanwhile, is all surface. His maroon suit is immaculate, his scarf tied with precision, his posture rigid with self-importance. He enters late—not because he’s late, but because he wants to be seen entering. His first words are directed at Lin Zeyu, but his eyes dart to Su Mian, then to the servers, then back. He’s not addressing a person; he’s performing for an audience. And that’s the first Wrong Choice: he mistakes spectacle for substance. When he points, when he raises his voice, when he spreads his arms wide like a preacher on a pulpit, he’s not challenging authority—he’s begging for attention. Lin Zeyu notices. Of course he does. He leans back, fingers steepled, and offers that smile again: not cruel, not kind—just aware. As if saying, ‘Go ahead. Exhaust yourself.’ Su Mian sits like a statue carved from obsidian—elegant, cold, impenetrable. Her earrings sway with the slightest tilt of her head, catching light like warning signals. She doesn’t speak until minute 1:23, and when she does, it’s two words: ‘You’re sure?’ Directed at Lin Zeyu. Not a question. A checkpoint. She’s not doubting him; she’s verifying the script. Because in this world, trust isn’t given—it’s negotiated in glances and pauses. And Lin Zeyu’s response? He doesn’t answer verbally. He taps his temple once, slowly, then looks away. That gesture is the second Wrong Choice: he assumes she’ll interpret it correctly. But interpretation is dangerous. What if she reads it as dismissal? What if she thinks he’s hiding something? The pendant around his neck—a carved stone, ancient, tied with red string—swings slightly with his movement. It’s not jewelry. It’s a relic. A family heirloom. And its presence here, on *him*, in *this* setting, is a provocation. The old guard sees it and stiffens. The new generation sees it and leans in. Su Mian sees it and recalculates. Now let’s talk about the servers. Three women. Identical qipaos, floral patterns like watercolor dreams, black stockings, patent heels. They move in sync, bow in unison, present trays with identical angles. But watch the third one—the one on the right. When she places her tray, her left hand hovers a fraction too long near the lotus base. Her thumb brushes the gold rim. A micro-tremor. Then she withdraws, face blank. That’s not accident. That’s intention. She knows what’s inside the lotus. Or she suspects. And in a room where information is currency, that hesitation is treason. The others don’t notice. Chen Wei is too busy posturing. Su Mian is too focused on Lin Zeyu. But Lin Zeyu? He sees it. His gaze flicks to her for 0.3 seconds—long enough to register, short enough to deny. He doesn’t react. He *can’t*. To acknowledge her would break the illusion of control. So he lets it hang in the air, unresolved, like smoke after a gunshot. The banner behind Chen Wei reads ‘Jin Qiu Special Auction Gala’—but the characters are slightly faded, the fabric wrinkled at the bottom. It’s been used before. This isn’t the first gala. It’s the latest iteration of a ritual. And rituals demand sacrifice. The lotus isn’t just lit for show; it’s part of a sequence. First, the offering. Second, the acceptance. Third, the consequence. Lin Zeyu accepts. He lights it. He watches the flame catch, blue at the base, gold at the tip. And in that moment, the room holds its breath. Even Chen Wei stops talking. Because fire changes everything. It reveals what shadows hide. And when the flame steadies, Lin Zeyu finally speaks—not to Chen Wei, not to Su Mian, but to the space between them: ‘Some things burn brighter when you stop trying to protect them.’ That line lands like a stone in still water. Chen Wei blinks. Su Mian’s fingers tighten on her clutch. The server who hesitated takes a half-step back. Because he’s not talking about the lotus. He’s talking about *her*. About *him*. About the fragile ecosystem of loyalty they’ve all been pretending to uphold. The Wrong Choice wasn’t lighting the lotus. It was believing the flame would behave. Fire doesn’t obey rules. It consumes. And Lin Zeyu? He’s not afraid of being burned. He’s already walked through worse. Later, when Chen Wei storms off—his maroon suit a flash of anger against the beige carpet—no one follows. Not Su Mian. Not the servers. Not even the men in the balcony seats, who’ve been silent observers all along. They watch him go, then turn back to Lin Zeyu, who hasn’t moved. He’s still seated, one leg crossed over the other, the lotus burning steadily beside him. The flame casts dancing shadows on the dragon carvings, making them seem alive, hungry. And in that light, Lin Zeyu’s expression shifts—not to triumph, but to something quieter: resignation. He knows what comes next. The bids will start. The alliances will fracture. Someone will try to take the throne. And he’ll let them try. Because the most dangerous Wrong Choice isn’t acting rashly—it’s assuming your opponent is playing the same game as you. Lin Zeyu isn’t fighting for the throne. He’s waiting for someone to prove they deserve to sit where he’s already settled. The lotus burns. The room watches. And somewhere, deep in the architecture of this hall, a door clicks shut—unseen, unheard, but final. That’s the real climax. Not the shouting. Not the flame. The silence after. When everyone realizes the game has changed, and no one told them the new rules.
When the Lighter Ignites the Plot
That crystal lotus igniting? A genius micro-moment. Wrong Choice turns a simple prop into an emotional detonator—shock, awe, silent judgment across faces. The man in stripes fumbles; the king on the throne barely blinks. Power isn’t shouted here. It’s lit, held, and *watched*. Perfection in 30 seconds. ✨🕯️
The Golden Throne and the Red Suit Drama
Wrong Choice masterfully uses visual contrast: the ornate throne versus the casual jacket, the red suit’s bold entrance disrupting calm. Every glance, every smirk—loaded with unspoken power plays. The server girls’ synchronized bow? Pure cinematic tension. This isn’t just a scene—it’s a chess match in silk and gold. 🏛️🔥