Chapter 85: Appreciation—A Man Worth Seventy Points!

Chapter Eighty-five: Appreciation: The Seventy-point Man!

In today’s metropolis, where every inch of land is precious, to possess an office of several hundred square meters is a true luxury. The classical marble desk, elegant yet not old-fashioned, is almost free of paperwork. There isn’t even a computer for emails—only a ceramic pen holder painted with flowers and birds, and a stack of sticky notes.

It’s clear that the owner of this room cannot be called diligent.

Outside, sunlight floods the world, as radiant as the bare face of a beautiful woman.

Wenren Muyue sits in a chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, cradling an international fashion magazine. Her long lashes flutter; under the sun’s glow, her entire being seems to shine brilliantly.

Some women are born to be envied, as if all the world’s beauty is intimately tied to them.

An unrivaled face, wealth that rivals nations, paired with intelligence she shouldn’t have possessed, and a legion of outstanding suitors trailing behind her like a river of fish—

Sometimes, even she wonders: What is the purpose of her existence?

Should she dominate the commercial world and double her current fortune? Indulge and let herself fall, living the decadent life of a socialite? Or perhaps, become a good wife and mother, fulfilling her role as a spouse?

Such is human nature. When there are no choices, one is always surprised by the “light at the end of the tunnel.” But when enough choices are laid before you, you may lose your way.

No one can truly fathom Wenren Muyue’s thoughts—not even Qin Zongheng, hailed as “the foremost young master of the capital.”

Knock, knock!

A gentle knock sounds outside, rhythmic and measured—not so soft as to be missed, nor so loud as to be jarring.

Wenren Muyue refuses to install bells or video intercoms in her office, unable to bear the disturbance and awkwardness brought by those high-tech gadgets.

At her core, she prefers tradition: calligraphy, brush painting, jade, antiques.

She has little interest in luxury cars or diamond rings; they’re merely for transport or decoration, hardly worth liking.

Thus, she’s never owned a sports car, while her brother Wenren Zhao has collected every model of Ferrari. He even tried to buy the world’s one-of-a-kind golden sports car from an Arab merchant—only to be refused.

The wealthy often indulge in eccentric pleasures, which is understandable, so long as they don’t harm the nation or its people.

“Come in,” Wenren Muyue closes her book and stands, stretching lazily. Her slim, supple waist curves alluringly before returning to its original shape.

Even this seemingly trivial gesture contains the breathing techniques passed down from Taoist families.

Children of wealthy households have their own unique secrets to health.

Her assistant, Ma Yue, enters, always in black or silver uniforms, a white stand-collar shirt, black-rimmed glasses, which conceal part of her refined beauty. Serving under a woman demands caution.

Ma Yue never allows anyone—or herself—to overshadow her lady’s radiance, not even a little.

“Miss, Young Master Liu of Dadi Group is waiting in the tea room. He says he has something important to discuss with you.” Ma Yue stops three steps away, the ideal distance between master and servant.

Too close robs the master of security and authority.

Too far makes speaking a strain.

Can you imagine? To better please the high and mighty, countless people rack their brains to distill and disseminate such etiquette.

“Tell him I have important matters to attend to and no time,” Wenren Muyue says, carelessly.

“Yes, Miss.” Ma Yue obeys without objection. “The acquisition of the Boeing small passenger jet is nearly finalized. Mr. Hammer from Boeing wishes to meet you.”

“Let Luke handle it directly.”

Ma Yue nods, then hands over a stack of documents. “Mr. Qin Luo has made new moves.”

In the past, Ma Yue always read through large amounts of information and distilled it into brief summaries. This time, she refrains, knowing her lady will make her own judgment after reading.

It seems her lady regards that man differently.

Wenren Muyue takes the folder, opens the hard cover, and finds it filled with clipped newspaper articles.

“Heir of the Taiyi Divine Needle enters the world, outshines the King of Needles Wang Xiushen.”

“Taiyi Divine Needle: Miracle or Snake-oil?”

“Qin Luo, inheritor of Taiyi Divine Needle, strives to restore traditional Chinese medicine.”

“Studies traditional medicine, wears long robes, marries a Chinese bride—the Divine Needle inheritor supports Chinese culture.”

Page after page, all news reports about Qin Luo, from newspapers and magazines, even some unscrupulous tabloids, courtesy of the Wenren family’s global intelligence network.

Some articles lavish praise, hailing Qin Luo as the new leader of traditional medicine, a preserver and revitalizer of national culture, savior of ancient medicine.

Others are critical, dismissing him as another media hype, predicting he’ll soon publish books and appear on “Ten Thousand Families' Forum,” enriching packaging and publishing companies, and claiming the so-called Taiyi Divine Needle is pure nonsense.

Good or bad, all point to one fact: Qin Luo is now famous.

“Interesting,” Wenren Muyue closes the folder, smiling.

Ma Yue is stunned, not expecting such a comment.

So few people or events ever interest her lady.

“Ma Yue, what would happen if our Wenren family fully supported him in revitalizing traditional medicine?” Wenren Muyue leans back in her chair, lazy and relaxed, like a boneless cat.

“He would become a household name, the most renowned doctor in the country,” Ma Yue replies without hesitation.

She has full confidence in the Wenren family. If her lady truly backed that man, he would reach heights no predecessor could imagine.

“Is that so?” Wenren Muyue’s face shines with alluring brilliance.

But that radiance quickly fades. She looks at her trusted assistant, asking like a little girl, “If I do that, would he like it?”

In that moment, Ma Yue feels an urge to have Qin Luo killed.

Her high-born lady, saying something so endearing? That careful expression, even she—a woman—felt a pang in her heart.

“I don’t know,” Ma Yue says. Though she has no fondness for Qin Luo, she remains factual.

Loyalty is her first rule, as strict as a killer’s oath to client confidentiality.

“In that case, wouldn’t his life lose its joy? How could I turn him into someone like myself?” Wenren Muyue sighs. “Add five points to his file.”

Five points? Ma Yue’s eyes widen.

“Miss, by our rules, the maximum addition is three, except in cases where someone saves the family from crisis or rescues your life.”

That scoring chart was her own design, and she knows its value. Some are willing to pay a million for a single point, knowing she controls the chart.

Normally, those young masters trying to curry favor with her to approach the lady would spend far more than a million gold.

Wenren Muyue rests her hand on her forehead, looking at Ma Yue with eyes as beautiful as the stars, and laughs softly, “Ma Yue, you’re twenty-six this year, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss. Twenty-six years and nine months.”

“It’s time you fell in love.”

“——”

“Only then will you understand some things lie outside the rules,” Wenren Muyue says quietly.

Numbers are lifeless, but the heart is alive. Even the most precise computer can’t calculate the maximum value of love or hate.

“Yes, Miss. I understand. I’ll add five points to his file. Thus, he’ll have seventy points, and his file will move from the lower to the middle category,” Ma Yue says. In truth, she still doesn’t understand.

Her training and experience have turned her into a sophisticated, efficient machine.

But when it comes to love, nobody taught her what that really is.

Wenren Muyue waves her hand, and Ma Yue silently withdraws.

Opening the folder again, Wenren Muyue gazes at Qin Luo’s smiling face, eyebrows raised, lips pressed, lost in thought.

Knock, knock, knock!

The knocking returns, this time faster and harder, making Wenren Muyue frown.

“Come in,” she calls, unwilling but compelled to let the visitor in, for only one person would dare knock like that.

The heavy wooden door swings open, revealing an exquisitely beautiful face.

Wenren Zhao walks in, grinning, and says with exaggerated affection, “Sister, I’ve missed you so much!”

He moves as if to give Wenren Muyue a bear hug.

“Sit down,” Wenren Muyue snaps coldly.

Wenren Zhao pays no mind, seating himself across from her, still smiling. “Sis, you’re getting prettier every day.”

“Out with it. What do you want?” Wenren Muyue flips through the magazine on her desk, uninterested.

“Hehe, no wonder they say you’re the smartest woman in China. Seeing is believing—your reputation is well deserved,” Wenren Zhao flatters her.

“I won’t claim to know all the men in the world, but with you—your intellect is so modest, I hardly need to guess what you’re thinking,” Wenren Muyue says icily.

“Yes, yes, you’re the brightest,” Wenren Zhao beams. If you hadn’t seen it yourself, you wouldn’t believe a boy could be so beautiful. “Then guess why I’m here this time?”

Long lashes, round and curved eyes, fair skin, features as delicate as a woman’s, slightly long hair pulled into a ponytail with a red ribbon, and a shiny silver baseball cap—if told he was a girl, few would doubt it.

Genetically, these siblings are remarkably similar—exceptionally so, to the point of madness.