Super Rich: Starting the game by going back ten years to buy Bitcoin

LaVoitureNoire.

Li Yichen stared at the metal nameplate for a few seconds.

He recognized the car. It was a limited edition Bugatti, with only a handful in the world. He had no idea how much it cost. But the Bugatti brand alone guaranteed a price in the eight figures.

He took a step forward.

The moment my right foot touched the base of the velvet railing, the car model next to me moved. She was a girl in her early twenties, wearing a black short skirt, her hair piled up, and standing ramrod straight. She leaned forward slightly, not stopping me, but keeping her voice within a polite boundary.

"Sir, this display vehicle cannot be touched."

Li Yichen pulled his hand out of his pocket.

"I won't touch it." He tilted his head to the side. "Call your boss over."

The car model's gaze lingered on him for a moment. From top to bottom—Brioni's shirt collar, the Patek Philippe GMT-Master II on his left wrist, green bezel, black dial, Oyster case. She couldn't recognize the specific model, but the quality and weight of the watch, even under the booth's spotlights, were enough to tell her it was worth millions. Her professional instincts made the judgment in a fraction of a second—he wasn't there to get photos taken.

"Okay, sir. Please wait a moment."

She pulled her phone from behind her waist, quickly swiped her thumb across the screen twice, and sent a message.

Outside the fence, the crowd began to stir.

A middle-aged man in a gray polo shirt held his phone high, the camera pointed inside the cordon. A young man in a baseball cap standing next to him nudged him with his elbow.

"What's this guy doing?"

"I don't know. Should I call the boss?"

"You're not going to buy it, are you?"

"Buy it? This car costs at least 50 million. You think buying a 50 million car is like buying cabbage?"

The man in the baseball cap didn't reply. He saw the car model put down her phone and nod at the young man.

A few more people squeezed in. A girl in a floral dress stood on tiptoe to look inside, her hand on her boyfriend's shoulder, her chin resting on his shoulder blade.

"That Bugatti—someone's asking the price?"

My boyfriend didn't turn around. "Sounds like it."

"You didn't hire a hired hand, did you?"

"Does a Bugatti need a sycophant?"

The murmurs in the crowd were like bubbles at the bottom of a pot, muffled and not bursting.

Li Yichen stood inside the fence, his hands back in his pockets. He glanced at the side of the LaVoitureNoire—a carbon fiber roof that stretched from the hood to the rear, matte, so that the lights didn't reflect off it, but rather seeped in. The windows were tinted, keeping the exhibition hall lights and crowds out.

Three minutes later, a man in his early forties emerged from the side of the booth. He wore a dark blue suit, a tightly tied tie, and an exhibitor badge pinned to his breast pocket. He walked with long but unhurried steps. He walked over to the car model.

"Who's looking for me?"

The car model gestured with her chin toward Li Yichen.

The man turned around, his gaze landing on Li Yichen. The same scan—from top to bottom—lingered on the watch on his wrist, pausing for a fraction of a second longer than with the car model. Then a smile appeared on his face. Not the standard smile for a camera, but a deeper one—a few lines appeared at the corners of his eyes.

He stretched out his hand.

"Hello. I am Feng Zhiguo, the general agent for Bugatti in Shanghai."

Li Yichen took his hand.

"Li Yichen".

Three words. No company name, no job title suffix.

Feng Zhiguo's hand paused for a moment, then released. Having worked in the high-end car industry for over a decade, he'd seen all sorts of clients. Those who introduced themselves with the shortest introductions often had the most impressive backgrounds. Those who needed to rattle off their company, position, and title were actually just trying to bolster their confidence.

"Mr. Li has his eye on this one?"

Feng Zhiguo stepped aside, making room for Li Yichen to see the car.

Li Yichen didn't look at the car. He was looking at Feng Zhiguo.

"How much does this car cost?"

A straight shot. Not a single word was deflected.

Feng Zhiguo raised his brow bone two millimeters. In over a decade of sales, he'd never encountered such a decisive person. But what needed to be said still had to be said.

"This is the Bugatti LaVoiture Noire, the Black Voice, a limited production worldwide, with a V16 engine, an 8.0-liter quad-turbocharged engine, 1,500 horsepower, and a 0-100 km/h acceleration time of 2.5 seconds—" He paused for a moment before finishing the numbers, "—the domestic price is 90 million."

Ninety million.

The number came out of Feng Zhiguo's mouth without any intonation, like announcing a factory serial number.

The crowd outside the fence remained silent for a full three seconds.

The phone, held by the baseball cap, nearly slipped from his hand; he had to fumble with the edge of the screen to steady it. The girl in the floral dress let her chin slide off her boyfriend's shoulder, her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't quite put her thoughts into words.

"How many?"

"Nine...ten million."

My boyfriend had to break down those two words and read them aloud before he could even get them into his head.

The middle-aged man in the gray polo shirt put down his phone, tilted his head, and glanced at Li Yichen's back a few more times.

In Li Yichen's mind, the number 90 million went through a mental whirlwind. It was roughly the same as what he had expected—for a brand like Bugatti, a limited edition, the price range was around that. It wasn't over budget, nor was it so low that he felt he had come to the wrong place.

He turned his gaze from Feng Zhiguo's face and swept it over the LaVoiture Noire. The front was flat, the grille opening was tightly closed, and the headlights on both sides were slender, casting two cold white bands of light in the dim light. The whole car sat there, like a piece of obsidian polished to perfection.

"Is this display car for sale?"

Feng Zhiguo's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Are the display cars for sale?"—He hears this question every year at the auto show. But only a handful of Bugatti cars have ever been exhibited in China; most people just take a picture and leave. This is the first time in three years that someone has actually sat down and asked, "Are they for sale?"

"Since it's on display, it must be for sale."

Li Yichen pulled his hand out of his pocket, a black bank card between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He held it forward two centimeters.

"Swipe your card."

Two words.

It's light. About the same as ordering a cup of coffee.

Feng Zhiguo stared at the bank card, not moving. The standard process in his mind—mortgage plan, installment interest rate, insurance package, test drive appointment—was all stuck in his throat, and he couldn't utter a single word.

A car worth 90 million.

No haggling. No asking about discounts. No requesting a test drive. Didn't even open the car door.

It boils down to two words—swipe your card.

The air around them seemed to be sucked away by those two words. The people closest to the fence clearly heard "swipe card." The young man in the baseball cap stared wide-eyed, unable to close his mouth. He had just bet with the person next to him whether this guy was a shill—now he was glad he hadn't placed too big a bet.

The middle-aged man in the gray polo shirt took out another phone and turned on the video recording function. He wanted to record this scene—not the car, but the action of swiping the card.

The car model stood by the booth, one hand resting on a railing post, her fingers scratching at the metal. Having worked as a car model for three years, this was the first time I'd seen someone swipe their card like they were buying kebabs.

Feng Zhiguo took the bank card. His hand, which he placed on the POS machine to swipe, was steady, but his fingertips were damp with a thin layer of sweat. He didn't even notice it.

The POS machine dispenses a receipt.

Ninety million. Full payment. One lump sum.

He handed the card and receipt back with both hands.

"Mr. Li, the procedures will take about an hour to complete—"

Li Yichen took the card back and put it back in his pocket. He waved his hand.

"Deliver it directly to my doorstep once it's done. Call me when it's ready," Li Yichen said, giving the other party an address.

Then he turned around.

He stepped out from behind the fence. The crowd parted automatically, creating a path. No one spoke, and no one blocked the way. The man in the baseball cap held up his phone, the camera following his retreating figure all the way out of the booth, around the corner, and disappearing into the edge of the Porsche booth's lights.

Feng Zhiguo stood rooted to the spot. The POS machine remained on the table, its screen lit, displaying the transaction figure of 90 million yuan, fixed on it like a thumbtack driven into wood. He had worked in the high-end car market for over a decade, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, Porsche, Ferrari—working his way up to Bugatti. Selling even one car worth 90 million yuan a year was considered a stroke of luck. He had originally hoped to attract a few potential customers for this LaVoiture Noire at the auto show, then patiently work on it for six months, perhaps until the end of the year; closing a deal would be a miracle.

five minutes.

From the moment the young man stood in front of the fence to the moment he swiped his card, paid, and turned to leave—

Feng Zhiguo glanced down at the watch on his wrist.

He cursed under his breath. It wasn't anger, but a defensive reaction that his body automatically produced after being utterly crushed—the little bit of profanity released by his brain made the feeling of being crushed less unbearable.

"Mr. Feng."

The car model turned her head to the side and lowered her voice.

"This car—did it really sell?"

Feng Zhiguo tore off the receipt from the POS machine, folded it in half, and tucked it into his suit's inner pocket.

"It's sold."

Three words. Even he felt they were burning his tongue.

Outside the fence, the crowd finally erupted in chaos.

The man in the gray polo shirt put down his phone and turned to take a picture of the person next to him—his colleague or friend, a middle-aged man dressed neatly, whose expression of "what just happened?" hadn't yet changed.

"A car worth ninety million—ninety million—did you see that young man, in his early twenties—"

"I saw it. I didn't even blink."

"A person in their early twenties buying a car worth 90 million—did the money just fall from the sky?"

A young man wearing glasses next to me took his phone away from his ear, ending a voice call with his wife. He was probably reporting his experiences at the auto show to his family, but the voice message was interrupted halfway through by the sound of someone swiping a card. Now he could only say one sentence to the person on the other end of the line.

"Wait a minute."

He then put his phone back in his pocket.

A boy wearing gray sneakers squeezed to the front and patted the boy in the baseball cap on the shoulder.

"Hey bro, do you know that guy from earlier?"

He turned around, cap on a baseball cap. It was a good buddy. He hadn't expected this guy to be there for the auto show too.

"I don't know him."

The baseball cap paused for a moment.

"But I just heard him introduce himself—just three words: Li Yichen."

"His surname is Li..."

The man in the canvas bag twitched his lips, racking his brains for every prominent Li family in Shanghai he could think of. The Fuxing Li family? The one within Baosteel? Or their branches in real estate? He couldn't recall.

It's normal that you can't find them. The truly wealthy are never easily found by outsiders.

His throat moved up and down.

"Maybe it's one of the young masters from those super families in Shanghai... out for a stroll."

He locked his phone screen with his baseball cap and stuffed it into his pocket. He had now lost all interest in the car—the ninety million dollar Bugatti LaVoiture Noire—his mind was filled only with the image of that figure turning the corner.

Half of an Oyster watch case peeks out from under the cuffs of a white shirt.

On the other side of the crowd, a middle-aged man with a buzz cut repeatedly turned his phone on and off. His young daughter, standing at his feet, tugged at his belt buckle, shouting that she wanted to see the Ferrari. The middle-aged man tightened his grip; he didn't walk towards the Ferrari. He stared at the Bugatti enclosed by a velvet fence, his mind racing.

Ninety million.

He was a businessman, had owned a company, and had tens of millions in annual revenue. Back then, he thought he was doing quite well. But now, seeing that young man casually swipe 90 million, he was utterly shocked.

He knows how hard it is to earn money these days.

Devastated, he picked up his daughter and carried her on his shoulders.

"Come on. Daddy will take you to see Ferrari."

The daughter gently kicked her father twice with her feet.

"Great, great, Ferrari, Ferrari—"

His steps faltered slightly before he turned the corner. The direction he veered was in the direction the figure had disappeared from sight.

At the end of the empty passageway, the circular light of the Porsche booth shone steadily overhead. No one was there.

Li Yichen had already reached the entrance of Hall 2.

He stopped in front of a booth.

There was another car in front of me.