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

The car was lying there.

The car's lines cannot be simply described as "smooth"—starting from the front fender, a sharp cut is made, tearing a slit behind, with layers upon layers of aerodynamic components, the carbon fiber texture gleaming coldly under the booth spotlights. The front is extremely low, with air intakes on both sides revealing honeycomb grilles inside.

Li Yichen stopped.

The group of people behind him stopped in a row. The baseball cap-wearing man's phone, held halfway up, froze in mid-air. The middle-aged man in the gray polo shirt pushed his glasses up his nose and craned his neck forward two centimeters.

"This..." The canvas-bag's lips moved slightly, "...a Lamborghini?"

"Poison," someone chimed in. "A Lamborghini Veneno, a limited edition worldwide, and there's only one in China."

The baseball cap-wearing man pointed his phone camera at the car, then tilted it to capture Li Yichen's profile. He had just witnessed this guy spend 90 million in five minutes, and now he was parked in front of an even more expensive car—if he didn't capture this scene, he wouldn't have any material to brag about to his friends.

People in the crowd started whispering.

"Seriously? You want to buy more?"

"This one is ten million more expensive than the previous one."

"One hundred million."

"A small goal."

After those three words were spoken, the surroundings fell silent for a moment.

The man in the gray polo shirt shoved his phone back into his pocket, tilted his head, and glanced back and forth between Li Yichen and Duyao. Standing next to him was a young man in a denim jacket, his chin tucked in, who gritted his teeth and said, "Probably not buying it. Ninety million just went through the cracks; even if they had the money, they wouldn't spend it like that."

"I think so." The baseball cap didn't turn around; the camera was still pointed at Li Yichen.

The man in the denim jacket turned his head to the side. "Want to bet?"

"What are we betting on?"

"The loser treats everyone to a meal at a high-end nightclub, a 'one-stop shop' place, the kind that costs 998."

He put down his phone, turned his head, and stared at the denim jacket for two seconds.

"make a deal."

Li Yichen overheard the conversation behind him. "Heaven and Earth, 998." The two phrases together sounded quite interesting, and hearing them made him itch with desire.

He snapped out of his thoughts and stepped across the cordon.

The booth staff had already come to greet him. He was a man in his early thirties, wearing a black suit with a Lamborghini badge on his lapel. He took large strides, but stopped automatically when he reached Li Yichen.

"Sir, this is a Lamborghini Veneno, currently the only one available for sale in China—" He paused, glanced at Li Yichen, "—What information do you need?"

"Specific parameters." Li Yichen put his hands in his pockets.

"6.5-liter V12 naturally aspirated engine, 750 horsepower, 0-100 km/h acceleration in 2.8 seconds, top speed 355 km/h." The staff member recited the numbers without any intonation, just like reading out the factory serial number. "Full carbon fiber monocoque structure, weighing 1,450 kilograms."

Li Yichen nodded.

Poison. He'd seen the name online before and thought it would never have anything to do with him in his life.

Unexpectedly, this car is now parked right in front of him.

"How much?"

The staff member rubbed their fingers on the side of the tablet.

"One hundred million."

One word, slammed to the ground.

Outside the fence, the man in the denim jacket's Adam's apple bobbed. He turned his head and whispered to the man in the baseball cap, "One hundred million, you hear me? One hundred million. He definitely won't buy it."

The baseball cap remained silent. He stared at Li Yichen's back, waiting for that move.

Li Yichen pulled his hand out of his pocket. The black card reappeared between the index and middle fingers of his right hand.

"Swipe your card."

The staff member stared at the card, not moving. His professional training faltered at that moment—the standard procedure had a whole set of scripts, from "Let me calculate your mortgage plan" to "Would you like to schedule a test drive first?", but none of them applied to the current situation.

"Sir, this display vehicle—" he paused, then changed his words, "I need to ask the boss."

"OK."

The staff member turned around, his pace more than twice as fast as when he arrived. He crossed the passageway on the side of the booth and disappeared behind the partition door at the back.

There was an uproar outside the fence.

The denim jacket's mouth was agape, unable to close. He turned to look at the baseball cap, which was already smiling—not a smug smile, but a "I knew it" smile, its corners twitching to the right, and its phone camera steadily pointed at Li Yichen.

You lost.

He put his hands in his denim jacket pockets, then pulled them out, then put them back in. 998. He mentally went over the number. It wasn't expensive, but the feeling of losing hurt him more than the money itself—not because he was heartbroken, but because he'd been humiliated.

The middle-aged man in the gray polo shirt took off his glasses, wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt, and put them back on. He had worked in sales and knew how much confidence it took to say "swipe card." It wasn't about the money—it was about that attitude of not treating money like money, an attitude that couldn't be faked.

Two minutes later, the booth owner came out from backstage.

He was in his early forties, with a buzz cut, and wearing a dark gray linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He walked up to Li Yichen and extended his hand.

"Feng Zhiguo just called me." He shook my hand, his grip firm but not too tight. "He said a young man spent 90 million in five minutes at his place, and told me to keep an eye on him—I didn't expect you to come directly to me."

Li Yichen grasped it. "Li Yichen."

"Wang Jianjun, the general agent for Lamborghini in Shanghai." Wang Jianjun withdrew his hand and tilted his head towards the Venom. "There's only one of these cars in China. We had a few potential customers before, but they were all stuck on the price. Are you sure you want it?"

"Swipe your card."

Wang Jianjun stared at him for two seconds. Then he smiled. Not a professional smile, but the kind of smile that said, "I've met someone who understands," with deep lines appearing at the corners of his eyes.

"OK."

The POS machine was handed over. The black card was swiped, and the screen lit up briefly. One hundred million. Full payment. One transaction. As the sales slip was dispensed, the printer made a soft click, exceptionally clear in the quiet exhibition hall.

Li Yichen took the card back and signed the receipt. He wrote the address on a sticky note and pushed it to Wang Jianjun.

"Deliver it to this address along with the previous one."

Wang Jianjun took the note, glanced at the address—Tomson Riviera. He folded the note and put it in his shirt pocket.

"Delivered today."

Li Yichen nodded and turned around.

The crowd outside the fence parted automatically to both sides. It parted faster and more neatly than before. The baseball cap-wearing man put his phone down, the denim jacket-wearing man pulled his hand out of his pocket, the grey polo shirt-wearing man took a half-step back, and the boy with the canvas bag stepped aside to make room.

No one speaks.

Li Yichen stepped out of the cordon and stopped in front of the baseball cap and denim jacket.

The baseball cap user reacted first. He shoved his phone into his pocket, opened his mouth as if to say something—but after a mental search, he couldn't find a suitable opening line.

The man in the denim jacket spoke first. He scratched the back of his head and smiled.

"Brother, you win. It's my treat to Heaven on Earth."

The person in the baseball cap turned to look at him. "Admitting defeat?"

"Accept the consequences of your bet."

Li Yichen looked at the two men. One was wearing a baseball cap, and the other a denim jacket. They were about his age, in their early twenties, with the air of someone who had just graduated. However, they seemed to be local Shanghai rich kids.

"Would you mind adding me?"

Both the baseball cap and the denim jacket froze.

A pause of a fraction of a second.

Then the baseball cap grabbed Li Yichen's hand, gripping it even harder than Wang Jianjun had done earlier.

"Boss, you don't mind! Of course you don't mind!"

The man in the denim jacket took a step forward, standing on the other side of Li Yichen. He patted Li Yichen's shoulder, and as he withdrew his hand, his fingertips trembled slightly—not from nervousness, but from excitement. The probability of a big shot of this caliber taking the initiative to speak to someone was lower than winning the lottery.

"However—" Li Yichen raised his hand in a gesture, "Could we go later? I have something to do."

"No problem!" The baseball cap nodded twice as fast. "We'll follow you!"

The person in the denim jacket added, "Anyway, it's the weekend, no rush."

The three walked forward side by side. The baseball cap was on the left, the denim jacket on the right, and Li Yichen in the middle. They passed through the circular light tubes of the Porsche booth, through the crowd around the Ferrari turntable, and through the entrance to Hall 2.

The middle-aged man in the gray polo shirt stood there, watching the three figures disappear at the end of the corridor. He took off his glasses, put them back on, and turned to look at the person next to him.

"Just who is this young man?"

The person next to him didn't respond.

On the display stand, the Venom was still there. Its carbon fiber body gleamed coldly under the spotlights, the air intakes on either side of the front fascia open, revealing a honeycomb grille. The crowd outside the barrier hadn't dispersed; some were taking pictures of the car with their phones, others of the now-empty safety barrier.

Wang Jianjun stood by the booth, tore off the receipt from the POS machine, folded it in half, and put it in his wallet. He took out his phone and sent a message to Feng Zhiguo.

"Did you sell yours too?"

Three seconds later, Feng Zhiguo replied.

"Sold."

Wang Jianjun locked his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. He'd been in this business for twelve years, working his way up from BMW to Lamborghini. The fastest sale he'd ever seen was in forty minutes—a real estate tycoon buying a Huracan, from viewing the car to swiping his card, all in forty minutes. Today, that record had been broken. Just over ten minutes in total. Two cars. 190 million. He cursed under his breath, the exact same curse Feng Zhiguo had just uttered.