The Golden Chamber Hall wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The quiet there was cultivated—intentional. The kind of silence that made you listen harder, not relax.
At the center table, three names—each carrying weight beyond their years—sat waiting as Lin Feng entered.
Liu Ziyan was the first to speak. Tall, impeccably dressed, and sharper than the silver cufflinks on his sleeves, he gave the air of a man who saw everything as a transaction. Born into a financial empire, he was already managing a venture fund rumored to back real tech startups under his father's shadow. Arrogant, poised, and strategic to the bone.
"Simple game," he said, steepling his fingers. "One hundred thousand each. One week. Use it how you want—invest, build, influence. Winner gets more than bragging rights."
Beside him, dressed in white so crisp it looked untouched by air, sat Xu Qinglan—the granddaughter of a retired general and the heiress to a discreet but powerful medical research network. Her violet eyes gave nothing away. Soft-spoken, but unnerving. It was said she remembered everything—from who whispered what at charity balls to who blinked too long during negotiations.
"We're not just judging," she said calmly. "We're competitors."
Zhao Rouran, perched like a queen at court, offered a polite smile. Out of the three, she looked the most welcoming, but Lin Feng already knew better. Behind that graceful exterior was the daughter of an international diplomat and luxury consortium chairwoman. Her specialty wasn't raw power—it was people. Connections, networks, leverage through charm.
"You've made a splash," she said lightly. "Now the ripples are reaching places. You're either in the game—or in the way."
Lin Feng didn't flinch. His eyes swept the room once. The decor was expensive, but not gaudy. The air thick with unspoken rules.
"Alright," he said, his voice calm. "Let's play."
Day One.
While the others retreated into private group chats and consulting assistants, Lin Feng strolled through campus. Alone. No advisors, no entourage.
He stopped in front of the crumbling music building. The paint was chipped, and the windows hadn't been cleaned in ages. But through the glass, a lonely piano's notes drifted.
By noon, he was sitting in the dusty office of Professor Chen Ming, head of the barely-funded music department.
"I'm not here to donate," Lin Feng said.
The professor looked up, confused. "Then what are you here for?"
"I want to invest," he said. "Turn this place into something that runs. Real shows. Livestreams. Alumni events. We make it sustainable, not dependent."
It wasn't flashy.
It was smart.
By nightfall, a simple rehearsal performance—featuring Jiang Yue'er and Guo Yuwei—was live online. Soft crowdfunding links beneath it. No announcements. Just music, raw and honest.
By morning, the campaign had raised over thirty thousand yuan, sparked messages from alumni, and flooded the forums.
Meanwhile…
Liu Ziyan backed a slick micro-loan platform for students. Clean. Profitable. Soulless.
Zhao Rouran hosted a high-end networking mixer where internship offers were tossed around like business cards at a poker table.
Xu Qinglan, ever silent, donated anonymously to a mental health support initiative. No name attached—but everyone knew.
The forums exploded by Day Three.
"Lin Feng's project has heart. It's not just about returns."
"Ziyan's playing chess. Lin Feng's playing SimCity."
"If this was a PR war, Lin Feng's already got fans."
Back in the Golden Chamber, the air was tighter now.
Zhao Rouran watched Lin Feng with unreadable interest. "You changed the narrative."
Liu Ziyan's smile was tight. "Enjoy your lead while it lasts."
Xu Qinglan didn't speak, but Lin Feng caught the briefest flicker of amusement in her gaze.
He didn't gloat. He didn't thank them.
He just left.
Outside, the sky was the color of cooling steel. Lin Feng checked his phone—donations were still trickling in. The system chimed softly.
[System: Host, you didn't just make a move. You started a movement.]
He smiled to himself.