The afternoon sun was hazy over the Southside antique market. Jason walked calmly between rows of sun-faded stalls and dusty tents, eyes scanning everything but focused on nothing.
Old clocks, rusted tools, chipped vases. Fake relics, overpriced trinkets. But he wasn't here for any of that.
He kept walking until he reached a section where a large crowd had gathered in front of a long wooden table. Dozens of foldable chairs were arranged neatly before it. A makeshift platform with a microphone and folding podium sat at the far end. It wasn't some sleek art house—it looked more like a charity auction or a yard sale with ambition.
A woman approached him with a cheap plastic smile. "Sir, are you here for the bidding?"
Jason nodded once, and she handed him a paddle with a faded number 41 printed on it.
His security detail flanked him as he was led to an open seat near the front row.
One of the guards leaned in and whispered, "Young master… why are we here? This place doesn't look official."
Jason didn't even glance at him. "There's something I need."
The bidding began a few minutes later.
First came old coins from the Qing Dynasty—probably fake. Then a busted grandfather clock with "restoration potential." A jade turtle that the auctioneer swore belonged to a provincial warlord.
Jason didn't move. His expression was blank, gaze bored but observant.
Midway through the auction, a girl a few seats over had been ogling him non-stop. Legs crossed, phone in hand, fake giggles loud enough for Jason to hear even though he never looked her way. She wore a tight black dress and heels too high for gravel.
Jason ignored her.
Then came the item.
"Our next piece," the auctioneer announced, "is a landscape oil painting"
The frame was simple. The painting showed a foggy mountain range at sunrise, the color palette muted but balanced. The real giveaway wasn't on the front—it was the bottom-left signature half-hidden in the brushwork. Jason recognized it from the novel. A Daniel Lopez original—only confirmed when the protagonist had it appraised later.
The painting had gone unsold here, then passed through the hands of an old man near the docks, until it was picked up for pennies by the protagonist and resold for over a hundred million.
Jason wasn't letting it get that far this time.
"Starting bid: ten thousand," the auctioneer said with an uncertain smile.
Silence.
Jason raised his paddle. "10K."
A hush fell. The girl in black turned to her sugar daddy, a pot-bellied man with a Rolex that looked too new and teeth too white.
"Daddy, I want that painting," she said sweetly, tugging his sleeve.
The man cleared his throat and raised his hand. "Fifteen thousand."
Jason didn't even look their way. He raised his paddle again. "Twenty-five."
"Thirty," the man snapped.
Jason waited half a beat. "Fifty."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The man stood up, red-faced. "Listen, boy. I don't know who you are, struttin' in here in that suit, but if you want to leave with your bones intact, you'll let me buy this painting for my girl."
He turned dramatically. "Fifty-five."
Jason raised his paddle. "One hundred thousand."
Silence. Pure silence.
The man's eyes went wide. The girl blinked. Murmurs spread. People whispered that Jason was insane—or loaded.
The pot-belly man's voice cracked. "You'll regret that," he said before storming off with the girl in tow, heels clicking furiously on the gravel.
Jason paid on the spot and walked away with the painting under his arm, the certificate tucked into his coat pocket. He didn't look back.
But as he made his way down the rows of booths, the pot-belly man returned—with five guys behind him.
Jason's guards tensed. One of them moved slightly ahead of him.
Jason held up a hand. His eyes weren't on the sugar daddy or the muscle.
They were on a guy standing nervously at the back. Sweat beading his temple, shoulders twitching like he wanted to run. Jason recognized that face. He'd only seen it once—blurred by adrenaline and chaos—but it was burned in his memory.
The man was one of the kidnappers from the Son Liying case. The one who got away.
Jason stepped forward. "That one," he said, nodding toward the trembling thug. "Leave him conscious."
The pot-belly man grinned. "You think your guards can—"
He didn't finish.
The fight was quick. Brutal. Jason's three guards dismantled the gang with professional precision. Bones cracked, curses were shouted, but within minutes, only the thug at the back was upright—kneeling in the dirt, terrified.
The pot-belly man lay groaning beside a food cart, blood trickling from his nose.
Jason crouched in front of the thug. "Remember me?"
The man shook his head frantically.
Jason gave a small nod. "Beat him until he talks."
The guards didn't hesitate.
It took two punches before the man started shouting. "I thought I was set up! I thought I was gonna die!"
Jason narrowed his eyes. "Who gave the order?"
"The Son family… her stepmother," the thug gasped. "And someone else. Some guy with red eyes."
Jason's stomach dropped.
Red eyes.
Only a handful of people in the city had that Yun family trait. And only one of them would be reckless enough to work with someone like the Son family and arrange a kidnapping.
Alex Yun.
Jason's jaw clenched.
The thug continued, voice shaky. "I knew it was bad news when another red-eyed guy showed up during the chase. I thought I was set up. That's why I ran. I've been hiding out here ever since."
Jason looked at his guards. "Knock him out."
The thug slumped over with a thud.
Jason looked around and pointed at a random bystander. "Call the cops. Tell them you found the other kidnapper from the Son Liying case. I don't want to talk to Officer Chen."
The bystander blinked. "Y-yes, sir."
Jason turned on his heel and walked off.
The SUV hummed as it rolled down the cracked city streets, the painting now safely stored in the trunk. Jason leaned his head against the tinted window, not watching the buildings pass but thinking.
The kidnapping.
Son Liying had snuck out that day—unplanned, unannounced. No public itinerary, no photos, no driver. Just a girl slipping through the cracks in her own house like smoke.
And yet the kidnappers had known exactly where to wait.
And exactly what she was wearing.
Jason closed his eyes briefly.
That only made sense if someone on the inside had described her outfit. Her route. Her escape habits. Someone who'd been close enough to see her leave but cold enough to sell her out.
Her stepmother.
It all made sense now.
The Son family hadn't produced a male heir in decades. Just daughters and obligations. Liying's father—once the official head—had died suddenly, and the reins passed back up to her grandfather, the old man too stubborn to fully let go.
But tradition had limits. When he passed, the power would go to the next true-blood heir.
Son Liying.
And whoever she married.
Which meant her husband—by law and name—would hold equal power over the family estate. The money. The land. The networks built over four generations.
A goldmine, if not a throne.
If Liying disappeared… even temporarily… the stepmother's own daughter—born from a previous marriage and not technically a Son—could be positioned as the next "most stable" option. Especially if the old man got desperate.
Jason frowned. But it didn't work out in the original novel.
As the son family's head never acknowledged the stepmother and her daughter.
"Brax," Jason said quietly.
The handsome guard blinked and turned around in the front passenger seat.
"I know you've been leaking information to Alex," Jason said calmly.
The other guards stiffened. Even the driver's hands twitched on the wheel.
Brax's face paled. He struggled to meet Jason's eyes. "Young master, I—"
"I know it's not malice," Jason interrupted. "I know he has your sister."
Silence.
Brax swallowed hard, eyes wet. "I… I'm sorry."
Jason shook his head. "Don't be. You're a security guard, but you're also an older brother. I get it."
Brax looked down, ashamed.
Jason pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to Alice. Notify the Son family I'll be arriving shortly.
Then he glanced back at Brax. "I'll get your sister out of that hospital. She'll get real care. Better care. But you're not walking away without punishment."
Brax nodded. "I'll accept whatever you decide."
Jason smirked. "You're shaving the top of your head. Just the top. Leave the sides. You're banned from covering it."
The other guards burst out laughing.
"Damn, the old man fade!" one of them hollered. "You'll look like a divorced math teacher!"
Brax buried his face in his hands as they all continued laughing, even the driver chuckling now.
Jason leaned back, finally cracking a grin.
They arrived at the Son family estate fifteen minutes later, in much better spirits than when they'd left.
At the gate, a quick search was conducted. The guards were surprisingly polite—standard protocol, nothing invasive.
Jason and his team were let inside, their weapons cleared to remain holstered.
As they entered the estate grounds, Jason's smile faded. Whatever came next with the Son family, it wouldn't be as funny.
But that was for later.
For now, he'd bought a hundred-million-dollar painting, uncovered another enemy, and reaffirmed who was loyal by choice, not by force.
Not a bad day.