Chapter 87: Playing at Mystery

There was a spacious parking lot in front of the Automobile Association building's main entrance, and Mo Shanhe parked his car there to wait. Bored, he got out, hands clasped behind his back, and circled his beloved car, displaying the kind of old-fashioned behavior his wife and son always scoffed at.

He touched here and patted there, basking in the joy only a father could feel for a car gifted by his son. He listened to the engine’s deep, steady purr, inspected the spotless and gleaming paintwork, and checked each of the four corners for any sign of a scratch—there was none. Satisfied, Mo Shanhe nodded approvingly, pleased that his care for the car had not been in vain.

Feeling proud, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and leaned against the headlight, relaxing as he smoked. Unfortunately, he was only halfway through his cigarette when he saw Mo Shu and Zhang Aimin, one old and one young, walking out of the building, both looking dispirited and disgruntled.

Mo Shanhe sighed inwardly; it seemed nothing had changed—the style of the Automobile Association was much the same as in his day.

“How did it go? Not well?” Mo Shanhe asked, frowning as he walked over.

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Zhang Aimin replied first, his face full of dejection.

Mo Shanhe glanced at his son, who said nothing, his expression dark and brooding.

He knew his son well—since childhood, Mo Shu had always been loyal and caring toward his friends, a rare and commendable quality. If someone looked down on Mo Shu himself, he usually didn’t mind, but if anyone belittled his friends, especially a close companion like Zhang Aimin, Mo Shu would inevitably feel stifled, his temper rising.

Seeing his son so upset, Mo Shanhe felt a pang of sympathy. Who was really in charge at the Automobile Association now, to treat his son with such disdain? He was tempted to go in and find out for himself.

“Let’s go home,” Mo Shu said, suppressing his anger.

Mo Shanhe blinked, not pressing for details. Instead, he opened the car door for Zhang Aimin.

“No need, old friend, I have a driver coming for me,” Zhang Aimin declined politely.

“It’s no trouble, I’ll give you a lift. Your driver surely didn’t expect you to finish this quickly,” Mo Shanhe insisted. He’d overheard Zhang Aimin telling his driver to head home earlier, saying this meeting might take half the day.

Zhang Aimin realized this was true and climbed into the back seat without further protest.

On the way, the three spoke little. Mo Shu gazed silently out the window, while Zhang Aimin sighed from time to time, clearly disappointed.

After a long silence, Mo Shu suddenly let out a sigh. He realized this wasn’t the route to Zhang Aimin’s home.

“I’m taking you to meet someone,” Mo Shanhe finally revealed, having apparently planned this all along.

“Who?” Mo Shu was resistant. After being infuriated by that hypocrite Zhu Tao earlier, he had no interest in meeting strangers.

“You’ll see when we get there,” Mo Shanhe replied with a faint smile, glancing at his sulking son, thinking that the young still lacked patience.

Sitting in the back, Zhang Aimin caught their exchange, and a glimmer of anticipation appeared on his face. It seemed the legendary “Old Ghost” of the car world was about to show his true colors for his son’s sake.

After a while, Mo Shu’s patience wore thin. They’d already driven far out of Nanshan City, surrounded now by nothing but fields. Where on earth was his father taking them?

“Don’t be impatient, it wouldn’t be any fun if I told you in advance,” Mo Shanhe said, still giving nothing away.

Mo Shu rolled his eyes. He hadn’t expected his father to play mysterious with him—refusing to say whom they were meeting or where they were going. What kind of plot was this?

They drove on for nearly another half an hour. Lunchtime was approaching, and Mo Shu’s stomach was rumbling. Worse, he urgently needed a restroom, but there was nothing but open countryside.

This conflicting urge made him lose all patience. He complained, “Dad, where exactly are you taking us? Please, just tell me—or at least stop so I can relieve myself by the roadside. I really can’t hold it…”

Mo Shanhe just chuckled and said, “We’re almost there.”

At this, Mo Shu looked around anxiously. There was still nothing but endless fields. Who were they going to meet out here—farmers?

“Dad!” Mo Shu couldn’t stand his father’s teasing any longer. If Zhang Aimin hadn’t been in the car, he would have shouted his frustration even louder.

“Shh… Listen!” Mo Shanhe gestured for his son to be quiet and listen carefully.

“Listen to what? All I hear are frogs!” Mo Shu was nearly desperate.

Yet, there was something else—a faint engine roar in the distance. Though barely audible, Mo Shu’s familiarity with cars told him this sound was anything but ordinary.

Seeing his son forget his discomfort, enraptured by the sound, Mo Shanhe chuckled, steered off the main road, and turned onto a winding, secluded country lane.

Not just the roar—there was music, too. As they continued, the sound grew clearer.

But it was classical music. Mo Shu frowned. That didn’t fit the racing world at all—usually, they listened to energetic pop or rock, at the very least some electronic dance music.

He had no idea, of course, that classical music had its own place.

When Mo Shanhe reached the end of the narrow lane and turned right, the scenery changed in an instant.

What was this place? Mo Shu laughed in disbelief.

Car hell? A scrapyard?

On both sides of the road, old, scrapped cars were piled high—some classic models, but all at least a decade or two old.

As they drove further, the cars along the road gradually changed. Newer models began to appear, and some were no longer battered wrecks.

Both Mo Shu and Zhang Aimin were dazzled, already imagining what kind of person could own so many discarded cars.

“Whoa! Was that a 2015 Crimson God of War?” Mo Shu finally spotted a high-performance sports car of recent vintage.

“Huh? That’s a 2016 British-imported full-size William SUV, just the new model?”

“And look, a presidential coupe fresh off the line this year—a luxury car worth over two million, just left here?”

One after another, expensive production cars appeared before Mo Shu’s eyes. He regretted his previous scorn for his father and this place; clearly, someone extraordinary was behind it all.

And that wasn’t all. As they drove on, a small three-story villa came into view.

Even more astonishing, a collection of cars was neatly arrayed before the villa—brand-new, top-of-the-line luxury cars and supercars.

Mo Shu glanced over them and was startled again; each one was a performance monster, heavily modified. Even his RT500 would be considered only mid-range among them.

“Dad, what is this place?” Mo Shu asked in awe.