Money was a good thing. For its owner, it was like a god who could produce anything one could dream of with a wave of its hand; to others, it was like a mirror that would reflect back the myriad thoughts, feelings, and desires of the people of the world.
The more Meng Mingshu used his money, the more he relied on it. He used it to measure his friends, enemies, and lovers by and through it discovered their true colors.
As a complete and rigorous system, it rarely failed, until it had finally been broken by that young bastard.
Meng Mingshu gulped his wine down and casually threw the porcelain wine pot onto the ground. The shattering sound of the wine pot in the dark made him feel quite refreshed. In the short run at least, good wine was more effective at soothing than money.
