Chapter 331: Charity Funds Break One Billion—Still Going!

Lady Deng Lijun, wife of Governor MacLehose, had nearly dozed off—until the familiar melody's intro played, and she snapped awake instantly.

Not just her—just recently, every TV station and radio in Hong Kong had been playing a song that people jokingly called the "Red Carpet Anthem."

This song gained worldwide fame after its stunning performance at the British Prince's wedding, followed by highly professional release and marketing, instantly topping music charts across nations and dazzling the globe once again with Sarah Brightman's collaboration.

Li Ka-shing's sons, Li Zeju and Li Zekai, Hsu Shih-hsun's son Hsu Jinheng, and Lin Baixin's son Lin Jianyue were all studying in the U. .; their willingness to attend was partly because the organizer was this Chinese man who had broken into Western cultural circles—returning to campus afterward would be prime bragging material.

They were more familiar with Western pop culture than most; as soon as the intro began, they recognized it instantly—the anthem had arrived!

Michael Kadoorie, who had been bored throughout the entire show, finally perked up—he wanted to hear if it was truly as miraculous as the old man claimed.

Though the outdoor venue slightly compromised the sound quality, Sarah Brightman's talent spoke for itself—she was gifted beyond measure; at her young age, her vocal range spanned over three octaves, her voice clear, ethereal, and piercing.

Even the audience at the very edge of the stadium heard the line that struck straight to the heart: "Who can say, where the road goes, where the day flows, only time…"

Of course, those in the VIP seats heard it more clearly—after all, they were the ones whose money was being sought, so they deserved the best experience.

Even the elderly magnates with poor English nodded repeatedly—it was truly excellent, far more refined than those noisy rock-and-roll messes.

The song's gentle style allowed older audiences to feel the elegance within stillness, and the strength within elegance.

Even clearer than the VIPs were the performers backstage; some among them possessed singing talent comparable to Sarah's—but at her age, none could fuse talent and technique so perfectly. Truly gifted beyond measure.

Chow Hui-man, watching Sarah's composed, elegant performance, felt this was her ultimate goal—if she could achieve such poise at twenty, it would be perfect.

And it was her turn to perform next—her hands grew clammy with nerves.

"You're leading the next song, right? Nervous?" Melinda walked over to Chow Hui-man and handed her a tissue.

Chow Hui-man paused, licked her lips, then accepted it and murmured, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Melinda replied, her gaze fixed on the stage.

Chow Hui-man stole a glance at Melinda—she was actually quite nice.

Ah-min glanced again at Ah-ming waiting in the wings, and the melody of "Melinda" flashed through her mind—could first love really be irreplaceable?

As the song ended, Wei Ming and Ah-jie stepped forward—this segment, Wei Ming would perform himself.

With the show nearing its end, whether viewers at home or in the crowd, ordinary fans or the front-row billionaires, all were curious about Wei Ming, the organizer—he was here to satisfy that curiosity.

Though Wei Ming had met several tycoons upon arrival, only after hearing the entire concert did they truly take interest in him—and a hint of suspicion.

It had been barely a month since the Sichuan floods, yet he had written so many outstanding songs, mostly in Cantonese; aside from one song where he only wrote lyrics, he handled all other composition and lyric writing—this was no small feat.

So they couldn't help suspecting: was Wei Ming being ghostwritten by the entire mainland's finest musicians to create a publicity stunt? Otherwise, this was just too unnatural.

"First, thank you, Miss Sarah Brightman, for your brilliant performance," Wong Man-chuen spurred even louder, prolonged applause.

"Would you all like to hear another song?" Wei Ming aimed the mic at the audience—and received a thunderous chorus of: "Yes!"

If you want to hear it, the tycoons must open their wallets.

Wong Man-chuen: "Honestly, I'd rather hear you sing one, Ah-ming. I've sung, you've written all these songs—yet you've never sung one yourself."

This drew laughter from the general audience—and even the VIPs nodded slightly; it was a good idea.

Wei Ming: "Ah-jie, don't tease me—I'm tone-deaf. Let's see if the tycoons want to contribute more to charity."

In the VIP section, Cheng Yu-ling took the mic; the first to raise her hand was Li Zhaoji, whom she assumed would bid—but he said: "Mr. Wei, we're at the very end—could you loosen the rules? One bid, two songs: one from Brightman, one from you. What do you all think?"

His suggestion sparked immediate agreement from the crowd; Wong's earlier hint had stirred curiosity about Wei Ming singing—even other tycoons nodded in approval.

This was exactly what Wei Ming wanted: Sarah was foreign—he feared the older tycoons wouldn't take to her, while the young heirs couldn't drive bids high enough—so he added himself. Whoever the bonus was, it looked worth bidding on—and this was the final bid.

Ah-jie egged him on: "Sing one! Sing one!" Even Sarah, struggling with broken Chinese, joined in: "Sing one!"—drawing waves of laughter.

But as a planted supporter, Wong Man-chuen genuinely worried: was Wei Ming really that bad a singer?

Under overwhelming pressure, Wei Ming reluctantly agreed.

At this point, Li Ka-shing had already spent 11 million but still hadn't secured the top spot—he took the mic and spoke: "Mr. Wei is a rare creative genius. I hear all these new songs tonight were written by you, and in just a few days—is that true?"

Wei Ming seized the chance to "explain": "There are sixteen new songs tonight. About ten were written after I decided to hold this charity concert; a few others had existing lyrics or melodies, which I refined after arriving in Hong Kong. Throughout the entire creative process, the singers offered me tremendous help—nearly all of them revised their own lyrics or melodies to achieve the final result."

"I especially thank Mr. Lai Siu-tin, the music director of this concert, and Mr. Cheng Tung-han of PolyGram Records. Without these outstanding musicians, these beloved songs wouldn't exist—even if they did, they'd be imperfect."

Wei Ming's words were flawless—he also credited the singers for the creative work, which was true: some Cantonese phrases had been revised during rehearsals, since they knew the dialect better, and Lai Siu-tin contributed significantly to composition and arrangement.

Li Ka-shing nodded: "I love these new songs tonight—each one a classic. Except that one, 'I'm So Good'—will you sing a new song or an old one next?"

Run Run Shaw chimed in mischievously: "Does 'old song' mean one we've already heard?"

Li Ka-shing: "Of course."

Wong Man-chuen smiled and cut to the chase: "Ah-ming, they're asking you to write a song right now."

Wei Ming shrugged: "No problem—I've got plenty of unreleased songs they don't know about."

His candid remark drew laughter from the crowd; Tan Yonglin whispered to Chen Baixiang and others beside him.

"Ah-ming really has tons of songs—far more than ten. I've seen a notebook full of lyrics!"

Before coming to Hong Kong, Wei Ming had indeed written many—but initially only lyrics; once he confirmed who would perform, he selected suitable songs and composed melodies accordingly.

Li Ka-shing wanted to keep competing to secure the title of top donor tonight, but felt frustrated—he never expected Wei Ming had surprise guests! So he decided to make things harder for Wei Ming.

Millions in charity donations aren't easily earned—you don't have to crack stones with your chest or balance spears on your neck, but at least give us a seven-step poem.

Wei Ming: Seven-step poem? I'm an expert—I started with seven-step poems!

So Li Ka-shing said: "Can't just be any song—it must be themed. What do you all think?"

All the tycoons agreed unanimously—except Old Ho, who shook his head: too harsh on a kid.

Backstage, the singers held their breath for Wei Ming—live composition? Too hard! Though some musicians could write a song in minutes, that was pure, unrepeatable inspiration.

Ah-min was okay—she was nervous too, but had Melinda's tissue.

Every TV in Hong Kong zoomed in on Wei Ming's face—he calmly declared: "I'm fine."

The tycoons were satisfied, rubbing their hands—whichever one won would get to set the theme.

Wong Man-chuen also secured one song's time for Wei Ming: after the finale chorus, he would sing the last song of the night—no objections.

Two songs, ten minutes—if he wrote one, it would either be unbearable… or everyone would suspect the tycoons were his stooges.

Michael Kadoorie bid first: 5 million—and after announcing, he smiled and waved at Sarah.

Then Li Zhaoji doubled it: 10 million.

Li Ka-shing calculated: Damn—he's ahead of me!

He immediately bid: "11 million."

To everyone's shock, Po Yut-kong shouted: "15 million!"

Po Yut-kong had been unusually active tonight, yet never led the bidding—this was the final chance, and he was going all out.

Then Li Ka-shing gritted his teeth: "16 million!"

But it didn't scare anyone off.

These tycoons loved charity, yes—but mostly for their hometowns: Po Yut-kong for Ningbo, Li Zhaoji and Cheng Yu-ting for Shunde, Li Ka-shing for Chaoshan. Now donating tens of millions, they all wanted their hometowns to remember them fondly, to leave a good legacy.

Donating such a massive sum to a distant, unfamiliar place like Sichuan? Unheard of.

That's normal—Wei Ming started by donating to his own village, then expanded to the county.

But since K. . Kwan's 5 million won the first round, things had spiraled unpredictably—add to that the addictive new songs, and momentum was impossible to stop.

Songs are like this: even the best grow dull with repetition, losing their thrill—but the first listen always brings the most intense emotion and reaction.

And now, total donations were nearing 100 million—what did that mean?

At least since the founding of the PRC, this was the highest fundraising record ever for a charity concert.

This wasn't just history-making—it would surely reach Beijing's ears. What if, just maybe, Britain couldn't hold onto Hong Kong? Big picture. Small picture: they could still challenge a genius to write a song in seven steps. So in this final round, everyone was even more fired up.

In another VIP section, entertainment stars gaped—what a gap! Even their idols, Boss Run and Boss Zou, stayed silent—there was no way they could compete.

The young heirs clenched their fists, dreaming of the day they inherited their fortunes and could do as they pleased.

When Po Yut-kong reached 20 million, Wei Ming, holding the hammer, sensed the tycoons were finally sobering up—even Li Ka-shing shook his head; if he bid again, the total would exceed 30 million.

30 million? His Chaoshan neighbors would curse him as heartless—Sichuan didn't even have a connection to him!

This was probably the limit—though still short of 100 million, it far exceeded Wei Ming's expectations.

At this moment, the eldest son of the Tung family, who had seemingly been offline for a while, returned—he brought a message from Tung Yat-kwan: full support for post-disaster reconstruction in Sichuan.

"21 million," he said.

Po Yut-kong glanced at the young Tung—he was challenging me, huh?

"22 million."

"23 million."

"24 million."

"25 million." The young Tung heir showed no fear—commanding presence.

Both families were in shipping: the Tungs started earlier, but Po Yut-kong entered shipping via finance—yet the newcomer surged ahead, using financial tools to secure loans and rapidly acquire ships, overtaking all to become the world's top shipowner.

Tung Yat-kwan had long resented this, telling foreign media: half my ships are mortgaged to banks, but all my ships bear my name—why is he number one?

So their rivalry was direct and fierce—the air now crackled with tension.

Po Yut-kong realized: this Tung kid was determined to disrespect him—this would go on forever.

20 million? He could afford it—but what if it went beyond?

Last year, Po Yut-kong donated 20 million U. . dollars to the mainland, all under his father Po Siu-lung's name: half went to Beijing to build a hotel named the Siu-lung Hotel, the other half to Shanghai Jiao Tong University to build the Po Siu-lung Library.

But those donations came with naming rights—this time, 20 million-plus, he couldn't rename Sichuan to "Gang-chuan."

He paused. Wei Ming thought it was enough—further bidding might spark anger. Just as he prepared to strike the hammer, Po Yut-kong waved his hand: "30 million!"

On TV screens and in the crowd, everyone felt a new thrill—previously, such huge sums were only seen in land auctions; now, even charity bidding was this extravagant—rare, truly rare!

Po Yut-kong glared at the Tung heir—the Tung heir acted as if he saw nothing, holding his bid card slightly raised.

Other tycoons nearly swore aloud—were these two ship magnates about to go to war?! Would this affect tomorrow's Hong Kong stock prices?!

Wei Ming didn't want to bear the blame for a total rupture between the two tycoons—but he was powerless. Fortunately, Governor MacLehose stood up—and the Tung heir lowered his card.

MacLehose was 64 this year; only Run Run Shaw was older among the VIPs—his achievements and age were enough to command authority over these tycoons.

He smiled and said, "I just heard an unparalleled concert—Miss Blyman's singing reached straight into the soul. We're all here for charity; there's no need to get angry. I have a suggestion—would the two of you care to hear it?"

Both turned to look at him. MacLehose continued, "Let's cap it at thirty million, but split evenly between you two—each of you picks one song."

The backstage staff of the branch office sighed inwardly, cursing Old Mac for meddling. What a perfect chance! They might have shouted up to a hundred million—enough to feed and house countless people!

Wei Ming exhaled in relief and immediately agreed, "I find the Baron's suggestion reasonable. I hope both esteemed patrons will prioritize harmony."

With both the Viceroy and the initiator speaking thus, and each paying fifteen million—both were tonight's foremost benefactors—the two shook hands and jointly pledged thirty million.

But their rivalry would continue. By '97, the second son-in-law of the Boat King and the eldest son of the Tung family would once again engage in a monumental contest—this time, the Tung family would emerge victorious.

At this moment, people realized the total donations of tonight's billionaires had already reached a staggering one hundred and two million nine hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars!

A colossal sum—a super colossal sum!

Several invited lesser billionaires present had combined net worths that didn't even reach this figure.

Add in ticket sales and record revenues, and total charitable donations exceeding one hundred and ten million was certain.

Next, the Boat King and the Tung family's eldest son conferred briefly on who would choose first.

Wei Ming assumed he'd be fought over, since he could set the theme—but the Boat King directly chose Sarah Blyman, and the Tung family chose Wei Ming.

Now came the essay prompt. The Tung family's eldest son looked at Wei Ming and said, "This is Hong Kong. These donations are the people's heartfelt wishes. Let the theme be Hong Kong."

Impressive vision—no wonder you rose to the top. Wei Ming feigned deep thought. Hong Kong… Hong Kong.

"Alright, I'll go write it now. Sister, please buy me some time." Wei Ming bowed to Wang Mingquan. The crowd erupted in laughter—some eagerly anticipating, others hoping he'd fail spectacularly. If he wrote something terrible, it'd be hilarious.

Wang Mingquan gave a thumbs-up, then deliberately dragged out her words to the Boat King: "Please, Mr. Bao… select a song for Miss Blyman to perform. But remember—she doesn't speak Chinese, so don't ask the impossible."

The Boat King scratched his head. "I don't know any English songs. You're asking the impossible too."

His youngest daughter immediately shot him a look: You don't know, but I do.

But the Boat King acted as if he saw nothing, turning instead to MacLehose: "Why not let the Viceroy pick for me?"

The young Tung stared at Old Bao in shock—he realized his blunder. How had he not thought of this!

This was still British Hong Kong. Oh dear, he was still too young. He should've had the Governor set the theme.

The Boat King and Governor MacLehose had a good relationship—and a long-standing connection.

Back then, foreigners weren't familiar with Pak Yu-kong; they only knew Hong Kong's Boat King, Tung Haoyun. Ten years ago, Pak Yu-kong chatted with a British man on a plane. The British man asked what he did for a living.

Pak Yu-kong replied, "I have some ships."

The British man asked, "How many?"

Pak Yu-kong: "Can't remember."

The British man asked, "More than Onassis?"

That was the famed Greek ship magnate, who'd married JFK's widow.

Pak Yu-kong answered, "As many as Nygård and Onassis combined."

The British man's eyes widened. "The real ship king is in Hong Kong—not Greece!"

That British man was MacLehose. He later told Western friends about Pak Yu-kong, and the Boat King's name became famous in the West.

Whether this tale was embellished or not, their relationship was indeed strong. And Pak Yu-kong understood that merchants shouldn't put all their eggs in one basket.

He cultivated ties with the mainland but never neglected pleasing the British. Later, his four daughters married an Austrian, a Hong Konger, a Japanese, and a Singaporean—perhaps because of this very philosophy.

MacLehose initially declined, but seeing the Boat King's insistence, he agreed. After consulting his wife, he chose "Memory," as both he and his wife had seen the wildly popular London musical and were deeply moved by the song.

Before Sarah Blyman sang, Wang Mingquan continued to stall, announcing a hidden perk: "To all the gentlemen and ladies who just successfully bid—next, we'll record your three selected songs—the two you bid on and the final chorus—onto vinyl records and deliver them to your homes at a later date."

Liu Luanxiong mentally swore. My bid was "The Rascal"—unlucky! Fortunately, he'd also had Chen You sing "The God of Wealth" by Xu Guanwen.

Shaw Yat-fu reminded her, "I bid three times—please press three separate records."

Wang Mingquan: "Got it, Sixth Uncle."

Shaw Yat-fu smirked: Though he wasn't the top benefactor, he'd donated thrice—TVB would highlight that fact.

After a long wait, Sarah Blyman finally sang again. Though not her solo in "Cats," she'd secretly practiced it—and later indeed released her own cover.

"Memory" was a classic among classics. As a musical number, it had been obscure before—tonight, Hong Kong audiences tasted something fresh. The Governor and his wife felt as if they'd been transported back to London.

After Sarah finished, Wang Mingquan slowly announced a new rule—another tactic to buy Wei Ming time.

"We know many kindhearted people still wish to donate but missed their chance. No matter—before we conclude, Yuling will carry the donation box around again. Every donor will receive a video recording of tonight's event as a keepsake."

The big tycoons got their fame; now let the lesser tycoons show their goodwill too. After all, they didn't come for nothing, right?

Xia Meng exhaled in relief. She truly wanted to donate, but the competition was too fierce—her net worth didn't allow it. Now, she could act.

…

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(End of Chapter)