Chapter Fifty: Fissures and Shadows

Trust between people is especially important when dealing with strangers. Such trust is built on sincerity and familiarity, and moving from strangers to acquaintances requires not only time but also actions that prove one’s intentions.

Zhang Qinglin gazed at Wu Cheng’an with deep, brooding eyes; Wu Cheng’an returned his look, and neither spoke further.

At that moment, Cheng Che strode in from outside, excitement written on his face. Spotting the two men together, he hurried to Zhang Qinglin’s side and whispered, “Old Zhang, I just got some news—it’s about your father. Come with me, the person with the information is downstairs…”

Zhang Qinglin’s eyes lit up at the mention of his father. “Really?!”

“Of course, come on, quickly—”

The two of them hurried out. Wu Cheng’an’s sharp gaze followed their figures as they disappeared through the doorway.

Downstairs, Cheng Che rushed to the hotel lobby entrance and looked around, but the uncle who’d spoken to him earlier was nowhere to be seen.

Zhang Qinglin caught up, asking, “Where is he? Cheng Che, are you messing with me again?”

Scratching his head and glancing about, Cheng Che said, “Don’t get mad, Old Zhang. That man really did find news about your father. I was in such a hurry to find you, I told him to wait here. Who knew he’d run off?”

Cheng Che explained that he knew this person from his days in Beijing. He went by the nickname “Eight Directions,” making his living by trading in information. Last time, he’d mentioned that Qinglin’s father had discovered an ancient tomb while in the Sixth Company and found a treasure map inside. Afterward, he set off to seek the treasure, but he hadn’t gone alone.

But who was this companion? Eight Directions hadn’t said, claiming he wanted to meet the real seeker of the information.

Zhang Qinglin looked earnestly at Cheng Che. This news mattered deeply to him; he wanted to ask Eight Directions face-to-face who had gone with his father, and where they had actually gone.

“There he is, come on!” Cheng Che, hands on his hips, turned toward the hotel’s exterior. A man in his forties or fifties, carrying an army-green satchel and holding a piece of bread, was ambling toward the street.

The two hurried outside. As they neared Eight Directions, he suddenly glanced back, flung away his bread, and bolted.

Calling after him, Cheng Che and Zhang Qinglin gave chase, but after several blocks, they still couldn’t catch him. Cheng Che, out of breath and cursing, exclaimed, “That damn turtle moves faster than a rabbit!”

Eight Directions darted left and right, finally ducking into Wuzhou’s largest antique market. The area was crowded and chaotic. Sticking close, they kept their eyes glued to Eight Directions’ back, afraid to even blink.

Once in the crowd, they quickened their pace, but hadn’t anticipated so many people at the market that day. Most seemed to be strolling around for fun, eyeing the various stalls and tables loaded with antiques—it was a collector’s paradise.

Eight Directions looked back from time to time, and just as he tried to slip away, a nearby antique shop owner began loudly touting his newly opened store and its many fresh curiosities. A crowd gathered, trapping Eight Directions inside.

Zhang Qinglin nudged Cheng Che, who nodded, and the two squeezed into the throng.

The new shop was called “Ten Thousand Gold Hall.”

Seeing Zhang Qinglin approaching, Eight Directions panicked and hurried into the antique shop with the crowd.

“Let’s see where you run now!” Cheng Che blocked Eight Directions at the exit, grabbing his arm.

But Eight Directions spun around, yanked his arm free, and leapt past him.

Zhang Qinglin stepped in and seized Eight Directions as he tried to flee, with Cheng Che blocking the way. Zhang Qinglin gave him a hard shove, sending Eight Directions sprawling to the floor.

Everyone in the shop turned to look; some, wary of trouble, slipped out, while others, drawn by the commotion, stayed to watch.

The shop owner rushed over, shouting angrily that if they wanted to fight, they should do it outside. It was his first day open for business, and here they were making trouble and bringing bad luck.

Fearing they’d damage something, Cheng Che hurried over, extending a hand to Eight Directions on the floor and said, “What are you doing? Get up, let’s not cause a scene here.”

Eight Directions glared, got to his feet, brushed the dust from his trousers, and was escorted out by Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che.

“Hey, uncle, what were you running for?!” Cheng Che pressed Eight Directions against a wall outside the market.

“Ow, Young Master Cheng, I thought you were debt collectors! How was I to know it was you? Ow, easy, easy…” Eight Directions pleaded, grimacing.

Cheng Che glared, “I brought my friend here, and you have us chasing antiques. Give him all the information I asked for, or you won’t see a penny.”

He released his grip and looked to Zhang Qinglin.

Zhang Qinglin asked everything he wanted to know, but Eight Directions didn’t share all the information he had.

“Cheng Che, can this guy be trusted?” Zhang Qinglin asked quietly, arm around Cheng Che’s shoulders.

Cheng Che replied seriously, “As long as you pay him enough, his information is solid.”

Zhang Qinglin asked Eight Directions to keep looking into his father’s whereabouts. Just as they were about to leave, Eight Directions stopped them, saying he was being chased by creditors and had nowhere to go. He wanted to join them.

After a brief discussion, they declined, not wanting to upset Wanqing and the others by bringing in another person.

Just then, Zhang Qinglin saw Wanqing, Li Qingpeng, and Brother Xun appear at the entrance of the antique market.

He found this odd—why were they here? He motioned to Cheng Che, and together they quietly followed the trio back into the market. Eight Directions trailed behind them, squinting as he eyed the antiques on either side and kept watch on Zhang Qinglin a few paces ahead.

Wanqing and her companions entered “Ten Thousand Gold Hall.” The shop was less crowded now, with only a few customers browsing.

The owner greeted Brother Xun with a beaming smile, ushered them to a display area, told an assistant to watch the shop, and disappeared into the storeroom. Moments later, he emerged with two exquisitely packaged boxes, which he placed carefully on the glass counter and opened for Brother Xun to examine.

From the doorway, Zhang Qinglin watched as Brother Xun took a teacup from one of the boxes. Zhang Qinglin was no stranger to teacups; he’d seen many different types at Uncle Jiang’s teahouse.

There were Hare’s Fur cups, Jian cups, Tenmoku cups—most genuine antiques. The Jian kiln hare’s fur cup from the Song dynasty was particularly famous, with its flared rim, straight walls, small round foot, and iron-black clay covered in thick glaze.

Tenmoku cups from the Jizhou kiln were wide-mouthed and narrow-footed, named for their black glaze with white flecks resembling the plumage of partridges native to the area.

Ordinary cups were common enough, but Uncle Jiang treated the special ones like treasures, often taking them out to clean and polish with great care.

Brother Xun held in his hand a Yao Bian Tenmoku cup, its blue iridescent luster shifting to purple-red under different lighting—yet these days, most were imitations; genuine Yao Bian Tenmoku cups were virtually nonexistent.

Zhang Qinglin recalled Uncle Jiang once hearing of one such cup surfacing in Hangzhou—supposedly unearthed, and highly collectible—but by the time he arrived, it had already changed hands.

After a careful inspection, Brother Xun put the cup back and took another from the adjacent box. As he held it, Zhang Qinglin’s eyes widened in shock—he recognized it. It was a white jade cup from Uncle Jiang’s drawer.

This white jade cup was extremely rare—crafted entirely of fine, translucent jade. Its rounded body flared at the mouth, with a constricted lower belly and a straight foot ring. Cloud motifs were incised on the upper outer wall, with wave patterns carved in relief below, earning it the name “Wenqu White Jade Cup.”

It was Uncle Jiang’s most cherished possession. How could it possibly be here? Unless it was a fake—or perhaps, from this distance, Zhang Qinglin couldn’t be sure if it truly was Uncle Jiang’s cup.

Brother Xun inspected both items, and the owner packed them up, placing them before him. Wanqing took a bank card from her bag and slid it across the glass to the owner, while Li Qingpeng collected the items. The three then left Ten Thousand Gold Hall.

Zhang Qinglin saw them heading north and was about to follow, but Cheng Che stopped him, rubbing his chin. “Looks to me like they’re just shopping for keepsakes. Forget it, let’s go back.”

“Just shopping? What they’re carrying is hardly ordinary,” Zhang Qinglin retorted, eyes fixed on Wanqing and her companions.

“What are you two staring at, skulking around like that?” Eight Directions suddenly threw his arms around both Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che from behind.

Startled, Cheng Che twisted Eight Directions’ arm, growling, “Why are you still following us? Don’t you have things to do?”

“Let go, Young Master Cheng, let go—let’s talk this out,” pleaded Eight Directions, grimacing in pain.

“Hey, Old Zhang…” Cheng Che saw Zhang Qinglin already walking away, shook off Eight Directions, pointed at him, and barked, “You—stop following us! Go do your own thing.” He turned to chase after Zhang Qinglin.

“You haven’t paid me yet, Young Master Cheng! Who else can I follow?” Eight Directions called after him, rubbing his arm in wounded protest.

Wanqing and her companions headed to a place called “World Tea Garden.”

The exterior was grand, with many cars parked out front and a steady stream of well-dressed patrons coming and going. Zhang Qinglin noticed that the clientele were all wealthy types, and saw Wanqing and Brother Xun enter as well.

“World Tea Garden”—such an imposing name. Zhang Qinglin glanced up at the four gilded characters gleaming overhead; the place exuded luxury and refinement. Compared to the “Watercloud Blue Sky” teahouse he’d designed, this was in another league. Even Cheng Che, standing behind him, couldn’t help but marvel. Zhang Qinglin shook his head and walked inside.

The interior was even more distinctive—all the furnishings, from teaware to tea tables, were top-tier antiques. And this was just the entrance, a simple exhibition area.

He spotted Wanqing and the others crossing into the courtyard and heading for a side corridor.

That led to a large hall. As Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che approached, about to enter, a large hand blocked their way.

“Please present your invitation,” said a tall man in a black Chinese-style suit, stepping out from inside the doorway to address Zhang Qinglin.

“Invitation? What invitation? Isn’t this a tea house? Why do you need an invitation?” Cheng Che exclaimed, craning his neck to look inside.

The doorman, unfazed, made a polite gesture toward the exit. “I’m sorry, without an invitation you cannot enter. Please feel free to enjoy tea in the other areas of the garden.”

“We’re with the three people who just went in. They have our invitations…” Zhang Qinglin said, blinking innocently.

“I’m sorry, every guest requires their own invitation. If you wish, I can call your friends out to give you yours,” the doorman replied.

“We’re together—what’s the point of all this back and forth? Who’s your manager? Get him out here!” Cheng Che was incensed at the man’s obstinacy.

Before he could finish, Zhang Qinglin cut him off, “Forget it, Cheng Che, let’s just go.”

He’d noticed people gathering on both sides. If they made a scene and attracted attention from inside, Wanqing and the others would think they were being followed.

Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che lingered in the corridor, watching the hall’s entrance.

He wondered what was going on inside that required invitations. A tea competition? An appraisal contest? A teapot showdown?

Still, none of those typically required invitations—a simple registration was enough. The strict rules here, demanding an invitation for entry, could only mean something special was happening.