Chapter Thirty-Two: Eat Well, Eat Your Fill, and Take Some to Go

Shen Lian truly looked the part of someone dealing in antiques; he resembled nothing less than a corpse freshly unearthed, his facial muscles withered and tight, and his bulging, lifeless eyes giving him a truly frightening aspect when silent. One could almost imagine draining his blood and passing him off as an ancient mummy. His features were unattractive to begin with, but when he set his jaw, his appearance turned downright unpleasant.

Seeing this expression, Zhao Zejun's heart skipped a beat, a chill running through him. He hastily opened the window to let some sunlight into the room, and, standing in the light, finally voiced his doubts, “Could it be a fake? That shouldn’t be possible. The piece I showed you yesterday was sawed right off this table. See, here’s the notch left by the saw…”

As he spoke, he pointed out the notch to Shen Lian, though he kept his distance, wary that this man might truly be some sort of fiend.

Shen Lian waved dismissively, his face impassive. “Wealth rarely lasts beyond three generations—there’s truth in that saying. What a pity. A fine piece of ebony, utterly ruined by your friend. Calling him a wastrel would be a kindness.”

Hearing that the piece was genuine, and that the supposed fiend did not smolder in the sunlight, Zhao Zejun finally relaxed and laughed, “Virtue lasts ten generations, farming and study somewhat less, poetry and learning less still, but wealth rarely survives three. But then again, fortune and disaster have no gate; they come only to those who summon them. My friend gambles and lazes around—ending up in this mess, unable even to keep his ancestors’ coffin board, is nothing less than he deserves.”

Shen Lian looked at Zhao Zejun with unexpected interest. “You’re young to be quoting the ancients.”

“My father loves to read all manner of books, so I grew up reading behind him,” Zhao Zejun replied with a smile.

“The teachings of the ancients are no mere miscellany,” Shen Lian retorted, tapping the table. “Enough chatter. Back to the ebony. Good wood, not golden-thread nanmu, but still old nanmu. Yet your friend’s handiwork has left it in such a state that it’s only fit to be made into beads or small ornaments. The price won’t be high.”

This ebony table was an unexpected windfall for Zhao Zejun. He’d looked into it—there was little chance of selling it for an astronomical sum and getting rich overnight. Even in his last life, a massive piece weighing several tons fetched only a few million at most. Besides, ebony was too hot to handle; best to sell it quickly for a fair price and avoid trouble. Zhao Zejun had no desire for the authorities to descend from the sky and hand him a good-citizen award.

“How much can you offer?” Zhao Zejun got straight to the point.

Shen Lian considered. “If it were still the original coffin board, I’d offer three hundred thousand, and I wouldn’t sell it—I'd make myself a coffin for the future. But as it is now, I can only give you one hundred thousand.”

“One hundred fifty,” Zhao Zejun countered.

“Let’s split the difference—one hundred twenty thousand. I have to make a profit, after all,” Shen Lian replied.

People respond as they are treated. Faced with the likes of Ren Jifu, who would ask sky-high prices, Zhao Zejun would give no ground. But with someone as forthright as Shen Lian, he was easygoing, grinning, “Fine, one hundred twenty thousand it is. But could you carve a small ebony Buddha figure for me as a keepsake?”

“That’s a few thousand more value for you! All right, leave your contact information, and I’ll let you know when it’s finished,” Shen Lian agreed.

The deal was struck. That evening, Shen Lian brought several workers to carry off the table. The payment was cash, neatly packed in a small bag and handed to Zhao Zejun. The two exchanged phone numbers, and Shen Lian gave Zhao Zejun his business card, saying he could always bring anything else he found here to sell.

Zhao Zejun knew his background—this man came from that famous forgery-producing county in the south, with all sorts of connections.

One hundred twenty thousand, spread across the bed like a small pillow. Zhao Zejun patted his eighteen-year-old face, feeling a bit dazed.

With this transaction, he’d bought four apartments and a courtyard—without spending a dime and still made a profit of twenty thousand. Should he be happy, or very happy?

The physical sensation of lying on a pile of cash wasn’t particularly pleasant—stiff and uncomfortable, nothing like a cotton pillow. But emotionally, the satisfaction was overwhelming. Zhao Zejun thought it was still too early to be truly happy; perhaps when he could build an entire bed out of money, it would be time.

Lying on his cash pillow, he repeatedly recalled all the rumors and tales he’d heard in his past life, searching his memory for anything similar in Gaogang Village.

Perhaps his sources were limited, or his recollection needed a trigger, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t think of anything. Still, one thing was certain: there were more ways to profit from the demolition than simply buying property.

Demolition was a grand scraping of the earth. When Gaogang Village was finally reduced to ruins, all the wealth long hidden and forgotten would surface, sold by the ton along with the construction debris.

After Jiang Xuan was arrested in his previous life, she once said to Zhao Zejun in prison, “I was too soft-hearted—I should’ve just gotten rid of that kid.”

When you do something, do it thoroughly. Demolition was a great stew, with beef, mutton, and vegetables all thrown in. Since he already held his chopsticks at the side of the pot, he meant to taste every flavor—not just to eat his fill and eat well, but to pack some to take away.

The next morning, Zhao Zejun took his newly earned one hundred twenty thousand to the bank and deposited it into his account.

Gazing at the steadily increasing numbers in his passbook, and thinking of his growing “holdings,” Zhao Zejun was filled with satisfaction.

He felt like a little mouse sneaking out at night to steal grain—while others slept in ignorance, he scurried into the granary, carrying away his spoils bit by bit to his nest, waiting for the dawn when he could feast at leisure.

…

Meanwhile, on the second floor of the same bank where Zhao Zejun made his deposit, two women sat across from one another in the branch manager’s office.

One was a mature woman in her forties, full of the grace of experience, her lightly made-up face bearing a trace of coldness. The first impression she gave was not one of sensuality, but of strength.

Opposite her was a girl not yet twenty, whose brows and demeanor bore a faint resemblance to the woman, yet her expression and bearing were cut from the same mold—equally cold.

It was Xia Yubing.

“Mom, a few friends from the compound are coming over for the winter break, and I’m just about to pick them up. Why did you call me here?” Xia Yubing asked.

“Don’t be impatient. I’ll have the driver take you. By the way, you should buy a bicycle, or better yet, get a driver’s license. When you go to university, you’ll be able to drive,” her mother replied.

“That would make me the center of attention at school. No, thank you,” Xia Yubing shook her head.

Her mother, Wu Li, laughed proudly. “My daughter is the center of attention wherever she goes. By the way, at your last party, the boy you danced with—wasn’t his name Zhao Zejun?”

Xia Yubing’s expression turned sour. “Mom, what are you doing, conducting customer surveys on your own daughter? Is this why you called me here?”

Her mother’s tone was cool. “I suffered in my day because I met the wrong person. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”