Chapter 558: Drawing Closer

Wang Yan returned home, changed into a tank top and big shorts, washed his face in the sink, then washed his work uniform, underpants, and socks, hanging them on the clothesline stretched across the yard.

After all that fuss, he slapped cucumbers outside the kitchen, sliced pork head meat, minced garlic, mixed in soy sauce and chili oil, then carried the bowl and steamed buns, locked the door, and went to Old Guan's courtyard beside the small grocery store.

The courtyard was small, with only three main rooms and two side rooms; the grocery store outside had taken over the southern building and was separated by a newly built wall.

The old guard didn't give anything away for free—Old Guan's courtyard was kept in excellent shape. The walls were covered in lush green ivy, the yard held colorful flowers, and there was a large ornamental water tank—professionally called a "menhai," according to feng shui principles. Several carp swam back and forth within it, radiating vibrant life.

After a quick look around, Wang Yan stepped into the main room. Old Guan sat with Han Chunming on a solid wood sofa, and on the tea table before them were six dishes: roast duck, fried fish, cold salad, peanuts, and of course, Erguotou liquor.

"I say, Provincial Military Commander, it's just a fan—you've laid out this whole feast, enough to buy two fans! That's a bit much."

"How can they be the same? You're sharp enough, yet you've become a 'master' to my disciple—how can you not understand this? You give me a fan, that's showing respect to the elderly; I treat you to wine and lavish dishes, that's caring for the young. That's the logic. Sit down or not?"

"I get it now—you're worried that later on, this fan will be hard to repay, so today you're silencing me." Wang Yan laughed. "Alright, if there's a free meal, not taking it makes you a Wang Ba. Today, I'm eating and drinking my fill."

Old Guan laughed heartily: "Come on, put the pork head meat over here—I love it."

Wang Yan handed over the pork head meat, rearranged the plates, then sat down: "Did you make all these dishes yourself?"

"If you've got a disciple, what else are you going to do with him?"

Han Chunming, pouring wine from the flask, chuckled: "How's it taste, Master Wang?"

"Looks decent, but I don't know the flavor yet."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Old Guan lifted his small wine cup. "Waiting for me to toast you? Just drink."

"Alright, first time drinking with the Provincial Military Commander—I'll toast you three." Wang Yan downed three small cups in quick succession—less than two taels of liquor—spouting a jumble of auspicious phrases like it was a birthday celebration.

"Bold! Come on, disciple, let's drink together." Old Guan smiled, accepting the three cups—his age justified it. Of course, that was just surface formality; after all, Wang Yan was pushing a thousand years, and Old Guan couldn't even get in line to kowtow to him…

The three drank one cup each, then began eating.

Han Chunming watched eagerly as Wang Yan picked up a piece of fish: "Master Wang, what do you think?"

"Not bad—has some flavor."

In the original story, Han Chunming ran a restaurant; raised under Old Guan, he was also a connoisseur of fine food. Clearly, Han Chunming had some talent in the kitchen.

"Perfect! With your approval, Master Wang, I'll open a restaurant—then you've got to support me."

"If I show up, I won't pay a single cent."

"That's such a crude thing to say—you could eat daily, eight dishes and eight bowls every meal, and it'd still be fine."

Wang Yan shook his head and smiled: "Enough already. You've got no money in your pocket, yet you talk like a big shot. Wait till you actually open that restaurant."

Han Chunming chuckled, raised his cup, and toasted Wang Yan.

They began eating. Wang Yan didn't hold back at all, devouring the food with his steamed buns. He also didn't stop talking, chatting with Old Guan about traditional Chinese culture—mainly Chinese history, expanding into the teachings of the Three Religions, anecdotes about famous figures.

Wang Yan didn't know the messy stories, but when it came to traditional culture, he was the undisputed master. After all, he'd lived long, personally experienced the Ming and Song dynasties, and had clearer insight.

Watching Wang Yan finish the last sip of wine, wipe his greasy, gleaming mouth, and pull out a cigarette to light it.

Old Guan gave a thumbs-up: "Good kid, you really know how to eat."

Wang Yan exhaled smoke with a grin: "It's your Provincial Military Commander's cooking that's so good—I'd be disrespectful not to finish it all."

Old Guan ate the last piece of pork head meat and asked: "Rascal, when did you start collecting these old artifacts? When your father was alive, I talked with him—he said you were always fighting, uneducated, wasting things. So how come now you know so much and have nothing but good pieces?"

"Yeah, Master Wang, I never knew you liked these things."

"My dad said I was uneducated—could that just be modesty? I did fight, sure, but what boy doesn't? I've always been first in every subject since childhood."

Wang Yan shook his head: "As for collecting old artifacts, there's a saying: in chaotic times, gold; in peaceful times, antiques. Our country now has atomic bombs, hydrogen bombs, missiles—we're clearly getting better. Because of recent conditions, old treasures have been dug up, seized, scattered, or burned clean—but that's exactly the perfect time. My set of doucai wine cups was worth ten yuan?"

Even if I'm uneducated, I know imperial items aren't cheap. Forget the future—back then, didn't you need hundreds or even thousands of taels of silver to get a set like that? So now, while they're cheap, I'm buying up as much as I can. Even if I don't understand them, I enjoy looking at them. If I run out of money later, I can sell one or two—guaranteeing my lifetime of food and drink. Isn't that great?"

Han Chunming nodded vigorously: "That makes sense. Master Wang, where do you usually get them?"

"There are plenty of people at Shichahai and Liulichang selling artifacts for cash or coupons. Even scavengers are fine. Haven't you seen kids on the street playing with dirt using old objects? Or just buy them at cultural relics shops. If you've got connections, sneak into the warehouses where collected items are stored—it's like mice in a rice granary, take whatever you want. Is this really something you need to ask me?"

"What?" Han Chunming was stunned, eyes wide with disbelief: "Master Wang, you've actually been inside the warehouses?"

"Only a few times—back then, management was loose, nobody cared about these things. Now it's hard to get in—systems have tightened. Plus, there are plenty of experts, and many people are buying up artifacts now—it's not easy. So just give up on that idea."

Old Guan said: "So you've got quite a few good pieces? You're drinking from a full set of doucai cups—surely you've got even better ones? Let the Provincial Military Commander in on a secret—what's the oldest item you have?"

"Just a few bronze ding vessels from the Shang and Zhou dynasties, some jade pieces—most things are just for display, useless."

"Whoa, you've got big mouth. When can the Provincial Military Commander get a look?"

"I'll show you when I have time—they're all stored away, not easy to bring out now. You, Provincial Military Commander, try hard to live longer. When the situation changes, I'll let you see them."

"Underestimating me, kid? You're the one who's always stirring up trouble—I'm not sure you'll outlive me."

"Alright, your tongue's still sharp, Provincial Military Commander." Wang Yan said: "I've eaten and drunk my fill. You didn't take advantage of me, so I won't take yours for free. Yesterday you mentioned returning a few strings of beads—I'll give you one to play with. I heard somewhere that fiddling with them reduces the chance of dementia. You've got a bead string—might as well fiddle with it daily, prevent it early."

"Hey, free stuff, why refuse?" Old Guan waved his hand. "Go, disciple, bring back the Provincial Military Commander's bead string."

"I'll go back with Master Wang to get it—leave these here, I'll clean up later, Master."

Wang Yan, cigarette dangling, strolled out with Han Chunming, returning home.

He rummaged through a cabinet, pulled out a box, and in Han Chunming's eager, longing gaze, took out a bead string and handed him a fan: "Here, take this to play with."

"Really giving it to me?" Seeing Wang Yan about to take the fan back, Han Chunming snatched it and hugged it close: "Oh my, thank you, Master Wang! You're so generous! Your humble servant thanks Master Wang for the gift!"

He'd dropped the heavy tone of "ye" and now said "wangye" in the literal sense—clearly thrilled. A Ming dynasty gold nanmu board—even if the wood had no market value—was still a joy just to imagine, especially since it was free. He'd scolded Wang Yan for wasting things when he heard about it, but now? Totally true to the phrase "I was wrong." If Wang Yan hadn't done it, he'd never have had a chance.

"Get lost. Wash that bowl clean and bring it back—I only have two, and I count them."

"Master Wang, wait—I'll bring it back in under twenty minutes. I'm off!"

After he left, Wang Yan put the box away, took the bowl to the yard's sink, and washed up. After eating and drinking for hours, it was already past eight—time to wash and sleep.

He quickly washed up, returned inside, picked up a book to read, fanning himself for coolness. Soon after, Han Chunming returned the bowl used for the pork head meat and cucumbers, and Wang Yan lay down to sleep…

Wang Yan's life was ordinary, especially in this era—naturally without any drama. He woke up, went to Chang'an Street to be the monkey, spent the day drinking tea at the factory, came home to eat and drink, watched chess outside, and slept by eight—another day gone.

Now, compared to the future, it's not much different—just add scrolling on a phone. Day after day, all grand ambitions get buried in routine. Many great dreams are smothered in the cradle. But on the flip side, it's not necessarily bad—because most people can't bear the consequences of grand ambitions, spiritually and materially.

Time slipped to three days later. At seven in the morning, Wang Yan rode his bicycle home against the morning rush.

Su Meng, yawning after using the toilet, walked down the road, saw him stop beside her, and asked: "Why are you coming back so early? On night shift?"

"I fix equipment in the factory's logistics—people can rest, machines can't. If something breaks at night, we fix it immediately—we're on rotation. Lucky for me, tomorrow's Sunday, so I get two days off in a row."

"That won't help much—you'll sleep half the day today. Sleep too much in the daytime, you won't sleep at night, and tomorrow you'll feel unwell."

Su Meng looked as if she had plenty of experience, then turned her gaze to the pastries tied to Wang Yan's handle: "These are breakfast you bought? And bread from your factory? No wonder you, Wang Yan, eat so well—you spent five jiao just for breakfast this morning! I've been counting these past two days: the pork head meat you bought the night you brought me back, the fried ribbonfish the next day—damn, that smell filled our entire alley—then the fried soy sauce noodles the third day, with meat gravy. In three days, you've spent what my family of four spends in a week."

"Didn't I tell you before? I just got paid, so I'm enjoying it first. Wait ten or so days, and you'll see me eating steamed buns again. You've got nothing better to do than watch what I eat. Have you found a job yet?"

"I could've gotten a job long ago, but there's no good one. I don't want to be a factory worker. My dad's been trying to get me into the Youth Palace, but nothing's happened yet—I think it's hopeless."

Wang Yan let out a light laugh and didn't respond, instead smiling and greeting passersby.

These past few days, he'd grown much closer to Su Meng—they saw each other almost daily, and they could chat about anything or nothing. As for Cheng Army Supervisor, he barely ran into him; in the past three days, besides that one time, he'd only seen him once.

The two returned to the courtyard. Su Meng said, "I'm going back. You stayed up all night—get some rest."

Wang Yan nodded with a smile, then unlocked the door, changed clothes, placed the kettle on the stove, and lit the gas to boil water. He went out to wash his clothes, his face, and his feet. Once done, he returned inside—the water had boiled. He steeped dried jujubes and chrysanthemums, added a piece of yellowed old rock sugar to his teacup, and ate the bought pastries with the tea, barely managing breakfast.

Given their workload, it was impossible to go a whole night without sleep. Problems that could be solved were solved on the spot; those that couldn't had to wait until the next day when factory staff arrived. So no matter what, they could always sleep. Last night was perfectly safe, and Wang Yan's adaptability was strong—even on a military cot in a new place, he slept soundly until natural wakefulness.

And with Wang Yan's energy, even skipping sleep didn't matter. It was early morning, and he had nowhere to go, so he cleared his desk, brewed a fresh pot of green tea, took out brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, and began writing large characters…

Near noon, Han Chunming hurried in: "Hey, writing? Your Highness." He immediately glanced at the desk, then couldn't look away.

The tea set was a complete Ming dynasty official kiln set; the inkstone was from Su Shi; the brush handles were from the late Qing; the ink sticks were decades old; the paper was Qianlong paper—each sheet used was one less, truly wasteful.

After a while, Wang Yan finished a wild-cursive rendition of "Qinyuanchun: Snow," smiled, and poured two cups of tea: "Enough already. Even if you stare till your eyes pop, it won't become yours. But you've learned something from the Provincial Military Commander—you've got good eyes. You saw it at a single glance."

He had Song-dynasty Ge kiln tea ware too, but during the Song, roasted tea wasn't yet popular, so there wasn't much equipment. Ming and Qing dynasties developed it well—the tea sets were complete. He used this full set for the refined atmosphere. Just pretending to be elegant, really—he could drink from a big enamel cup and spit out the tea, no problem. It's just water.

"Of course—I know Ming and Qing objects inside out. Whether ceramics, sculptures, gold, silver, jade, or calligraphy and paintings—I'm an expert." Han Chunming chuckled, carefully holding his teacup: "Never thought I'd drink from Xuande-period items one day. Worth it."

"Didn't I tell you? If you've got good stuff, use it. Two feelings: the tea tastes three times better."

"Yes, yes, yes—smells good, really good."

Wang Yan shook his head and smiled: "Don't just focus on the smell—what do you want?"

"Ah, right…" Han Chunming snapped back, grinning: "I got a job! Cheng Army Supervisor's dad arranged it—for Yili Food Factory. Your Highness, from now on, I'll be counting on your care in the factory."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm just a nobody with no influence. Just be humble and steady."

Han Chunming chuckled, unfazed. He knew Wang Yan was being modest—after all, the man had been exceptional since childhood. Even if he didn't stand out in the factory, he'd surely have the ability to live comfortably without being bullied.

He said: "Your Highness, I don't have a bicycle, and I don't know the area. Could you give me a ride on Monday?"

"Fine."

"Great! Just call me when you leave, Your Highness. I'm off—I need to treat Cheng Army Supervisor to lunch to thank him."

Wang Yan waved his hand without replying, continuing to drink tea and write large characters.

One thing always brings another—you never get peace. As soon as Han Chunming left, Su Meng hurried out from the back courtyard, passed Wang Yan's door, and peered curiously through the open window, catching him bent over, brush dancing like a dragon.

She crept closer, peering through the window, and exclaimed in surprise: "Not bad! Didn't know you could write with a brush? Better than my dad's."

"It's meaningless—just writing for fun."

"Too much modesty is pride. If it's good, it's good." Su Meng asked: "Didn't you sleep at all?"

"Come in. You're blocking the light standing by the window."

Su Meng rolled her eyes but stepped inside. She glanced around the room in wonder: "Didn't expect you'd clean this place up so well."

"Do I have to make this place look like a dog kennel?" Wang Yan smiled, poured her tea: "Drink."

"I won't drink. It's over thirty degrees outside—you're drinking hot tea indoors? You're something else."

"Calm mind brings natural coolness. You're too anxious."

Su Meng nodded: "Cheng Army Supervisor just came to me—he said his dad got two factory job slots from the neighborhood committee. He asked if I wanted one. Everyone in our courtyard has a job now, and I'm still living off my parents. They're happy to support me, but what will others say about me? How can I not be anxious?"

"Panicking won't help. When the boat reaches the bridge, it'll find its way."

Su Meng didn't take the bait. She asked again: "Why aren't you sleeping? Planning to stay awake till night and sleep straight through?"

"Factory equipment doesn't break all the time. We're on duty to repair, not just watch. If the machines are fine, we sleep on a cot in the office. Yesterday was perfect—nothing happened. I slept straight through till morning."

"Fine, I'm just meddling. Don't bother me—go write your big characters. I'm leaving."

"It's almost noon—still going out?"

"Ugh, I need the toilet. Annoying."

Listening to her footsteps quickly fading, Wang Yan shook his head and smiled. Public toilets—no choice. So his fate with Su Meng might depend on how much water she drinks in a day…

After writing a while longer, Wang Yan packed up, made a cornmeal pancake, cooked a dish, and ate a bite himself. Even when he "settled," it was food others couldn't afford—he steamed a cake with seven eggs…

In the afternoon, when the temperature dropped a bit, he locked the door, pushed his bike out of the courtyard, and rode to Shichahai, a street west of the Prince Chun's Mansion.

This was the current black-market trading spot: some squatted in shady corners with eggs; others hid goods in their arms, asking passersby if they wanted anything; still others clutched bundles of coupons, pacing back and forth, whispering to people, taking money, and handing out tickets.

Most here were coupon speculators; few came to sell goods. Eggs were understandable, but antiques were different. This movement had lasted years—items not seized earlier meant their owners wanted to keep them, and they knew their value. They wouldn't sell unless desperate. And once sold, the price would be high. Still, in this era, almost everything was a bargain.

But in this era, twenty or thirty yuan, even forty, was already a substantial sum. After all, Wang Yan spent only twenty-six yuan on tea in a month.

And some of these goods weren't clean—people driven to desperation dug up graves easily, so some items might've just been unearthed, still warm.

Or perhaps some skilled people made fakes to swindle money.

After all, this era had many clever people, and many antique collectors. Everyone thought themselves clever—but it was the clever ones who got tricked. The waters here run deep…