Chapter 578

Outside the Desheng Gate residence, Wang Yan parked his motorcycle at the gate and helped Old Guan out of the sidecar.

Old Guan stood on the ground and let out a long breath: "I'm nearly broken by that bumpy ride, you little thief. You've got money, you've got people—why not just get a big-ass Jeep? This shitty motorcycle doesn't shield you from wind or rain, and it'll kill you quick."

"It's about being low-key, no need to show off. Honestly, even if I didn't buy a car, my benefits include a government vehicle—I just didn't take it. When the streets are full of cars, I'll drive one too."

It wasn't that bumpy—the sidecar seat had been modified, soft as a sofa—but Old Guan was old, neither hard nor soft suited him. The road conditions weren't great either, occasionally pitted and uneven, so he swayed back and forth on the seat, just unaccustomed to it.

At that moment, the heavy gate swung open, and a burly man stepped out: "Your Highness!"

"Mm, nothing urgent. Just brought someone to take a look at the stuff. Go about your business." Wang Yan waved him off, then gestured to Old Guan: "After you, Provincial Military Commander."

Old Guan chuckled, led by Han Chunming as he stepped over the threshold. Wang Yan lit a Huazhi cigarette and strolled behind: "Besides the small room by the gate, there's one more room in the back courtyard where people live—all other rooms are filled with items. Take a look around freely."

Hearing this, Old Guan opened the door to the second room facing the courtyard and froze at the threshold. This row of courtyard-facing rooms, apart from the first one used for living, had all been opened up, supported by a few pillars to maintain structural integrity. At a glance stood three tall, tightly packed shelves, narrow enough for only one person to pass between them. Since the courtyard-facing rooms faced north with no sunlight, and the towering shelves blocked what little light there was, the interior was invisible beyond the entrance—but even the dense array of strange stones and ornaments near the door hinted at the vast collection within.

Wang Yan, ever thoughtful, switched on the indoor lights so they could see clearly.

Han Chunming no longer supported Old Guan—he had already slipped inside, his mouth gaping like a mouse in a grain store, drooling. Happiness came too suddenly; he didn't know where to start.

Old Guan, steadier, took one look, turned back toward Wang Yan at the door: "Are all these items from the Qing dynasty?"

"Provincial Military Commander, sharp eyes. Except for calligraphy and paintings, everything here is arranged by dynasty. Besides these, there are two more rooms. Of all the things I've collected, Qing-era items are the most numerous."

"Pathetic!" Old Guan glared at Han Chunming, then turned, hands behind his back, strode past the inner gate, and headed straight for the three main rooms: "The Provincial Military Commander sees only the best."

Wang Yan shook his head, sat on a stone bench in the courtyard's shade, finished his cigarette, then entered the house.

Old Guan, wearing his reading glasses, circled a Zhou-dynasty tripod placed on a Ming-era purple sandalwood table, studying it as if he could understand its secrets. Unlike later dynasty antiques, which might still be usable, these millennia-old bronze tripods served primarily as archaeological artifacts.

Ignoring him, Wang Yan turned into the room, randomly pulled a rolled-up painting from a stack of scroll jars from Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, unrolled it on a table beside the window, and began examining it closely…

Soon, it was 3 p. m. Wang Yan checked the time and called out: "Provincial Military Commander, Chunming—we should leave. The Po Lan Hou will be here soon, and we haven't even cooked yet. By the time he arrives, you two won't need to spar—you'll already have lost."

Old Guan grunted, sighed: "Then let's go. Can't delay the main business."

Han Chunming hurried over, clutching a white jade Heavenly Qilin pendant, gazing hopefully at Wang Yan with a forced smile: "Your Highness, can we discuss something?"

Wang Yan glanced at him: "You want to trade a Zigan jade tablet with an inscription? What's your proposal?"

"I know Your Highness loves calligraphy and paintings—I've got an authentic piece by Dong Qichang. He's a great calligrapher, though I don't understand art at all—it's wasted on me. Let me give it to you for appreciation. We're thirty years apart, but Dong Qichang's reputation isn't weak. What do you say?"

"Fine. But I'm getting the better end of this deal. Add a small Qing-era trinket to make it fair."

He'd seen plenty of Dong Qichang's works—he'd been alive during the late Ming, after all. Though useless to him, he could still admire them, and reminisce about those days of iron horses and icy rivers…

"Your Highness is generous! How about this Yongzheng-marked white-glaze interior, rose-glaze exterior, faintly carved dragon-pattern bowl?" Han Chunming pulled a pink little bowl from his pant pocket and grinned at Wang Yan.

"You're sharp—prepared all along. Done. Let's go. Don't lock the door—they'll close it themselves soon." With that, Wang Yan turned and walked away.

Outside, watching the tightly shut gate, Old Guan asked: "Aren't these fewer than ten thousand items? Chunming said you have plenty of Ming and Qing furniture—you didn't show us much of it."

"Mm, there's another residence. That one's bigger—three courtyards—and half full already. We'll go see it another time."

"You're really capable. Judging by this, you've collected over twenty thousand items, right?"

"Once I passed ten thousand, I stopped counting. It's pointless. Later, I'll sort through them carefully—keep what I like or find useful, donate the rest to the museum. Let them preserve and study them."

"Your reverence is high," Han Chunming helped Old Guan into the sidecar. "But I think you should find a place, gather all your items there, and open your own museum. Go in whenever you like—imagine the joy. National policies improve daily, the environment grows more relaxed. Who knows when you'll be allowed to buy land? Then you can fence it off, build your own building—since you're not short on money, make it as comfortable as you want. Wouldn't that be better?"

"Didn't I say? Keep what I like or find useful. You don't think the things I like or find useful are few, do you? Just those calligraphy and paintings in that room—if fully unrolled and displayed, how much space would you need?"

With casual ease, Wang Yan made another subtle boast, swung onto his motorcycle, kicked the engine to life, and smoothly shifted gears away. Han Chunming was left alone in the wind, stunned and deflated.

Back home, Wang Yan showed his face to Su Meng. She still had a studious attitude—after waking and eating, she quietly read and studied indoors. As for the little one, he'd finished his nap and had gone out to play.

No need to worry about the child's safety—everyone in this stretch of hutongs knows every child. And a five- or six-year-old doesn't go out alone—he's always with a group, running back and forth. Even if something unexpected happens, it's noticed immediately…

When they arrived at Old Guan's house, they learned he'd gone straight to bed for a nap upon returning—he napped daily. Today, after viewing so many items, his mind had been pushed hard. The sheer volume of stimuli was overwhelming—even with his good temperament, since these weren't his own possessions, the first time seeing so many antiques had shaken his composure. What they'd seen was less than half of Wang Yan's collection; the three-courtyard residence was half-full, far exceeding this two-courtyard one. Just imagining it was enough to stir the soul.

If he were awake, with so many treasures, he'd surely do like Han Chunming—trade for a few things he liked. But he hadn't spoken a word—he hadn't recovered yet. Probably after these two days, once he'd digested it all, he'd come to Wang Yan himself—not to trade, but to sit among the antiques and examine each piece one by one. That's the joy every antique lover knows.

To feel the human spirit condensed in each artifact, to imagine how it was made, how it passed through hands, to experience the grand sweep of history…

Time was right—Taozi and Ma Du arrived, helping in the kitchen, chatting idly. Guan Xiao Xiao sat alone in a chair inside, reading.

Seeing Wang Yan enter, fanning himself, sitting on a small stool to pour himself tea, Ma Du leapt up: "Your Highness, Chunming said you took the Provincial Military Commander to see your collection this morning? And he traded for a Zigan jade tablet?"

Wang Yan smiled: "I called you—you weren't home."

"Yeah, now I regret it. I spent the morning wandering and got nothing good. I should've come to you for a look. Your Highness, when can you take me next?"

"Next week. Just a taste's enough. If you want to examine each item one by one, wait until I've sorted everything. As I predicted, with the situation improving these past two years, all sorts of junk has surfaced—I haven't even seen half of it yet. You've got to move fast—now's when the good stuff is plentiful."

"Don't worry, I've got a few young brothers helping me. So it's settled—next week. After hearing Chunming's story, I'm itching all over—I won't sleep a wink this week."

Ma Du had risen these past two years—partly because he became an editor two years early, exposed to new circles, partly because of Wang Yan's influence. After the Special Zone's establishment, Han Chunming found a way to make money, spending more freely, and Ma Du's ambitions stirred early. As a child of a high-ranking family, he had connections. He joined others in business ventures, earning even more than Han Chunming—his advantage. Compared to his old days trading herbs, he was no worse off.

So he followed Wang Yan's example—entrusting tasks to trustworthy people of lower status, paying for speed and volume, even sourcing from other provinces. If this continues, at least Ma Du's collection will far exceed what it once was.

Watching Ma Du lounging on the recliner, clearly not planning to work, Wang Yan smiled. This kid was too embarrassed to sit idle alone—but now that Wang Yan had come, he could relax guilt-free.

Wang Yan didn't respond to Ma Du but asked Han Chunming: "Did you get all four small bowls?"

"Of course. I spent over four years grinding him down—the Po Lan Hou couldn't take it anymore, so he traded them to me. Then he came back with three bowls to see my master, told me all the old stories, and that's how today's setup came about."

Ma Du chimed in: "I just got here. Perfect timing—tell us what happened."

"Before the Qing fell, my master's family were major tax officials at Chongwen Gate…"

As Han Chunming recounted, a long-buried past resurfaced. It matched the original plot: the Po Lan Hou was the illegitimate grandson of a prince; his father had murdered the other three men and stolen their enamel bowls. He then explained how he met the Po Lan Hou, the events between them over the years, and how the man was decent. He also praised Old Guan for his wisdom—not holding the father's sins against the son.

In the original plot, the Po Lan Hou and Old Guan met to drink in 1985—but Han Chunming didn't meet the Po Lan Hou until 1977, and initially he was after the Qianlong emperor's handwritten brush-box. Now it's different: after talking, they naturally learned the Po Lan Hou had three enamel bowls. Perhaps the Po Lan Hou, knowing Han Chunming was Old Guan's disciple, deliberately revealed them, slowly maneuvering to this moment.

After deep conversation, Han Chunming, who knew nothing, wouldn't hide that Old Guan was his master. He genuinely wanted to bury the past—his father was dead, he was too young then, truly unaware of those events. Let dust return to dust.

After finishing these old tales, Han Chunming said: "My master has a wish—to open four restaurants, each bearing the nicknames of those four old brothers. I've discussed this with Taozi before. Now I see more restaurants on the streets, and I learned they're all registered under neighborhood committees or companies—just pay monthly management fees and you're good to go. You two aren't short on money—interested in joining? We're four people—perfect for four restaurants."

Ma Du stayed silent, glancing at Wang Yan.

"I'll pass. You know I've got responsibilities in Shenzhen—I don't have the heart for running a restaurant. Besides, you're definitely opening one—why should I? I'll just eat at yours. You've got four of you—open three ordinary ones: Sichuan, Cantonese, Huaiyang cuisine—affordable, tasty, serving the masses."

"And open one high-end one, specializing in premium dishes. Hire master chefs with decades of experience—cover all eight major cuisines. Make meals so expensive, ordinary families would need to work for months to afford one—and require reservations. Serve only ten or twenty tables a day. You'll make a fortune."

"I agree with Your Highness—his idea's solid. Normally, restaurants never lose money. Three ordinary ones? No problem. Your Highness's premium restaurant will be the most profitable—more people are buying cars now. Southern bosses come to Beijing for business—they've got money to burn. And Your Highness knows so many people—he can bring two groups your way. Once you build a reputation, that one restaurant will earn more than your other three combined."

Ma Du paused, then shifted: "But I won't join you. If it were a big business, we could pool funds and partner. A restaurant? No thanks—you two are enough. Taozi's reliable—you two should do it. You don't need to manage anything—just pay. Taozi and his wife will handle everything, and it'll spare him from complaining about the food factory."

Taozi nodded: "I already said they couldn't do it. Your Highness is a great scientist—running a restaurant would lower his status. Xiao Ma's a literary editor—he moves in cultural circles, and he's in big business. He wouldn't care about petty profits from a restaurant. Fine then—we'll do it ourselves. Tomorrow I'll check out Dazhalan, find a spot, fix it up—we'll eat at our own restaurant by next month."

Is Han Chunming a living Buddha, that he truly treats Taozi as a brother, and therefore, despite the risks—even after being caught once—he brought the goods back from the south, and after Taozi sold them one location at a time, they split the money evenly. So Taozi is actually wealthy, even wealthier than Han Chunming, since most of Han Chunming's earnings went toward acquiring items. But Taozi truly saves money—all of it is in his wife's hands…

Han Chunming sighed: "I thought we could skip straight to opening four restaurants together. But now that these two gentlemen won't join, forget it—we'll take our time. Your Highness, that fine-dining restaurant you mentioned? Don't expect it anytime soon. We'll wait a few years."

"No rush—we've got decades ahead. Nothing should be rushed." Wang Yan shook his head and smiled, offering some help: "I know a master who prepares imperial banquets. Once your restaurant is ready, I'll ask if any of his disciples or apprentices want to come work for you. But you'll have to pay them well—they won't leave state-run institutions for your place otherwise. Work hard, and soon you'll have a place to drink. No more spending half the day cooking and eating at home. Isn't it better to just sit down and eat?"

"Oh, thank you so much, Your Highness!" Han Chunming nodded happily. After years of mingling together, he knew well: whatever Wang Yan said, he meant exactly that—and he was always conservative, even humble. When he said "see if any are willing to come," it meant there definitely were.

After laughing foolishly with Taozi for a while, he asked curiously: "Your Highness, how do you know an imperial banquet master?"

"Of course, after eating the imperial banquet, I went to pay my respects. That was the year before last…"

Wang Yan never boasted—he only pretended to be impressive. He casually recounted his experience at the imperial banquet, just to broaden these people's horizons…

Amid idle chatter, Han Chunming, the chef, prepared dish after dish, using two stoves and even dragging Maw Yan's gas line over—today there were many guests.

In the courtyard now: Old Guan, Guan Xiao, Ma Du, Han Chunming, Taozi—and Wang Yan—six people. When the Ragged Marquis's wife arrives, it'll be eight. Then there are those two boys, Wang Bin and Han Yi, always full of energy, always drawn to any commotion. Mostly men, all drinkers—so the dishes must be varied and plentiful.

They prepared twelve dishes in all, frying, stir-frying, steaming, deep-frying—Han Chunming was utterly exhausted…

Old Guan had risen early, changed into new clothes, combed his thin, salt-and-pepper hair neatly and pinned it at the back. He did not sit at the large table already set up in the courtyard, but sat upright on the solid wood chair in the main hall, a faint smile on his lips, eyes bright with vigor—his whole demeanor sharper, more alert. Yet he still held a fan in one hand and a string of beads in the other.

The appointed time was five o'clock. Han Chunming finished the last dish, washed his hands, and placed it on the table precisely at five. The Ragged Marquis, accompanied by his daughter, stepped through the wide-open gate, passed the screen wall, and appeared at the moon gate—also at five.

The Ragged Marquis collected scrap, and still did—but now his hair, streaked with gray, was neatly combed; his clothes, pants, and shoes were spotless, even newly bought and rinsed once. He bore none of the old scrap-collector's appearance: no greasy, matted hair, no blackened, cracked neck, no tattered stinking garments—he clearly had bathed at the public bathhouse before coming.

Just as in the original script, he took this very seriously.

Behind him came Hou Sue, wearing a floral short-sleeved shirt, distinctly of the era, with short hair, slightly plump, carrying a bag. Compared to the Ragged Marquis's calmness, seeing the crowd in the courtyard staring at them, her gaze wavered, lacking confidence.

The Ragged Marquis didn't know how his daughter was acting, and even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. He chuckled, bowing as he entered, his eyes not even glancing at the lavish feast on the table. He led his daughter past the group, met Old Guan's gaze, walked straight into the main hall, and without a word, performed the Qing dynasty kowtow.

"Master Guan, your humble servant Hou Tinghua pays his respects."

As he spoke, he straightened his posture, clapped his hands twice in alternating motion, like in Qing dynasty dramas when sweeping sleeves flared, stepped forward with his left leg, left hand resting on his knee, right hand hanging down, right knee bent in a half-kneel—and held the pose.

His eyes met Old Guan's levelly, as if waiting for him to speak.

In truth, his visit today was already a concession. For decades, he'd barely set foot in this alley—perhaps only a few times, just to check whether Old Guan was still alive.

Seeing his father do this, Hou Sue was stunned—he hadn't warned her. Seeing Old Guan's gaze sweep over her, she felt awkward. Not knowing what else to do, she imitated her father, clapping her hands twice.

Old Guan didn't leave the Ragged Marquis kneeling for a humiliation. Instead, he chuckled, rose slowly, and helped him up: "No need. Stand."

"Yes, sir."

The Ragged Marquis stood straight and stepped aside.

Old Guan chuckled and walked out, glancing sideways at the Ragged Marquis, who followed one step behind: "Let's begin!"

"Good. You're straightforward, Master."

The Ragged Marquis bowed again, then walked to the opposite side of the large round table. After Old Guan settled into his chair, he sat down. Han Chunming lifted the Ming-era blue-and-white wine jug filled with Maotai and poured it into the Qing-era blue-and-white wine cups that Old Guan had brought out, then stood respectfully beside the table…