Chapter 595: Out of Prison Again

Ma Du had done well these past few years—his business thrived, his writing was strong, he never neglected his editorial duties, and eventually rose to deputy editor-in-chief. But because his business was so successful and he preferred antiques, he'd always been a bit distracted at work; by the early 1990s, he simply quit and returned to his old path.

While collecting items, he began writing books on collecting, and occasionally hung out with Lao Guantou and Poluan Hou at the Palace Museum, where everyone was an expert and he got along wonderfully.

Later, as his collection grew too large to store, he remembered their old drinking conversations about starting a private museum. It wasn't easy—Han Chunming had been the first to suggest it, even ventured into Beijing's real estate and completed several projects, yet still had no private museum; his items, like Wang Yan's, were scattered across several residences, each guarded by hired staff.

Buying land required a stated purpose—how could you get approval to build a private museum on such a large plot? And since the museum needed to be open to the public with admission fees, how could an ordinary person possibly navigate the paperwork? Even Ma Du had run back and forth countless times, coordinating with every department, leveraging connections with assistants to the Palace Museum's director; after years of effort, he finally established the "Guanfu Museum of Classical Art," China's first private museum.

This timeline was roughly one year ahead of reality, due to Wang Yan's arrival altering Ma Du's original trajectory, giving him more money and broader connections. Yet despite this advantage, he'd only advanced by such a short time—mainly because the earlier the era, the harder it was to accomplish something without precedent.

To some extent, Ma Du was a pioneer. As China's first publicly open private museum, he would, in some measure, earn a place in history…

The entire exhibition space covered more than ten mu, roughly seven thousand square meters, with traditional-style eaves and blue tiles; inside, modern glass barriers allowed viewing but no touching. It was divided into four zones: calligraphy and painting, porcelain, furniture, and other miscellaneous or low-volume collections.

Wang Yan was naturally most interested in calligraphy and painting; the rest meant little to him—simply because they were useless. In truth, though his tea sets and wine cups were Ming dynasty, and his inkstone for large-character writing was Su Dongpo's, these items were essentially useless—they could all be replaced. Their value came from time and the prestige of their former owners.

He wasn't unable to buy tea sets or wine cups; as for inkstones, even a glass ashtray would do. Using those priceless antiques felt no different from using cheap, mass-produced junk. He used them because he owned them; if he didn't own them, he wouldn't use them, nor would he seek them out.

Calligraphy and painting were different—he loved them…

Ma Du had many friends across multiple circles—culture, film and television, military and politics. Today was his major life event, so he invited all his close friends to attend. He didn't host banquets, nor did guests give gifts; yet the flower baskets lined up over a hundred meters outside, and cars were packed tightly outside—clearly, many had come. Not only that, several newspapers even sent reporters to photograph and interview him—quite the spectacle.

Amid the bustling noise, Wang Yan strolled with his hands behind his back, observing the artworks, absorbing their spirit. At that moment, a voice spoke beside him: "Hey, Your Highness, you came alone?"

"You think I'd bring eight bodyguards?"

Wang Shuo laughed heartily, glancing at the calligraphy Wang Yan had just been studying: "I say, your own handwriting's far better than these. Ma Gu should hang your pieces on the wall."

"You're absolutely right—Ma's just not an expert." Wang Yan laughed along with him.

Wang Shuo's career path had changed, yet not really—he'd been destined to shift when he entered the film and television industry.

His work style had softened slightly—not exactly catering to tradition, but no longer as fiercely anti-authority or self-assertive as in the original timeline. He still criticized other cultural figures, but much more mildly. There was no choice: fame brought scrutiny, and people always tried to climb to fame by trampling on him.

The main reason was his years as an editor—a key position where he couldn't let personal bias target others. Over time, his temperament grew calmer. Compared to his original path, though still controversial, his situation had improved greatly—he likely wouldn't flee to America as he once had.

He still founded the Hai Ma Film and Television Creation Center, recruiting a group of future legendary writers, producing hit works like "Stories from the Editorial Department" and "Longing," which became household names and received explosive acclaim. Yet he disbanded it after just two years, then teamed up with a junior named Feng Kuzi.

Naturally, he met Xu Cai'nv; his family relations had grown strained. Wang Yan didn't care about such matters—he had no standing to comment…

Wang Yan glanced at the humble, buck-toothed young man trailing behind Wang Shuo and smiled: "I've noticed many articles criticizing you lately—your situation isn't great."

"Let them criticize. How many insults have I endured these years? Petty, scheming little men pretending to be spiritual leaders. Just wait—I'll find time to roast them to death."

Wang Shuo took it all in stride, as if those critics were just a mob of rabble, easily crushed by his casual flick—full of swagger.

"Filming another movie lately?"

"I adapted my novella 'Love Again'—let him direct it." Wang Shuo patted the bowing, nodding Feng Kuzi behind him.

Wang Yan smiled back. Feng Kuzi knew him—it was normal. Anyone with a powerful friend would show them off, especially Wang Shuo, whose personality was inherently arrogant and loud—no wonder he got criticized so much. He'd always bragged drunk at banquets, never backing down, never tolerating anyone. His drunken boasts always leaked out and caused trouble.

Besides, Feng Kuzi had once dined with them. Over the past two years working with Wang Shuo on films, Feng Kuzi had moved beyond menial tasks—he was now a director, and hadn't wasted his time.

As for Wang Shuo's "Love Again," it was his new romantic novella—a somewhat heretical story, perhaps about himself, since the female lead was Xu Cai'nv…

"Alright, keep browsing. Let's chat over drinks another time—this crowd makes talking impossible."

"Got it. You keep looking—we'll head back. I don't understand all this junk—it's boring. I can't figure out why you and Ma Gu like this stuff."

Over the years, Wang Yan and Wang Shuo hadn't lost contact—they drank together four or five times a year, all from the cultural circle. Wang Yan now moved in three circles: his work circle, the cultural circle, and the circle of Han Chunming and other plot characters. With Han Chunming and the others, he also drank only four or five times a year.

No sooner had Wang Shuo left than Wang Yan heard another "Your Highness" greeting. He turned to see Han Chunming supporting Lao Guantou, eighty-seven years old but still walking independently and speaking clearly; beside them stood Poluan Hou. The three approached and stopped beside him.

Han Chunming smiled: "I told you—he'd be in the calligraphy and painting zone. He'd never go anywhere else."

"That's just my hobby," Wang Yan chuckled. "How's it feel? Envious? I remember you were the first to suggest starting a private museum, yet after all these years, you've done nothing—while little Ma pulled it off."

Han Chunming shook his head helplessly: "What can you do? He's got stronger connections and broader networks. But now that he's paved the way, it'll be easier for me to open my own museum—we were just talking about it. I'm planning to find a bigger plot, build my own like Ma's. I just saw—he even built himself a residence inside. If I did the same, living surrounded by these objects… that'd be perfect."

Watching his dreamy expression, Wang Yan said: "You could also build a building near the Second or Third Ring Road. I told you before—build a top-floor pavilion on a sihe courtyard, it'd be nice, and convenient in the city. Unlike Ma, who picked such a remote spot. He built this just for himself; today's friends showed up, but later, he won't sell even a few tickets."

"Whether tickets sell doesn't matter—the key is having a legitimate place to display the items," Han Chunming said confidently—he had money, so money didn't concern him. "Aren't you planning to start one?"

"I bought land near Deshengmen, planning a nine-story building—eight floors as exhibition halls, the top floor for my residence. I designed five-meter ceilings to see Beihai to the south. I'll stay there occasionally—it'll be nice. But I only got the land last month; construction just started. It'll take two more years, then I'll display my calligraphy and painting collection there."

After answering Han Chunming's question, before he could flatter him, Wang Yan turned to Poluan Hou: "You're not short on cash either—why not start one?"

"I don't have as many items as you two—no need to go through the trouble. When Chunming's museum is done, I'll just store my things there." Poluan Hou, now with streaks of gray hair, shook his head, showing great trust in Han Chunming.

Indeed, whether in the original plot or the altered timeline shaped by Wang Yan, Poluan Hou had always been a staunch supporter of Han Chunming's character—they truly got along.

Han Chunming chuckled: "Hey Poluan Hou, think carefully—once these items are in my hands, you won't get them back."

Poluan Hou shot him a look and ignored the remark.

Lao Guantou chuckled, hands behind his back: "This kid's got so many good things and never told us. And the things he did mention—I didn't see any. He's still hiding some. Come on, let's check out the rest."

"Alright." Han Chunming replied, nodded to Wang Yan, then led Lao Guantou away…

Han Chunming acted swiftly. Seeing Ma Du quietly establish China's first private museum, his long-dormant ambition could no longer be contained. Soon after, just like Ma Du, he bought land on the outskirts—quiet, with mountains, water, and trees—instead of, as originally planned, renovating a small building near his home.

This was mainly because he had more money and more collections, and because he still cherished a quiet, reclusive longing—"picking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, calmly viewing the southern hills."

Having seen how Ma Du enjoyed his space, he no longer settled for small quarters—he wanted a large place, a grand house built to his taste, with real feeling.

After securing the land, he commissioned a design based on his vision, approved it, and immediately launched his own construction crew. But since he didn't use his main team, progress was slow; everything was meticulous, and being in the north, work halted for months each winter. By the agreed-upon 1998, the building was finally complete.

The entire museum covered fifteen mu. Beyond standard modern exhibition areas, he added pavilions, terraces, rockeries, flowing streams, and a private residence for his family—intended for retirement, meticulously arranged.

Opening the museum was a major event. Han Chunming wanted to show off, so, as in the original plot, he invited relatives, friends, classmates, and partners to a banquet at his own restaurant—no gifts required, mainly to reconnect with loved ones, buying goodwill with one meal. Then he hired buses to transport everyone to the suburban museum, letting them know he was a collector, letting him bask in admiration.

No one could resist the thrill of showing off—even Han Chunming, a boy who'd grown old before his time and always held back, was no exception. Seeing people astonished by his vast collection made him delighted.

Those who didn't understand saw piles of antiques and thought only of money: how much was this worth? How much was that? How rich was Han Chunming? This was normal—had Wang Yan been in their place, without the "Live-Dad" contract, he'd have reacted the same. Habituated to rushing about solely for money, lacking the knowledge, they automatically converted everything into monetary value.

These people felt no charm in the antiques—only their price.

Since the 1990s, the antique market had grown increasingly hot. People knew antiques had value, and the scene had become increasingly mixed. Some bought good items; though not yet overnight millionaires, reselling a single piece for tens of thousands was common. The treasure-hunting craze stemmed from this.

In truth, people had long known antiques could be sold for profit—they just hadn't seen it happen around them, lacking confirmation. But now, with Han Chunming, a wealthy man, amassing so many items, buying vast land, and building a private museum, their dormant dreams took root, and they began chasing this potential wealth.

Unsurprisingly, they started buying books, asking experts, visiting places like Panjiayuan and Liuli Chang to hunt for bargains, then carrying their finds everywhere, hoping to prove they'd struck gold.

Han Chunming still suffered…

As Han Chunming struggled and regretted, in a prison in southern China, forty-six-year-old Cheng Army Supervisor, nearing fifty, once again picked up his luggage and stood at the prison gate. This time, he didn't look back. Perhaps he believed the saying not to turn around—or perhaps the gentle, non-glaring morning sun shone ahead of him. Once more, he bathed in sunlight, breathed deeply of free air, and, escorted by guards, stepped through the half-open gate, heading once again toward freedom.