Chapter 596: Has an Idea

Standing outside the prison gate, Cheng Army Supervisor felt momentarily lost, unsure where to go.

Looking around, he unsurprisingly saw no relatives or friends come to pick him up; he exhaled a long, gloomy breath and shook his head with a bitter smile. For once, he felt empathy—understanding his parents and family.

His parents married young and were nineteen years older than him; now they were sixty-five. He himself often felt weak and exhausted, let alone his parents, already in their sixties. The journey from Jingcheng here took several days on those slow green trains—such physical strain was beyond what his parents could endure. Moreover, he had to consider their disappointment and sorrow: during his years in prison, though he wrote letters regularly, asking after their health and inquiring about Wang Yan and Han Chunming, the replies were few and brief; he sensed his parents' coldness.

As for his younger brother, he was now over thirty, married with children, working to support his family and care for his parents—no time to deal with his older brother, who had been imprisoned twice and spent thirteen years behind bars.

As for other friends—he had none, because most were victims he had swindled.

Looking at the newly built structures outside the prison, a sense of things unchanged yet people gone washed over him. In his memory from nine years ago, this place had been barren land; though to the south, mountains and water had thrived with greenery, now not a trace remained of its former appearance.

Once again, he felt the power of time, the grand transformation of Shenzhou under state policy, a stronger sensation of heaven and earth being overturned. Who felt the impact of reform most deeply? Probably those like him—prisoners who had served many years. When he entered, it was backward and poor; when he emerged, it was a different world.

After standing outside for a while, he sighed and walked toward the distant bus stop, then headed into the city center and found a hotel to stay.

Though his parents had sent few letters, and even those were short, mostly urging him to reform, they had mentioned Wang Yan and Han Chunming in passing. He didn't know details, but he knew both his major and minor enemies were alive and well; based on his understanding, nine years had passed—these two were certainly more powerful than before.

How could he accept this? After half a lifetime of secret research, he had ended up in prison for over a decade, accomplishing nothing. He must find a way to rise again.

Not all his money had been ill-gotten, so not all his wealth was gone; after liquidating his assets, he still had several ten thousand yuan left. He didn't rush back to Jingcheng—he wanted to first observe the changes outside. If possible, he'd find a way to earn some money before returning. Of course, not to make a fortune—he knew that if he acted as before, he'd end up back inside. Ten years was a long stretch; he was afraid, unable to bear it. Mostly because he was already forty-six; if he were twenty-six, he probably wouldn't fear it—he didn't want to die old in prison.

This time, after nine years of incarceration, some left, some entered—he gained new insights. He feared making big money, but earning small amounts, he felt no problem.

In fact, it was true: Cheng Army Supervisor's decades of practical experience had made his scams highly sophisticated, rarely detectable. His individual fraud amounts were small; victims mostly swallowed their losses, unwilling to pursue justice—after all, they'd wanted to get rich quickly and saw it as paying for a lesson.

Thus, a man with an expired ID spent two months in the south, swindling and conning his way to a fortune that ordinary families earned over many years of labor.

In August, dressed in a pure white long-sleeved shirt, black suit pants, polished leather shoes, and a slicked-back hairdo, Cheng Army Supervisor stepped out of a taxi, took a brand-new suitcase from the trunk, and stood at the entrance of the courtyard where he'd grown up but longed to escape, stomping his foot—dust rose and settled on his shiny, mirror-bright leather shoes, wiped clean on the taxi's back seat.

Unyielding, unbroken Cheng Army Supervisor… had returned!

"Hey, isn't this Army Supervisor? Haven't seen you in years—look at your outfit, you're a big boss now? I'll tell you, Army Supervisor, your parents haven't had an easy time these years. You didn't come back, so gossip flew everywhere. Where have you been all this time? Why no word at all?"

"Uncle Guo, you're still in great health. I was doing business in the south, then had some matters take me overseas—I just came back recently." Falsely claiming he'd gone abroad was what Cheng Army Supervisor had told his parents in letters; though he knew few believed it, it was at least a plausible excuse.

He didn't dwell on it, noticing Uncle Guo holding a box tightly, and asked curiously: "You're holding it so close—what's inside?"

"Hah! You've got good eyesight—even without seeing it, you know it's treasure." Uncle Guo laughed heartily; he'd just found a bargain, and Cheng Army Supervisor's lucky words delighted him. "Come home with me and you'll see—I refuse to believe good things can all go to Han Chunming!"

"Han Chunming?" Hearing the name of his minor enemy, Cheng Army Supervisor jolted—he needed information. "What happened to him?"

"Oh right, you've been gone so long, you don't know. Han Chunming grabbed a huge plot in Mentougou, that godforsaken place, opened a museum—just two months ago. He invited all us neighbors to tea at Chaopiao Xiang, then hired a bus to take us over. Holy cow—he had over ten thousand antiques! Word is, that's not even the full collection. How much money do you think that is? I reckon he just wants to show off to us old neighbors—look how rich I am, you poor bastards."

Uncle Guo sneered: "After seeing his collection, I remembered my own old stuff. Took it to Han Chunming to have him appraise it—guess what? He said not a single piece was real, all fakes. Pretended to be virtuous, saying it's too late to hunt for antiques now—nine out of ten items on the market are fake. Do you think I don't know what he's after? He wants my things. If he didn't say they were fake, how could he lowball me? Where do you think his museum's collection came from? All swindled like this."

Amid Uncle Guo's bitter ramblings about Han Chunming, they entered the courtyard, passed the screen wall, and walked into the first house's front room. Uncle Guo poured Cheng Army Supervisor a glass of water, then began unpacking his treasures.

Cheng Army Supervisor looked at the bottles and jars, the porcelain pieces painted with patterns, carefully picked one up to examine, and asked doubtfully: "Are all these things of yours real? They must be worth a lot."

Uncle Guo stiffened, didn't answer, and changed the subject: "Look at this one I just found—it's from the Qianlong era."

Cheng Army Supervisor played along, didn't rush home, listened patiently as Uncle Guo talked for a long while about antiques—and Han Chunming's business, the museum's exact location, whether it was open to the public, and so on.

From Uncle Guo's mouth—greedy, envious, half-mad with jealousy—he learned everything about Han Chunming's past few years, delivered with a tone of disdain.

In truth, the old man's shift was natural. He'd worked his whole life and still lived in a front room, watching money depreciate and prices rise, while Han Chunming—the childhood troublemaker—suddenly struck it rich, eating fish every meal and driving a car. Even if Han Chunming's life was good, in Uncle Guo's skewed mind, every gesture felt like mockery.

Then came the massive collection of antiques—though he didn't know the exact value, it was clearly enormous, all acquired cheaply over the years. Naturally, it stung more. He never thought about his own lack of foresight or knowledge—he only wondered why every good thing fell to Han Chunming, why he had no such luck.

After seeing Han Chunming's antiques, he came home, heard rumors, thought he'd found a path to wealth—tried to hunt for bargains. Brought back a pile of stuff, asked Han Chunming to appraise it—Han said not one was real. He already disliked Han Chunming—now he hated him even more.

Scams were a study of human nature—from expressions to psychology, from logic in speech to inference. Cheng Army Supervisor might not have systematized it, but his skill was sufficient; from these conversations, he clearly understood Uncle Guo's mindset, read the old man thoroughly. He knew Uncle Guo subtly belittled Han Chunming, and as a neighbor living in the same courtyard, he had no clear idea of Han Chunming's actual wealth—mostly speculation.

But he didn't care—he was just asking for now, would learn more later. He shifted to Wang Yan: "Uncle Guo, what about Wang Yan in the front courtyard? How is he? I remember he used to drink with Han Chunming and others, always talking about antiques."

"Wang Yan? Of course he's impressive—he was CEO of that state enterprise for years. But since he moved to Beichi Zi Street, he hasn't returned to this courtyard. Only twice did he eat at Old Guan's place. You never see him otherwise. Han Chunming told me Wang Yan has a calligraphy and painting museum near Deshengmen—I went to see it. Holy cow—nine stories tall, majestic. But he built it for himself; outsiders aren't allowed in. It opens only two days a year. This guy's rich—I bet his collection's full of treasures, since he's richer than Han Chunming."

Clearly, Uncle Guo held no resentment toward Wang Yan—he was a college graduate, a scientist, someone Uncle Guo had watched grow step by step, with clear progress. Besides, Wang Yan's status was too high, he'd moved out years ago, detached from the neighborhood—unreachable. When Wang Yan lived here, he'd been kind to neighbors, helped them with things—so even though he was unreachable, the goodwill remained.

Cheng Army Supervisor nodded: "Ah, Uncle Guo, what's the name of Wang Yan's museum? Where's the building? When can I go see it?"

"Mo Lou. It's a clever name—I heard it only holds calligraphy and paintings, so they named it that. The building's also dark-colored, easy to spot on the street."

"Alright, I know. I'll go see it in a couple days." Cheng Army Supervisor stood up with a smile: "Uncle Guo, I won't keep you—I just got back, haven't seen my parents yet. I need to hurry home."

"Alright, come chat again sometime—I enjoy talking with you."

Uncle Guo walked Cheng Army Supervisor to the door, still relishing the feeling of impressing a naive listener.

In the original plot, Cheng Army Supervisor didn't have his current level of skill—he hadn't been imprisoned, so he couldn't better conceal his emotions. His provocative remarks in daily life wouldn't bring retaliation or physical punishment, but in prison, he'd get beaten—absolutely, no waiting until the next day…

Cheng Army Supervisor's release date was known to his parents—he'd called them from the south before. He'd also notified them in advance of his return. His parents were both retired, with nothing to do, so they were home.

Yet they showed no warmth to their son, now returned in the guise of a successful businessman—only helpless disappointment. It was natural: though his parents weren't noble, they didn't want their own son to be such a disgrace. They'd barely enjoyed good years before he spent thirteen in prison—who could bear it?

They didn't even lecture him about reforming his life—he was forty-six now, how much "future" remained? Why bother? They merely sighed, hunched over to cook, making sure their troublesome eldest son ate well.

Cheng Army Supervisor knew exactly how his parents felt—he'd always been best at fooling them. He pulled them close, talked at length, told them he still had capital for business, then promised to buy them a new apartment for retirement and hire a maid to care for them.

This whole performance finally drew smiles from his parents, who then began listing his many faults. Cheng Army Supervisor no longer showed his old impatience—he sat quietly, listening to his parents' scolding, occasionally refilling their tea.

Perhaps he had truly grown. Or perhaps he was merely playing the part for his white-haired, dying parents. But for this afternoon, he was a filial son…

That evening, he took his parents and his brother's family to Ju Pengyou, a restaurant near Wang Fujing, mainly to reassure them. His brother said nothing—after all, the house he lived in had been bought by Cheng Army Supervisor; he had no grounds to blame him. Overall, the meal went well, family relations harmonious.

But as Cheng Army Supervisor watched his brother's harmonious family of three, he felt a pang of sadness—his wife had remarried, his son no longer recognized him, even called his stepfather "Dad." But the feeling passed quickly—he was a man bent on revenge. If he couldn't avenge himself in this life, he'd die with eyes and mouth wide open.

After finishing the lavish reunion dinner and seeing off his brother's family, though they lived nearby, Cheng Army Supervisor still took a taxi, bringing his aging, stiff-legged parents back home.

Coincidentally, as they stepped out of the taxi, a black Santana swiftly passed them, pulling up just ahead.

Han Chunming stepped out, dressed in loose casual clothes, strolled over, and paused when he saw Cheng Army Supervisor: "Army Supervisor? You got out… you're back? When did you return?"

Cheng Army Supervisor wasn't deaf—he heard Han Chunming's mid-sentence correction. He turned, told his parents to go inside first, then frowned at Han Chunming: "You knew about my situation?"

Since he'd already slipped up, there was no need to hide it. Han Chunming said: "You underestimate yourself—your case was huge. Back then, people in the south were terrified because of you."

"You have business in the south?"

"A few small operations." Han Chunming waved his hand modestly, then added: "But I heard about you from Wang Ye—he told me after the New Year in '89. You didn't come home for the holiday, so I mentioned you to him. He told me. Later, I looked into it, even had someone send you money a few times."

"You were the one who sent me money?" Cheng Army Supervisor's eyes flickered—not with gratitude.

"Yes. I couldn't help you in other ways—just sent money so you could live better inside. That's what a buddy does. Listen, Army Supervisor, don't mess around anymore. You're forty—stop breaking the law, live quietly."

Han Chunming's earnest advice felt like mockery and ridicule to Cheng Army Supervisor—who needed him pretending to be kind? Who needed his lectures?

Yet though he longed to kill Han Chunming, Cheng Army Supervisor laughed loudly, slapped his shoulder, and said: "Thanks for remembering your buddy. I always guessed it was you, that kind-hearted soul. My parents told me you've helped them a lot these years—thank you. Now I'm back, I'm planning to open a small shop—just enough to earn my retirement."

"It's nothing—we live in the same courtyard and grew up together. If something happens in your family, how could I just stand by and do nothing?" Han Chunming waved his hand dismissively, lifting his wrist to check the time under the dim distant light. "Alright, it's late. I won't bother you anymore. Let's talk again when we have time. I'm heading back."

"Hey, wait up. I heard you opened a museum? Tell me what's going on."

"Oh, it's nothing much—over the years I've collected a lot of things..."