Chapter 597

Han Chunming didn't take it seriously at all; even when Cheng Army Supervisor pressed him repeatedly, he gave a detailed account of his years collecting antiques, including all the information Cheng Army Supervisor had been inquiring about Wang Yan.

He wasn't unaware that Cheng Army Supervisor held resentment toward him; in the past, he'd even been puzzled why Cheng Army Supervisor always opposed him. But over time, he came to understand: Cheng Army Supervisor was simply petty, fiercely competitive, quick-tempered, and couldn't stand that someone who'd grown up with him had succeeded.

But now, they were both forty-six, with only a few years left before fifty. At this age, he'd already achieved great success, and combined with his own gentle nature, he had no intention of making trouble for someone like Cheng Army Supervisor, who couldn't even hold a decent conversation with him outside. They'd grown up together in the same courtyard—ending things well was best.

So he showed Cheng Army Supervisor great tolerance, which was why he'd once thought of putting money in his prison account, and now he had the patience to recount all those messy old stories to him.

Thus, the two sat under the dim streetlamp by the courtyard gate, talking for over an hour. Han Chunming checked his watch again: "It's already past nine. Let's stop here. We'll chat again another time—I need to get back."

"Alright, you go ahead. I've had quite a bit to drink tonight—I'll rest a bit before heading back."

Han Chunming patted Cheng Army Supervisor on the shoulder and turned to enter the courtyard.

As soon as Han Chunming disappeared from sight, Cheng Army Supervisor's smile vanished, replaced by a gloomy expression. He pulled out a pack of Huazhi, lit a cigarette, and sat there smoking. He hadn't smoked before, but after spending so long in prison, he'd picked it up.

He just sat there, smoking two cigarettes before finally entering the courtyard. When he got home, his parents were already asleep. He didn't wash up—just drank some water, sighed, and lay down on the bed, feeling that familiar yet alien sensation, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He hated this feeling, because it was precisely this feeling that made him remember Wang Yan and Han Chunming's achievements: one lived in a grand mansion near the imperial palace, the other still lived in a sihe courtyard but had bought a huge plot in the suburbs for retirement, while he, his same-age companion who'd grown up with them, had spent thirteen years in prison, gone through all this turmoil, and ended up back in this shithole courtyard, sleeping on a broken bed that creaked with every turn.

This made him hate Wang Yan and Han Chunming even more—especially Wang Yan, the root cause of his downfall. It seemed that from beginning to end, he'd been quietly harboring grudges against Wang Yan, while Wang Yan had never once given him a second thought.

But precisely because of that—because Wang Yan, that bastard, had refused to even acknowledge him—was what made it unbearable. He must make Wang Yan suffer. He once again psyching himself up, imagining all sorts of ways to ruin Wang Yan, his revenge fulfilled, until drowsiness overcame him; with the pleasure of his fantasy, he drifted into a dazed sleep.

The next day, after buying breakfast outside, eating and washing up, he took a taxi and deliberately detoured past Wang Yan's "Molou" to take a look, marveling at the new ways of spending money. Last night, he'd heard from Han Chunming: the building was nine stories tall, each floor five meters high; the first eight floors were almost entirely filled with calligraphy and paintings, with only a few porcelain and jade artifacts, and the ninth floor was Wang Yan's private residence. At the time, he'd immediately thought of "jiu wu zhi zun"—the supreme, noblest status—and Wang Yan was indeed good at showing off.

Here was a major state-owned enterprise's CEO, who'd held his position for decades without being transferred, and had even built a towering building in such a prime location—how had he gotten away with such blatant arrogance without anyone arresting him? Just thinking about it made him miserable, because compared to what Wang Yan had done, his own deeds were nothing. Seeing Wang Yan still living so freely, he felt hopeless—someone like this deserved to be shot.

Of course, this was his one-sided fantasy. Not to mention Wang Yan's immense contributions, even his business partnerships were substantial; though not under his name, the dividends were his. Also, Su Meng had long since resigned to go into business—now the largest chain mall in the country belonged to Liu Jinyou, another source of income. Long Teng Group still held 70% of his shares; though he'd never received dividends, he got over a million yuan annually as salary, and he could easily afford to build such a building with Long Teng's resources.

In fact, the building wasn't even under Wang Yan's name—it was registered under Fatty Li Dahai. All procedures were fully compliant, and they even held public exhibitions several times a year just to make things look legitimate.

Although Cheng Army Supervisor didn't know the truth, and though he believed Wang Yan deserved to be shot, he was wise enough not to file any anonymous reports. At the entrance of Molou, he peered inside for a while; though the entire facade was glass, revealing nothing, he could still sense the countless priceless masterpieces inside—something Han Chunming had told him.

He walked around the building once, estimated its area, spat fiercely on the ground, lit another cigarette, walked to the roadside, waved down a taxi, and headed toward Mentougou in western Jingcheng—he wanted to visit Han Chunming's museum.

At the museum, he gazed at Ming and Qing furniture, porcelain, jade, calligraphy, and paintings, asking people about their values. He even visited Han Chunming's residence—yesterday's arrangement; he shamelessly asked to tour it, and Han Chunming, of course, couldn't refuse, so he'd already instructed the staff.

Cheng Army Supervisor saw yet another display of extravagant spending: the courtyard here was magnificent, even more refined. If one had to describe it, such a mansion in the final days of the Great Qing, a century ago, when reactionary ministers stirred up tradition, might have triggered international backlash if executed with nine clans, but eliminating three clans would've been perfectly acceptable.

He wandered around for half the day, then rode the taxi that had waited outside all day back into the city, thinking of visiting his son—but ultimately didn't go. His son was twenty-two, had done well academically, and had been admitted to Capital Normal University; his Beijing household registration certainly helped. He'd just graduated and secured a teaching position at a high school.

If he went, he'd only bring himself pain—this ungrateful son would never recognize him… So he decided to wait a bit longer, until he earned more money, and then use it to make his own flesh and blood see clearly who his father was.

As he returned home with takeout from a restaurant, just as he reached the gate, the sound of an engine came from around the corner—a battered Suzuki pulled up, screeched to a halt with tires squealing twice, then fell silent.

Meng Xiaoxing stepped out of the car, opened the trunk, picked up a box, closed the trunk, and turned toward the gate—only then noticing Cheng Army Supervisor standing there staring at her. She paused, then said: "Oh? If it isn't Boss Cheng! Where've you been making your fortune these years?"

"I spent a few years overseas, didn't amount to much. But you, Meng Xiaoxing—you've really impressed me. Did you buy this car yourself?"

"Secondhand. Been driving it for years." Meng Xiaoxing looked disdainful, then added: "I've been looking at BMWs lately—will pick one up in a couple days."

"Wow, you're doing well, Meng Xiaoxing! Where'd you strike it rich?"

"Strike it rich? I just opened a restaurant with my partner. The car money came from the demolition compensation years ago. Business is going well, so I thought about upgrading." Meng Xiaoxing grinned at Cheng Army Supervisor's surprise and didn't elaborate: "Alright, I've got to go—I've got something to discuss with Wu Zi."

Without Cheng Army Supervisor interfering, Meng Xiaoxing married a Beijing local who ran a small business—introduced by a matchmaker, naturally gained Beijing household registration, had a son, everyone was satisfied, and life was going well.

Watching Meng Xiaoxing hurry into the courtyard, Cheng Army Supervisor smiled bitterly and shook his head—this wild girl had truly come into her own. He exhaled deeply, steadied himself, and entered the courtyard…

"Hey, Your Highness, Cheng Army Supervisor's out."

On the top floor of Molou, after concluding the serious business about the joint land deal, Han Chunming stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the distant Shichahai scenery, then turned to look at Wang Yan, who sat across the room, studying a newly acquired scroll at a large desk.

"Really?" Wang Yan looked up. "I remember he got nine and a half years. Did he get parole for good behavior?"

"Six months reduced, then he stayed in the south for two more months before returning. I ran into him in the courtyard last month—he sat by the wall with me for over an hour. Probably his parents told him we opened museums; he asked me about antiques—what's valuable, how to tell real from fake—probably hoping to score a bargain."

"It's been a month now—what's he doing? Not retiring at home, is he?"

"Could he possibly sit still?" Han Chunming shook his head and chuckled. "He didn't even stay home a few days before heading south again. I reckon this kid still hasn't learned his lesson—he's up to something again. If he keeps this up, he'll end up back inside."

Han Chunming didn't know what Cheng Army Supervisor was doing in the south, but Wang Yan knew perfectly well.

Cheng Army Supervisor spent a week in Jingcheng, visited Han Chunming's museum, even went to Ma Du's museum, then wandered for days through Panjiayuan, Liuli Chang, and other antique trading spots.

He didn't understand antiques, but he understood people—he had plenty of cunning. He quickly sensed groups of con artists working together to trap buyers, and gained a basic grasp of their tricks. Naturally, this was his specialty—he was highly attuned to it.

Besides witnessing the scams in the antique trade, he got lucky and spent a few hundred yuan on a porcelain bowl—only to discover it was genuine. He'd scored a real bargain, made a few ten thousand yuan profit. He also learned the unwritten rules of the antique trade and saw people's greed. Where there was greed, there was opportunity—his opportunity. He felt he'd found another path to wealth, and could also get revenge on Wang Yan and Han Chunming—just make them get fooled, make those pretentious so-called experts lose money. Use their losses to fund his future comfort—that would be sweet.

This was the only method he could conceive of short of murder. His hatred for Han Chunming hadn't reached the point of wanting him dead; his hatred for Wang Yan was deadly, but Wang Yan's status was too high—his home even had soldiers guarding it—and Wang Yan didn't even notice him, so he couldn't get close. Even if he could get near, knowing Wang Yan's street-fighter background, he knew his old limbs couldn't beat him. He still remembered clearly the sting of that slap and the kick to the chest from back then.

He couldn't kill Su Meng either, or even Wang Bin. Su Meng had bodyguards; Wang Bin had trained in martial arts since childhood, had chased down and beaten up multiple boys alone. And he was younger—Cheng Army Supervisor was no match.

And if he went too far and failed, he had no doubt Wang Yan would make him wish he were dead. Honestly, he was terrified—he dared not. First, he lacked the courage to kill himself, so he couldn't choose extreme measures.

So this was his only option—inflict just a slight wound on Wang Yan and Han Chunming. That was enough. Now, his demands were low—he just needed peace of mind.

With this mindset, he naturally turned to antique forgery, heading straight to Jingdezhen to learn.

Although Cheng Army Supervisor achieved near-perfect forgeries in just six months, that was absurd. Even if we ignore antique forgery, mastering even basic porcelain craftsmanship—from raw materials to shaping to firing to decorative patterns—was impossible in half a year.

But the original plot had it this way, and now Cheng Army Supervisor would inevitably achieve it—so we can only say Cheng Army Supervisor possessed extraordinary talent in this field, a true prodigy.

Wang Yan had no intention of interfering—he simply watched, to see how far Cheng Army Supervisor could go.

He smiled: "Then I'll take your good wishes."

Han Chunming shook his head and sighed: "Cheng Army Supervisor—he always brings trouble on himself. How can he be so petty? He spent thirteen years in prison—still can't let go? You don't know, when I saw him back then, I knew he still hated us."

"He was worse toward me. In '83, when he first went in, his mother begged me to show mercy—I knew then he hated me with every fiber of his being."

"Forget it. Let him be. I'll just wait to see when he gets himself thrown back in." Han Chunming waved his hand. "Your Highness, it's been half a year since we last drank together—when can we get together again? My master is ninety this year—he's always craving some excitement. Could you please spare him a little kindness?"

"Guan Ziqing and Guan Xiao Guan visit often enough—they're always finding ways to cheer the old man up."

In fact, since Guan Ziqing returned to China, he'd been extremely attentive to Old Guan—five days a week, leaving two days for Old Guan to rest. But Old Guan remained stubborn, refusing to accept them, still holding a grudge.

He ignored them when they were young, but now that he's old and dying, he wants to come back as a filial son—well, he won't die. He just keeps living…

"You know how stubborn he is—he's never calmed down these years." Han Chunming laughed helplessly, waving his hand. As half a son to Old Guan, he felt fine. If Guan Ziqing keeps this up, after Old Guan dies, he'd still be willing to give him some money—Old Guan's collection is all stored in his museum.

He asked again: "When will you be free? I'll arrange a time with Po Lao Hou and Xiao Ma."

"Next week."

"Got it. Then you enjoy your viewing—I'm off." Han Chunming clapped his hands and left without hesitation.

Wang Yan paid no attention, continuing to study the scroll on the table—it was a horse painting by Li Gonglin of the Northern Song Dynasty, newly acquired by his staff. After gazing for a long while, he picked up his brush and began painting a horse himself. When time was nearly up, he tidied up, stepped out, descended the stairs, and drove his decade-old Santana, its steering wheel worn smooth by years of use, back to his home on Beichi Zi Street.

He came back just in time, right for dinner.

Dressed casually and well-maintained, Su Meng, though already forty-six, still radiated charm and grace. Seeing Wang Yan get out of the car and return, she smiled: "I was just about to call you, and here you are."

"I'm always eager to eat—never need to be called." Wang Yan chuckled as he washed his hands, then called out "Father, Mother" to Su's parents, and the whole family sat down in the western wing's dining hall to eat.

Wang Bin eagerly poured wine for his father, placing it gently before Wang Yan.

Though this boy later applied himself to his studies, his college entrance exam results were average. It was only because his father, Wang Yan, exerted a bit of effort that he got into Peking University's Philosophy Department. He had just graduated and wasn't in a hurry to work; instead, he was out hanging around with a group of friends who also didn't need to rush into jobs, including Han Chunming's son—thanks to their fathers' connection, the two boys maintained a good relationship.

Wang Yan lifted his cup, took a sip, picked up some dishes to go with the wine, and grinned at the boy: "What's up?"

"You say that? Can't I just show some filial piety if I have nothing else to ask?"

Wang Yan shook his head with a smile and ignored him, turning instead to Su Meng beside him: "Today, Chunming came to see me. He wants to partner with Fatty to develop a plot of land in Yangcheng, and also wants your Shangcheng to join in and help drive it. What do you think?"

In this era, real estate was crazily taking on debt—so long as you got the land, build, renovate, and you'd make money. Especially after the full housing reform, the real estate market had exploded. The horn had already been blown; buildings were going up all across the country. Han Chunming was no exception—he'd grown too fast, hit some financial trouble, and now he was coming to Wang Yan to cling to his leg. Today's visit was all about this very matter.

Wang Yan had long stopped managing business affairs. On one hand, because he was the decision-maker; on the other, because the company had grown large enough to have its own procedures. As long as it developed normally and the decision-maker wasn't foolish, bankruptcy was nearly impossible. Fatty's company was just like that—it had already settled into a steady rhythm and needed no micromanagement. In truth, it was merely a side business to earn pocket money, not worth expending much energy on.

Now Han Chunming came to him because Wang Yan could make decisions directly, cutting out all the red tape and starting cooperation immediately—saving time and effort. No ordinary person could even get near Wang Mou.

Su Meng had largely taken over Liu Jinyou's business and was doing very well. She immediately nodded and decided: "It's a good thing. Even though Yangcheng already has one Shangcheng, opening another won't saturate the market. I'll have someone contact them."

After more idle chatter, as dinner was nearly finished, Wang Bin quickly shuffled over, grinning slyly toward his father: "Dad, can I ask you and Brother to discuss something?"

"Didn't you say you had nothing?"

Wang Bin ignored his father's teasing gaze and kept grinning: "It's like this—Uncle Jiu's going to give me a sports car, but Mom says it's too flashy and won't let me buy it. What do you think? Can I drive it?"

Wang Bin's eyes were full of hope.

This kid had never wasted money or been extravagant. Mostly because everything he wanted was already at home—he had no need to spend much, and never competed with others.

But he was still young, and a little tyrant since childhood—wanting to try something new was normal.

"Your old man's been driving that Santana for thirteen years. You want a sports car?" Wang Yan said slowly, watching the boy's disappointment. "Fine—you can drive it for one month, just to have some fun. If you dare rev the engine or race in the city, I'll break your legs."

"... Thanks, Dad. That's exactly what I thought."

Though slightly reluctant, Wang Bin happily agreed. From years of experience as Wang Yan's son, he knew better than to frown—otherwise, his father would use "testing Wu Gong" as an excuse to spar with him, then beat him black and blue. And if his father gave a clear warning, he'd better obey—because Wang Yan always kept his word, and he really would break his legs.