Chapter 113: I Want You to Kill Li the Shopkeeper

Li the Shopkeeper is not here.

The man who received them was the burly fellow from last time; the clerks called him Manager Zhao.

Manager Zhao, upon seeing Chen Guanlou, no longer displayed the arrogant, boastful demeanor from last time, but he was far from courteous—he pointed upstairs and said impatiently, “The goods are on the second floor. Go up.”

Chen Guanlou always returned tenfold the respect he received. Since Manager Zhao was rude to him, he had no intention of being polite in return.

He led Du Fuzi straight up to the second floor.

The porcelain was packed in wooden crates.

Manager Zhao personally removed the porcelain from the crate—a white porcelain vase with red flowers and a long neck.

Chen Guanlou knew nothing about porcelain, its craftsmanship, its schools, or its age—he only knew this porcelain was breathtakingly beautiful, unmatched in elegance. Whether it was genuine or fake was for Du Fuzi to determine.

Du Fuzi suppressed his inner excitement, stepped forward, received permission, and began to examine it closely.

Chen Guanlou took the opportunity to survey the room’s furnishings: directly opposite the entrance stood a square table flanked by two armchairs. On either side were antique shelves of redwood with carved floral patterns, clearly priceless. The shelves held various ornaments—porcelain, gold and silver and bronze ware, lacquerware, books, and more.

On the front wall hung a painting—he couldn’t identify the artist, but it was surely no cheap piece.

After about an incense stick’s time, Du Fuzi finished his examination and urgently pulled Chen Guanlou into a corner, fearing Manager Zhao might overhear.

He whispered, “This matter may be too dangerous to touch.”

“Did you notice something, Du Fuzi? Speak freely—don’t be afraid.”

Du Fuzi hesitated, then pulled Chen Guanlou outside again before saying, “By my eye, the porcelain is definitely authentic—produced in the imperial kilns of the Yong’an era of the previous dynasty. But it likely came from the palace itself; no doubt some wastrel nobleman is selling it. Pawnshops dare not accept such goods—they fear trouble. Only the Sichong Moneyhouse, with its deep connections, dares handle such transactions. Once we get involved, we can never wash our hands clean. One day, we might lose our heads.”

Chen Guanlou nodded repeatedly. “Du Fuzi speaks wisely. I was worried about this very thing. Indeed, good fortune never finds me—only trouble does.”

“Then what do we do? We’ve come here, seen the goods— they won’t let us leave easily. Should we ask Grand Lord Hou for help?”

The only person Du Fuzi could think of—who had power, influence, and could speak up—was Grand Lord Hou of the Hou Fu.

Chen Guanlou had considered this too—whether to seek Grand Lord Hou’s aid. But in an instant, he dismissed the idea.

Even if Li the Shopkeeper was indeed setting a trap to frame the Hou Fu, the Hou Fu could sever all ties with him completely—or find other ways to defuse the situation. The Hou Fu’s foundations were too deep; noble families had intermarried generation after generation, always standing together. Their combined strength made even the old Emperor wary. The Hou Fu had no reason to defend Chen Guanlou—who was he, anyway? He had no value worthy of their intervention.

Moreover, the idea of a setup was merely his own suspicion. What if there was no trap—what if this was simply about greed?

The richer one is, the greedier one becomes; the richer one is, the more one wants to be richer. No one ever turns away from more money. Opening a steady stream of income—constant, reliable—why not? Even if discovered, who would dare report it?

To break this deadlock, the answer lies not with the Hou Fu. A third party must be drawn in—to stir the murky waters, to keep Li the Shopkeeper too busy to watch elsewhere.

He calmed Du Fuzi, signaling him not to panic—he would handle the rest.

He reentered the room and told Manager Zhao, “Tell Li the Shopkeeper to give me a few days—I’ll finish the accounts.”

Manager Zhao was clearly displeased. “Making accounts takes several days?”

Chen Guanlou chuckled coldly, his gaze disdainful. “Do you think making accounts means just scribbling a few lines in a ledger? Go ask the moneyhouse’s bookkeeper—he’d dare do it that way? If he says yes, I’ll make the accounts right here in front of you. What makes an account? Why does Li the Shopkeeper insist on me? I’m no professional bookkeeper. The key is one word: truth. Everything must be utterly real. Otherwise, why not hire a professional bookkeeper and use me, an outsider?”

Manager Zhao was speechless, with no reply.

He had asked Li the Shopkeeper this very question. Li had ignored him, giving him only a look meant for him to figure out himself.

He scratched his head, bewildered. “How many days exactly? Don’t try to fool us.”

Chen Guanlou said casually, “Ten to fifteen days, at least.”

“No! Three days max.”

“Three days? Impossible. If you can do it, do it yourself. Ask my Du Fuzi—every shipment we’ve handled before took at least half a month. Inspecting the goods, setting the price, finding buyers, closing the deal… there’s far too much involved. If you want truth, you must follow the full process. The goods may not pass through my hands, but the process cannot be skipped. Minimum ten days.”

“Five days!”

“Ten days!”

“Seven days!”

“Eight days!”

“Eight days, then.” Manager Zhao relented. “You’d better deliver. Don’t do anything extra. I’ll be watching you closely.”

Chen Guanlou glanced at him, assessed his capabilities—he could take him down with one hand.

“Watch all you want. Just don’t interfere with my work.”

Having secured eight days, Chen Guanlou was satisfied.

He first took Du Fuzi home, then went to the Tianlaomiao for duty.

He went about his normal routine, ignoring the moneyhouse’s watchers as if they weren’t there—easily shaking them off, arriving at the Da Xing.

The Da Xing’s manager, an old acquaintance, remembered him.

“Master Lou, it’s been a long time. Is there something we can help you with?”

Chen Guanlou gestured for the manager to step aside. “I need an assassin.”

The manager’s eyes darted. “Master Lou means…”

Chen Guanlou handed him a silver ingot—two taels. “Tell the assassin to meet me at the usual place tonight. If he doesn’t come, the favor he owes me doubles.”

The manager was confused—he had no idea of the private dealings between Chen Guanlou and the assassin.

“But—but the assassin won’t be back for a while.”

“That’s his problem, not yours.”

Chen Guanlou waved him off and left with effortless grace.

That night, he set up a full banquet in his courtyard, along with a jar of premium yellow wine.

A rustle came from the wall.

The assassin was used to climbing over walls—he never knocked.

“You called for me.”

“Qi Wuxiu!” Chen Guanlou opened with the assassin’s true name.

The assassin: …

Knowing his name was revealed didn’t matter. He sat on a bamboo chair, picked up a cup, poured himself wine, and drank alone. “Been swamped lately—haven’t had time to drink. Speak—what do you want?”

“I want you to kill Li the Shopkeeper of the Sichong Moneyhouse.”

Pfft!

Qi Wuxiu spat out the wine he hadn’t yet swallowed.