Chapter 328: Night Talk!

The next day.

Huaxia, Yanjing, late at night.

The city's surface traffic had already entered night mode; the flow of vehicles on the long streets was as sparse as a slowly moving river composed of sporadic points of light.

The buildings on both sides outlined a dark skyline against the night sky, with only a few windows still lit, like the pulse of this magnificent street.

A certain mysterious agency.

Inside the courtyard.

A wisp of orange light shone through the windowsill on the second floor of a small two-story building.

The color of the light was very warm.

The two pots of asparagus ferns on the windowsill cast fine, fragmented shadows in the light.

In the room, there were two master chairs and one rosewood square table.

There was no tea on the table, no documents, only a desk lamp and two closed books.

The lampshade of the desk lamp was a dark green, old-fashioned banker's lamp; the light was bright but not glaring, just enough to illuminate an area of less than two square meters around the square table.

Two white-haired elders sat facing each other.

The only sounds in the room were the low hum of the desk lamp and the faint, low-frequency background noise characteristic of this city in the dead of night, drifting in from afar.

The elder on the west side spoke first.

His voice was not loud, his speaking pace was not fast, and there was a subtle pause between every word, like a chess player confirming the consequences of a move one last time before placing the piece.

"Regarding that kid's affair, the voices outside are mixed, saying all sorts of things."

The elder on the east side did not respond immediately.

He lifted his right hand from the armrest and rubbed his chin with his thumb and index finger; the movement was very slow, like a habitual thinking gesture refined over many years.

"With something like this happening, some public opinion is normal," he said.

"Mm." The elder on the west side nodded, then turned his head, his gaze shifting away from the person opposite him and landing on the shadows of the two asparagus ferns on the windowsill, as if watching those shadows swaying silently against the window glass.

"Needless to say, the West is the most anxious, especially Yingguo; the cabinet held a special meeting to demand accountability. But they can't hold anyone accountable, the person can't be found, no evidence can be found, and they can't even pin down a solid charge—transnational theft, destruction of cultural heritage, endangering national security—these terms, when applied to this case, always make one feel that something is not quite right."

He paused, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of the master chair twice.

"There are many voices internationally asking what our attitude toward this matter is. Actually, it's very simple; our principles are consistent. We cannot support someone who would be classified as a criminal in a society governed by the rule of law. As long as they can find evidence, we will absolutely not favor either side; it should be handled as it should be handled. But wanting us to hand over the person and the artifacts right now? That is absolutely impossible. It's just going to be hard on the comrades at the Forbidden City; they'll have their hands full these next few days!"

The light plated a layer of pale golden halo onto his graying hair, and those stray hairs appeared even softer and more fragile within this halo.

The elder on the east side listened quietly to the end, without interrupting, without any change in expression.

His gaze remained fixed on the face of the person opposite him, like a quiet lake; there were no ripples beneath the surface, but the depth of the water was immeasurable.

Silence lasted for about ten seconds.

In those ten seconds, the only sounds in the room were the low-frequency hum of the desk lamp and the occasional cry of a night bird from far outside the window.

Then he spoke.

"You used a word just now." His voice was not loud, but the weight of every word was just right—not too much, not too little—just enough to land on the master chair opposite without being drowned out by the hum of the desk lamp.

"What word?" the elder on the west side asked.

"Steal."

The room was quiet for a moment.

The elder on the east side sat up slightly, his back leaving the backrest of the master chair, his whole body leaning forward by about five degrees.

This five-degree change altered his entire aura, transforming him from an elder chatting late at night into a decision-maker delivering a definitive opinion at a meeting.

"You said Chu Chen stole from the British Museum."

He looked at the person opposite him; in those eyes, which appeared exceptionally deep in the dim light, there was nothing sharp, no edge, no aggression, only a pure, unquestionable clarity left behind after being polished countless times by time.

"I'll ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

The elder on the east side turned his head, his gaze passing over the shoulder of the person opposite and landing on the windowsill.

The reflections of the two pots of asparagus ferns on the glass were scattered by the light of the desk lamp, turning into several blurry, dark green halos.

His gaze lingered on that patch of blurry light for about two seconds, then retracted, landing once again on the face of the person opposite.

"Why are our artifacts in their museum? Did they run there by themselves?"

The elder on the east side did not wait for him to answer; he continued on his own.

His speaking pace was still very slow, but the pauses between every word were compressed; when the whole passage was spoken, there was a coherent, unbreakable sense of rhythm, like a judge reading a verdict he had pondered countless times.

"The Admonitions of the Court Instructress, 1860, looted by the British army from the Old Summer Palace. 1903, the British Museum purchased it for twenty-five pounds from a Captain named Clarence Johnson. Twenty-five pounds. Think about it, what status does this painting hold in the history of Huaxia painting? Think about how many years it spent in the Old Summer Palace. Think again, when it was packed into a British officer's kit and traveled across the ocean to London, what would its creator, Gu Kaizhi—if he had a spirit in heaven—think?"

"Those Benin Bronzes, 1897, the British army launched an expedition to the Kingdom of Benin, burned the palace, and looted thousands of bronzes. The batch that the British Museum holds now is just a part of those spoils of war. And the Statues of the Three Fates, Lord Elgin sawed them off the walls of the Parthenon between 1801 and 1805. Sawed them off. Think about this image—a person holding a saw, standing in front of the greatest building in the history of human civilization, sawing its reliefs off piece by piece, loading them onto a ship, and transporting them to London."

He paused.

"After these things arrived at the British Museum, they were called 'collections.' When they were taken away, what were they called? They were called 'spoils of war.' Called 'gifts.' Called 'donations.' Called 'important archaeological discoveries.' They were never called 'stolen.'"

He leaned his body back against the backrest of the master chair; the five-degree forward tilt disappeared, and his aura shifted back from the sharpness of a decision-maker to the relaxation of a late-night chat.

But the vibration caused by that passage still echoed in the air, like a stone thrown into a deep pool, the ripples on the surface spreading outward in circles, not dissipating for a very, very long time.

"You said our position in public opinion is unfavorable," the elder on the east side finally said, his voice having completely returned to that unhurried, slightly hoarse, gentle tone. "I don't think there's anything unfavorable about it."

He looked at the person opposite, a very faint, very faint arc at the corners of his mouth.

That was not a smile; it was something more complex, heavier, and more resolute than a smile—the absolute self-confidence in one's own judgment possessed by someone who has experienced enough history!

"Those things, they fell from the sky in the first place. How can things that fell from the sky be considered stolen?"

After these words were spoken, the room remained silent for a long time.

The low-frequency hum of the desk lamp was magnified countless times in the silence, turning into a background, enveloping white noise, like distant ocean tides lapping against the walls of this quiet room, wave after wave.

The shadows of the two asparagus ferns on the windowsill swayed slightly against the window glass, the shadows overlapping and separating, separating and overlapping, like two ink dots moving slowly on paper, drawing an abstract painting that no one could understand.

The elder on the west side picked up the glasses on the table again, but did not put them on; he just held them in his hand, repeatedly rubbing the metal hinges on the temples with the pad of his thumb. The tiny clicking sound rang out grid by grid in the silence, like a clock that was ticking.

The next second, he put on his glasses and said, "If this statement of yours today were to spread, those Yingguo people would probably be unable to sleep."

"They haven't been able to sleep for a long time," he said, "one more person won't make a difference."

The light from the desk lamp shone on the two men's faces, on the gullies and lines carved into their skin by the years, and on those true expressions that are only revealed in the dead of night when all defenses are let down.

Outside the window, the night of Yanjing pressed heavily upon this ancient city that was constantly renewing itself.

From somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of a night bus engine drifted over, low and continuous, like the breathing of this city.

As a mysterious organization, the matters they discussed would never appear in any newspaper the next day.

The judgments they made would never be recorded in any official document.

Yet what they said was precisely the heartfelt wish of every person in Huaxia!