Chapter 17: Flipping the table and walking out

Deep in the alley, an abandoned warehouse.

A few kerosene lamps struggled uselessly, their dim yellow light twisting and swaying like ghost fire, stretching the ground shadows and trembling out the lurking evil in people's hearts.

Mold, tobacco, cheap liquor, and an indescribable sour sweat mingled, condensing into a heavy murky air that pressed down in the cramped space, making one feel suffocated.

A low, suppressed buzzing, like countless flies buzzing incessantly in your ears, irritating, uneasy, restless.

On the ground, goods lay in chaotic piles, stacked like mountains.

Furs of unknown origin, roughly spread on burlap sacks, exhaled a beastly musk.

Withered medicinal herbs, haphazardly bundled, gave off an earthy stench mixed with medicine, sharp to the nose.

Grain sacks gaped open, spilling their kernels, unattended.

In the shadowy corner, darkness like viscous ink seeped out, refusing to dissipate.

Shadowy figures flitted about, furtive, passing oilcloth-wrapped long items between them—a flash of cold light, icy and dangerous.

Chaos, danger, desire, greed.

This is the Black Market.

A devouring vortex of darkness.

Lu Qingshan's heart clenched suddenly, as if gripped hard by an icy hand.

Dragon pool, tiger's den.

The road ahead is unfathomable.

For Yue E, for Xiao Xue, for that home.

Charge!

We must charge through!

He lowered the brim of his tattered dog-skin cap, shadow shading his face and hiding the light in his eyes.

His body bent slightly, like a silent fish slipping into the crowd.

Crowded, noisy, filthy.

He ignored everything around him, his gaze sharp as a hawk's, scanning keenly.

Stalls flashed by, goods flickered, and finally he locked onto his target.

The corner, relatively secluded.

A middle-aged man in an oily leather coat, black-framed glasses perched on his nose.

Behind the black frames, his eyes were sharp, as cunning as an old fox.

Before him lay a wooden table draped with cloth, bearing few goods—several withered medicinal herbs listlessly arranged, like deliberate bait disguised as something else.

Yet he sat calmly at the baiting stand, fingernails tapping something, his gaze occasionally sweeping the crowd with a barely perceptible scrutiny.

Old fried dough stick!

Lu Qingshan's heart jolted, and he grew more cautious.

He drew near, using his sturdy body to block the prying eyes around him.

He lowered his voice, rough and hoarse, with the simple sincerity of a mountain folk: 'Big brother, buying goods?'

The medicine vendor's eyelids twitched slightly, a snort from his nostrils, fingers still twisting the dried yellow licorice, not lifting his lids at all.

In a lazy drawl, laced with condescending scrutiny: 'What goods?'

"Looking at your travel-worn appearance, you think a few rabbits and pheasants can fool me."

"The quality's poor; don't waste my time."

Lu Qingshan's heart sank—sure enough, the old ginger is still spicy.

He cut the small talk, blunt and decisive.

He unwrapped the bundle on his chest, moving with utmost care, as if holding a fragile treasure.

The rough cloth bundle peeled away layer by layer, revealing the unsightly scattered herbs.

Done on purpose.

A show of letting go to entice, whetting the appetite.

Finally, the main act appeared.

He produced the 'big item,' his movements extremely gentle, as if cherishing a lover.

Clean cloth, soft moss, layered wrapping, only a corner lifted.

A section of root stem, a fleeting glimpse.

Pale yellow, stout like an infant's arm, its surface encircled with clear lotus-node patterns, pearls dotted densely.

In an instant, a strange fragrance permeated.

Primitive earthiness mingled with rich medicinal aroma, intertwining like invisible threads, spreading silently.

Vitality surged forth, wondrous and powerful.

The foul air was instantly dispelled, replaced by a refreshing clarity that uplifted the spirit.

The medicine vendor's eyes bulged like a toad's, locked tightly on that root segment.

The licorice in his hand snapped to the ground, unnoticed.

He pushed up his glasses, the motion hurried; behind the lenses, light flared—greedy, scorching, like a wolf lunging for prey.

He suddenly lifted his head, gaze like an awl, scrutinizing Lu Qingshan inch by inch, as if trying to see through him.

His tone shifted instantly, excited and greedy, barely restrained: 'This… this thing… where did you get it?'

Lu Qingshan had prepared his story, expression unchanged, honest yet wary, the simple sincerity of a mountain dweller.

His voice hoarse but steady: 'An heirloom passed down; we can't even keep the pot boiling, so I brought it out to trade for a meal.'

Half true, half false.

The truth is, it's embarrassing.

Falsehood is the source.

Only by mixing truth and falsehood, reality and illusion, can one confuse people.

The medicine vendor stopped questioning, carefully took the old ginseng.

He felt its weight, solid in hand; his finger twitched and his heart raced.

Under the kerosene lamp, he examined it closely.

His greedy gaze swept over it like an X‑ray, scanning every inch, missing no detail.

It was plump, with thick roots and stems, spreading ginseng filaments, clear radial lines, and densely dotted pearl‑like spots.

Its appearance was flawless.

He brought his nose close, inhaled deeply, as if drunk, his face flushed with intoxication.

In an instant he forced himself to suppress it; the old fox's feigned calm was flawless.

He rubbed the ginseng roots and wet mud, feeling the delicate texture; his mouth twitched slightly, his gaze grew greedier, yet he started to press the price, unrelenting.

"Hmm… it looks impressive, not small."

"But,"

He deliberately drew out his tone, scraping the ginseng roots with his fingernail,

"Its age is at most fifty or sixty years."

"The roots are rough—didn't you dig them carefully?"

"Winter‑harvested stock isn't as robust as autumn's."

"Its appearance is mediocre."

He kept putting it down, driving the price lower.

"How about this,"

He lifted his head, reassessed Lu Qingshan, his eyes tinged with pity,

"I see you've had it rough, trekking the mountains in the twelfth month—I'll take a loss."

"I'll give you a number."

His short, thick fingers extended three, swaying in the lamplight.

"Three hundred! No more! These days it's risky—this thing's hard to move, I'm taking the risk!"

Three hundred?

Lu Qingshan snorted inwardly—truly a black‑hearted old fox!

Yet on his face he showed disappointment, anger, and reluctance.

A feeling of humiliation welled up.

His past‑life experience, his social savvy, was second nature.

He mimicked the old jianghu hands, snorted with contempt.

"Big brother, three hundred?"

"Are you trying to pay off a beggar? Or take me for a clueless oaf?"

"Speak plainly, no hidden meanings."

"You know better than I whether this is a treasure and what it's worth."

"Three hundred? Keep it for yourself to play with!"

"Oh?"

The medicine vendor narrowed his eyes; behind his lenses his gaze turned sharp—he scrutinized, surprised, probing.

He tapped his fingers on the table—dak dak dak—quickly, his mind wrestling in intense calculation.

Silence fell for a moment.

He seemed to be reassessing Lu Qingshan's background and the ginseng's worth.

"... somewhat interesting."

He finally spoke, his tone softened, but his probing remained.

"All right, kid, you've got some sense—you're no fool."

"But speaking of which, this item's risky to hold."

"In that case, big brother, I'll add a bit more sincerity—eight hundred!"

"One price only! Any higher and I'd lose money just to hawk it."

Eight hundred?

Lu Qingshan wore a look of disdain—yet the other was still testing his limits.

His face showed resolve, even a flash of irritation at being played.

He suddenly bent, snatched the ginseng—swift, decisive, as if about to turn and leave.

"Big brother, it looks like you and this have no fate together."

"At this price I'd rather take it home and stew chicken soup for my wife."

"Farewell!"