Chapter 371: I

The 23rd Olympic Games didn't just boost sales of Pengcheng Red Bull drink—it also ignited the popularity of Fenghua brand clothing.

But Fenghua brand clothing was already hot; this just added fuel to the fire.

Before the Olympics opened, all sales channels under Pengcheng Factory No. 7 displayed T-shirts and sportswear printed with the faces of mainland athletes.

Many in the apparel industry didn't understand: these T-shirts and sportswear had strong time sensitivity; what if they couldn't sell after the Olympics ended? Wouldn't they be stuck in inventory—or sold at a loss?

Yet Fenghua's success attracted many speculators; a swarm of copycats rushed in, and T-shirts with the five-ring logo were everywhere.

But they only printed simple five-ring designs, rarely printing athlete portraits—first, because pattern-making was too complex and time-consuming; second, because they couldn't be sure who'd win medals.

You print Zhang San's face, thinking he'll win gold, but he underperforms—customers will curse you before they even buy from you. Who are you selling to?

But they were soon stunned: as Chinese athletes kept winning golds and medals, people suddenly realized Fenghua had guessed correctly in nearly nine out of ten cases.

Later, insiders revealed that Fenghua had close ties with the Olympic delegation, obtained first-hand training data, and then used a master's scientific analysis to produce a probability table of medal winners—so Fenghua's apparel was precisely targeted, hitting nine out of ten.

Hmm, this master was said to be very young.

... lothing

Lao Song wore a Fenghua Olympic commemorative T-shirt printed with the Gymnastics Prince's face and a pair of trendy sneakers, pedaling his tricycle slowly into school toward his English training class.

But when he arrived, he found no students—only Teacher Ai pacing in circles.

"Hey, what's going on, Teacher Ai? Why no students today?"

"I sent them home. You're finally here, Master Song—come with me quickly."

Seeing Lao Song, Teacher Ai immediately pushed his bicycle and signaled him to follow.

Lao Song still took his time turning his tricycle around, asking calmly: "Where are you in such a rush? At least tell me where we're going."

Teacher Ai whispered to Lao Song: "I've found two good items for my family—come take a look."

"Good items? What kind?"

Lao Song's eyes lit up, his big yellow teeth flashing in a grin.

But Teacher Ai was too anxious to notice Lao Song's expression, only urging him to hurry.

"Hurry up! I'll tell you on the way—I made a 7 p. . appointment, and you're late again."

"I say, our training class has made plenty of money—get me a car! Riding this bicycle every day gave me leg pain."

Lao Song nodded vigorously: "Of course, of course—someone of your status shouldn't ride a bicycle. But cars are hard to get on the mainland—I can only manage a motorcycle for you."

"Fine, fine! A motorcycle's okay—buy me the best one, don't care about the price."

"Absolutely! Mr. Ai isn't short on cash, ha ha!"

Lao Song rode his tricycle behind Teacher Ai, watching his back, his face twisted in contempt.

When Lao Song first met Mr. Ai, the man had spoken to him with aristocratic airs.

But no matter how he carried himself, his mouth couldn't lie.

When Lao Song took Mr. Ai to eat Beijing delicacies, the man drooled uncontrollably—he couldn't savor slowly; he had to gulp it down fast to hide his constantly swallowing throat.

Could a real aristocrat be this hungry for food?

He constantly bragged about wearing only custom-made overseas garments worth tens of thousands of dollars, yet when Lao Song got him a few Fenghua outfits, he treated them like sacred relics—never letting a single hair touch them.

Could a real aristocrat care whether clothes were dirty? Real ones don't even wash them.

As for Mr. Ai's gaze at pretty girls—it was like he'd never seen a woman in eight lifetimes.

Could a real aristocrat lack women?

You're a beggar pretending to be a prince—can you even pull that off?

But no matter how much Lao Song despised Mr. Ai, the man still had value—and if he had value, he could be kept around.

Today was the day to cash in on that value.

Lao Song followed Mr. Ai, winding through several alleys, nearly reaching the suburbs before stopping at a courtyard gate.

Inside the courtyard stood Uncle Guan.

Uncle Guan looked at Lao Song and sneered coldly: "Say, buddy, you're really committed to following Mr. Ai for scraps?"

Lao Song grinned: "People climb upward, water flows downward. Mr. Ai can take me overseas for exotic feasts—I'm honored to serve him."

"Hah. Whether you're shamed or not isn't your call—betraying your ancestors invites thunder and lightning."

Uncle Guan was angry for a reason.

Last month, Mr. Ai returned from overseas, showed him letters and tokens, demanding the items left behind by the Guan family.

Uncle Guan refused, insisting on meeting the person who owned the tokens.

Mr. Ai flew into a rage, and only after consulting with Elder Guan did Uncle Guan agree to let Mr. Ai see one item.

But not all of them—just one.

After viewing it, Mr. Ai claimed he couldn't tell its authenticity and demanded a buyer inspect it.

If the item was fake, you couldn't sell it for a price.

That item was sold to Ah Qiang—Lao Song helped authenticate it.

Uncle Guan thought Lao Song was just helping out—but after, Lao Song became inseparable from Mr. Ai.

In just a few days, Mr. Ai stopped listening to the Guan brothers, coming up with one wild scheme after another to harass them.

Today he threatened to report them, tomorrow to expose them, the day after to summon authorities to pressure them into donating their treasures to the state.

The Guan brothers considered confronting Mr. Ai—but he pulled out his Lighthouse passport, claiming he was registered with the embassy: "Try touching me and see what happens."

So the two brothers decided to give Mr. Ai two more items—but he must take them personally to Lighthouse to show them to the Prince.

"Hey, Uncle Guan, who are you saying will be struck by thunder?"

"I didn't mean you, Brother Ai—why are you getting so angry?"

"Hmph. I know you dare not."

Mr. Ai put on a sour face, impatiently snapping: "Hurry up and bring out the items—I want to see them. You're being stingy with scraps, yet still make me come all this way."

Uncle Guan gave Mr. Ai a cold look, then a sharp glare at Lao Song, before retrieving the two items.

Lao Song took one look and froze—two items: a Tang tri-color piece and a bronze incense burner.

Mr. Ai said to Lao Song: "Master Song, take a look—tell me if these are genuine."

"Oh, uh, let me see."

Lao Song shook his head, picked up the items, and examined them carefully.

As he inspected them, Uncle Guan asked: "Master Song, you won't help Brother Ai sell these for cash, will you?"

Lao Song shook his head: "I'm just an authenticator. Whether they're sold or not isn't my call—it's Mr. Ai's."

Mr. Ai frowned: "Didn't you write a letter to my father? I'm taking these back—why bring this up now?"

"Hehehe."

Uncle Guan said nothing, but kept sneering.

After a long while, Lao Song nodded: "Fine items—truly fine. These belong in a national museum."

"Good. Then please have Brother Ai sign a receipt and take them."

Teacher Ai casually signed a receipt, loaded the items onto his bicycle, and hurried off with Lao Song.

After they left, Elder Guan, Guan Ci Hui, walked in from the back chamber.

Guan Ci Hui asked: "What did that Song guy say?"

Guan Ci Ying smirked: "What could he say? Just letting him glance at such treasures is a stroke of luck from his past life."

But Guan Ci Hui said: "Who told you those were real treasures? They're fakes."

"What?"

Guan Ci Ying stared, incredulous: "Brother, you're saying those two are fakes? How? I checked them myself!"

Guan Ci Hui smiled faintly: "Little brother, I told you you were a novice—you still didn't believe me. These two items have been buried underground for twenty years—how's that for fooling you?"

Guan Ci Ying was stunned: "Then why?"

Guan Ci Hui said coldly: "To find out whether the Prince is truly alive—or just pretending."

"So you're trying to force the Prince back?"

Guan Ci Hui nodded slowly: "We've never seen him—only letters. What good is that?

We can't let just anyone show up and take our treasures. We've guarded them for years—we deserve an explanation."

Guan Ci Ying looked at his brother's darkening face and finally asked: "What if the Prince never comes back?"

"Hah."

Guan Ci Hui laughed.

"The world has changed for decades—virtue claims the throne. Even if you and I could hold on, do you think your son Da Sheng could?"

Thinking of his son's character, Guan Ci Ying fell silent.

If Da Sheng knew the family hid so many treasures, he'd sell them all within two months—he'd never settle for poverty as a guardian.

"Yes… the Great Qing is gone."

Lao Song pedaled his tricycle, watching Mr. Ai speed ahead, his heart bursting with joy.

What a pair of scoundrels—I schemed and plotted for years to lure that beast back, yet you two did it for me. Why did I bother so much?

When Lao Song saw the two items, he froze.

Why?

Because those two items were among his last batch of fakes he'd fooled Major Murakami with—they were his own counterfeit work.

At first, he panicked, thinking the Guans had discovered his secret and planned to kill him in this courtyard.

But then he thought harder—and a flash of insight struck him: he understood the Guan brothers' plan.

The treasures the Guan brothers guarded belonged to the Prince.

The Prince is now sending someone back to retrieve it; not giving it to him is one thing, but giving him a fake is entirely another matter.

It's like a migrant worker demanding his wages—after months of being denied, all he can do is call 110 for help.

The smarter ones go to the labor inspection department; the bolder ones climb to the top of the crane to scare their boss.

But if you finally get paid, only to step outside and realize every bill is counterfeit—what do you think would happen?

I was the creditor, and now you think I'm an idiot?

So Old Song figures, if the Prince can even move a muscle, he'll most likely come back.

If that bastard could come back, why the hell would I be studying A, B, C, D? I've lost so much hair already.

(End of chapter)

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