For days, Zhang Minghao had been haunted by Zhao Wan'er's alabaster complexion, her willowy silhouette that seemed to ripple like ink in watercolour, and the crystalline laughter that fractured moonlight into prismatic shards.
The inconvenient truth of her marital vows dissolved like mist before his calculations. To court this unattainable lotus blossoming behind societal walls, he'd orchestrated an elaborate nocturne of seduction—reserving Huxinyuan's celestial moon-viewing pavilion and commissioning a mutton-fat jade bangle from Yangzhou's master artisans, its milky translucence mirroring the hollow perfection of his intentions.
His pulse quickened to a staccato rhythm as her familial entourage materialised, conspicuously absent that human barnacle they called her husband. Adjusting Brioni cufflinks that gleamed like liquid mercury, Zhang deployed a courtier's smile honed through generations of aristocratic guile, his gaze cartographing the forbidden geography where Wan'er's collarbones disappeared beneath silk.
Wan'er stood rigid as Ming dynasty porcelain, her mother's web of deception unravelling thread by poisonous thread. What had been presented as casual familial bonding now revealed its true form—a grotesque matrimonial theatre staged within the city's most exclusive culinary sanctum. Chen Liang's absence hung heavier than the embroidered silk drapes, their golden phoenixes seeming to sneer from their brocaded perches.
Madam Zhao preened beneath Zhang's undisguised appraisal, her talon-like nails sinking into Wan'er's forearm like feudal manacles. The velvet-lined box materialised between them, its satin interior cradling jade that whispered of drowned rivers and imperial concubines.
"Relax, jie," drawled Zhao Baobei without glancing up from her Xiaomi's neon-lit abyss, "I DM'd your millstone-of-a-husband twenty minutes past." The younger sister's social media chronicle of this humiliation already bloomed with diamond-shaped validations, each like a shard of broken mirror reflecting familial betrayal.
Zhang's jawline hardened like forged steel. Let the peasant come—nothing would better illustrate their celestial disparity than this juxtaposition of bespoke refinement against threadbare existence.
"That gutter rat probably got lost counting sewer coins!" Madam Zhao's cackle died mid-snarl as Chen Liang stumbled through revolving doors, pursued by a taxi driver brandishing meter receipts like papal indulgences.
"Wan'er..." Chen extended work-roughened palms, the scent of steamed buns and honest sweat clinging to his patched sleeves—an olfactory assault on Zhang's Santal 33 cologne.
Zhang's Rolex flashed like a predator's grin as he intercepted the driver, a crisp banknote dissolving the altercation. "Consider it a souvenir," he purred, mentally calculating the psychological weight of this casually bestowed hundred-yuan note.
"Observe true largesse," Madam Zhao hissed, sweeping past lacquered screens depicting the Eight Immortals' celestial banquet. The lobby's nanmu wood panels drank her venom like parched earth absorbing poison rain.
At the concierge desk, reality pierced Zhang's facade like a hairpin through silk. The borrowed gold-tier membership card (swiped from Uncle Zhou's golf bag) triggered algorithmic rejection. As familial scowls congealed into a grotesque fresco, Chen Liang extracted an obsidian rectangle from his patched satchel—the physical manifestation of some incomprehensible cosmic joke.
Zhao Baobei's manicured claws intercepted it. "You? A parasite with..." Her tirade evaporated as scanners chirped their mechanical approval, the sound echoing through the marbled hall like temple bells tolling for fallen pride.
The concierge's spine curved into ceremonial deference. "Our Eternal Spring Pavilion awaits, Master Chen. Your black jade membership guarantees priority seating until the next lunar eclipse—would you prefer the peony or chrysanthemum tea service before your celestial banquet?"
Silence congealed like spilt quicksilver, freezing their sneers in gilded frames of humiliation. Beyond the carved cloud dragons that coiled about cedar pillars, a water clock dripped derision into its jade basin, each droplet counting the death of pretence.
Scarface, Thy Destiny Beckons
Zhao Bao'er's lens immortalised Chen Liang's serene visage—an alabaster statue amidst a gallery of grotesques petrified in mid-gasp. The seismic upheaval of narrative momentum suspended the very currents of discourse, crystallising disbelief into a tableau of stunned silence.
"Administrative fallacy!" The matriarch's palm collided with polished mahogany, her shrill denunciations shattering the air like fractured porcelain. Her maternal theatrics toward Zhang Minghao unfolded as a grotesque masquerade—a perverse inversion where the adopted usurper basked in saccharine familial devotion while the scion of blood languished in exile.
Zhang Minghao's carotid pulsed with the rhythm of humiliated realisation. A platinum enshrinement? Transcending his gilded artifice? This revelation dangled above his social pretensions like the sword of Damocles, its edge honed by incredulity.
Zhao Wan'er's eyes dilated—twin galaxies of astonishment collapsing into singularities of reappraisal. Could this poised tactician truly be her perennial underachiever, this enigmatic figure who nightly dissolved into digital oblivion?
"The registry brooks no dispute," intoned the concierge, her diction slicing through murmurs of dissent. "Chen Liang, Esquire—Executive Patron of Lakeheart Pavilion."
Zhang Minghao's complexion ignited with the blaze of aristocratic mortification. The alchemy elevating this pariah to platinum-tier eminence defied every axiom of social thermodynamics. His obsequious proffer of Da Zhonghua cigarettes—gilded olive branches of submission—met Chen's deliberate ignition of a proletarian Hongmei, its smouldering embers a silent manifesto.
At the gastronomic theatre, Chen's knuckles resonated against the celadon rice urn. "Matriarch, your culinary ministrations, if you would."
"Domestic servitude? For *you*?" Her voice ascended to ultrasonic registers. The inversion of hierarchy manifested as existential vertigo.
"The covenant endures," Chen countered, his equanimity unyielding as bedrock.
"Covenants? Delirious fabrications!" Her rebuttal shattered against Bao'er's evidentiary interjection—a filial dagger unsheathed from shadow.
The dowager's flinty gaze redirected its artillery. "Provenance! This gilded sigil's origins demand explication! Base memberships haemorrhage six-figure tributes—platinum tier verges on fiscal exsanguination!"
"Merely borrowed plumage," Chen demurred, the admission detonating Zhang's residual dignity like fulminating mercury.
"Charlatan!" The matriarch hissed. "Thou art but a carrion crow clad in peacockery!"
The telephone's klaxon intervened with operatic precision. A fraternal tremolo pierced the air—"Paterfamilias…gaming hall…mortal peril!" —propelling Chen's abrupt exodus.
Zhao Wan'er's rising silhouette met maternal interdiction: "Coin-fuelled salvations cease henceforth!" Her surreptitious transfer of currency into Chen's palm became a silent sonnet—a wife's devotion harmonising against the dissonant chords of filial duty.
The casino's miasma engulfed Chen—an olfactory symphony of despair (tobacco's acrid aria, perspiration's sour refrain, blood's metallic cadence). A primal ululation pierced the gaming floor's susurrus. Shouldering through the human magma, Chen's gaze fixed upon the tableau: his paternal progenitor crumpled like forsaken origami, dwarfed by Scarface's monolithic silhouette—a Cain exultant.
Chen's vision flooded crimson. "Scarface!" The roar erupted as Vesuvian fury. "Thy demise is nigh!"
The Scar's Defiance
"Scar! Your existence is forfeit to celestial retribution!"
Chen Liang's primaeval roar reverberated through the opium den's miasmic atmosphere, its seismic malice fracturing the veil of false civility. Patrons reeled as the air congealed with predatory intent – not mere mortal threat, but the prelude to tectonic vengeance.
The throng fractured like startled waterfowl, unveiling the cicatrix-faced warlord enthroned upon his dais of dread. His alabaster scalp glistened beneath the paper lantern glow, the infamous facial scar now a serpentine ridge of malice undulating with each sardonic twitch. "Persisting in this pantomime of filial championhood, fledgling dragon?" he crooned, theatrically relinquishing his dao to an acolyte. The blade's metallic exclamation against flagstones punctuated the mockery.
Prostrate at his boots writhed Chen Liguo – a cauterised marionette whose amputated wrist-stump wept carmine poetry. The ferrous tang of vital fluids commingled with opium's cloying perfume, composing a symphonie macabre.
"Father!"
The ululation pierced smoke veils as Chen Meng surged forth, only to be arrested by ebony tresses wound about Scar's knuckleduster. "Cease your mewling," he hissed, elevating her until satin slippers grazed sawdust in cruel ballet. The backhanded blow resonated like wet parchment tearing – her cheek now bearing a sonnet of humiliation in vermilion calligraphy.
Chen Liang's pupils contracted to lethal slivers. Within his psyche's sanctum, ancestral mantras coalesced: *Lee Sin's Draconic Appendage Technique awakened. Myofascial meridians aligned. Zephyr-acceleration protocol initiated.
The ghost of their prior Jade Market confrontation materialised between them – silent interlocutors in this danse macabre. "Your patriarch came whimpering to my court," Scar sneered, thumb abrading Chen Meng's tear-stained visage. "Six myriad taels of argent, and this mewling lineage remains unbroken. My clemency wears thinner than a courtesan's forbearance."
"Clemency?" Chen Liang's laughter echoed with the gelid bitterness of honed steel. "You mistake slaughterhouse butchers for almsgivers."
The warlord's rictus curdled. Sinews tensed in Chen Meng's raven locks—
*"Bloodless wrath is but shadowplay upon life's stage."
Lee Sin's battle hymn detonated through Chen Liang's fascial matrix. His lower limbs transformed into argent-wreathed draconic fury – a blur transcending mortal ocular perception.
CRACK!
The initial strike pulverised the radius and ulna into osseous shrapnel. Before the agonised howl could manifest, the secondary impact liquefied metacarpals with scribe's precision. The warlord collapsed like a desecrated pagoda, cranium impacting stone with aqueous finality.
"Spare..." The entreaty emerged as a sanguineous bubble, Scar's fractured mandible labouring like a beached selachian.
Chen Liang's boot descended – not upon flesh, but the dao blade adjacent to Scar's auditory meatus. The tempered steel disintegrated into argentite fragments mirroring the broken tyrant's whimpers. "Centuplicate restitution," he intoned, each syllable a gravemarker. "Commencing with your honour."
In the reverberant stillness, even the opium-sotted held respiration. Somewhere, a solitary tongbao coin pirouetted across gore-slick flagstones – the den's sardonic homage to karmic equilibrium.
The Matriarch's Wrath
Scarface had carved his existence through steel and bloodshed, yet never tasted humiliation of such exquisite bitterness.
But survival demanded the ingestion of even the most bitter draughts of degradation!
As the glacial leather sole ground against his cranium, his flesh became a trembling leaf in autumn's cruellest gale.
"My oath stands - restitution shall be exacted a hundredfold!"
Chen Liang's glacial pronouncement hung in the air like a funeral bell's resonance, congealing the spectators' very lifeblood in their veins.
A susurrus rippled through the assembled multitude:
"What fledgling wolf dares challenge the alpha in his lair?"
"Divine retribution or mortal folly? This spectacle eclipses even Fortuna's most capricious wager!"
Chen's eyes narrowed into twin blades of winter sunlight. His leg traced a crescent through the smoke-laden air – a movement that would humble Shaolin masters, drawing blood from stone. The crowd's collective breath crystallised in anticipation.
The shrill electronic cadence of a cellular device cleaved the tension thicker than opium smoke.
"Speak." His voice could frost the fires of Hades.
All chromatic warmth fled his visage as Ma Jie's urgent warning crackled through the ether: "Scarface's tendrils reach into shadowed thrones! Retreat ere-"
The connection expired mid-caution, swallowed by digital oblivion.
What ensued became tavern lore - a macabre symphony of splintering ossein and primordial howls as Chen Liang methodically deconstructed the underworld monarch. When the final limb yielded with nauseating percussion, the gaming hall resembled Dionysus' aftermath – overturned altars of chance strewn with sacrificial tokens.
"Who seeks enlightenment next?" Chen's sanguineous gaze swept the chamber. Twenty seasoned cutthroats shrivelled into cowering schoolchildren.
The hospital antechamber reeked of chemical despair. Chen Meng's tear-ravaged countenance aged decades in sixteen fragile years as the nurse delivered her clinical edict: "Fifty thousand taels of silver. Immediate."
Zhao Wanwan materialised in a maelstrom of jasmine and desperation, platinum salvation extended like Excalibur's hilt. Yet ere fingers grazed redemption, a mink-clad fury snatched the talisman away.
"Not a single copper fen for that gambling leech!" The matriarch's ululation shook ER walls. "Let the feckless wretch meet Charon! He's bled our lineage to pallor!"
Chen's vision tinged vermilion. As his sister's trembling digits sought salvation, the harpy recoiled as from pestilence. "Unhand my couture, gutter-born serf!"
The levee ruptured. Chen's roar vibrated fluorescent tubes into harmonic resonance: "SILENCE YOUR POISONED MAW!"
In that electrified moment, decades of compressed fury coalesced – not merely against this venomous crone but against Destiny's merciless gears. The medical staff were petrified, intuiting they witnessed not mere familial discord but the primordial scream of a phoenix igniting its pyre.
Unyielding Resolve
"Shut your d*mn mouth!"
Chen Liang's suppressed snarl echoed through the sterile corridor. His mother-in-law recoiled, jowls trembling as she stammered, "You...you...wretched cur! How dare you address me thus?" For decades, Chen had been the family's shadow—a silent receptacle for their venom. This volcanic defiance left her gasping like a beached fish.
"Still obtuse?" Chen's voice quivered with tectonic fury. "I said, *Silence! Does the concept of dignity elude your comprehension?"
"Dignity?!" She spat, her rouge-cracked lips curling. "You parasitic vermin! After our charity clothed your wretchedness, this is your gratitude?"
"Gratitude?" A mirthless laugh escaped him. "I swallowed every humiliation, every degradation, clinging to delusions of kinship. Yet you treat me as a stray mongrel—kicking a starving cur that bled itself dry for your comfort!" His words hung like an executioner's steel, severing decades of festering pretence.
Zhao Wan'er stood petrified. The man she'd dismissed as spineless now radiates stormfront intensity. Guilt coiled serpent-like in her chest—she'd watched her kin erode his humanity, mistaking endurance for frailty.
A nurse materialised from ER shadows, clipboard clutched like a shield. "Cease this circus! The patient's vitals plummet. Where's the surgical deposit?"
Chen's mother-in-law pivoted with viperish grace. "Let the wretch scavenge his father's coffin." But Chen's sister Meng crumpled to linoleum, tears etching salt trails. "Mercy...we'll repay tenfold. Our father's breath fades..."
"Enough grovelling!" Chen hauled her upright, voice raw as an exposed nerve. "We debase ourselves no more."
The matriarch's laugh dripped arsenic. "Repay? Your sire was a locust devouring our coffers! Not a copper more." Her cruelty crystallised truth—this wasn't kinship, but vampiric theatre.
A phone's mechanical chirp sliced the tension. Chen's ally, Old Ma, had wired emergency funds. As the transfer notification blazed crimson—*¥10,000*—the matriarch's eyes bulged. Since when did this worm command such currents?
Chaos detonated as black-suited enforcers surged through hospital doors. Their leader Tian Ye—brother to the crippled enforcer Dao Bo—exuded feral magnetism. "Evacuate the theatre. My brother claims precedence."
When Chen barred their path, Tian's grin revealed wolfish dentition. "Ah, the valiant ant who shattered Dao Bo's legs." A piston kick sent Chen skidding across antiseptic tiles. "Let us assay those *unyielding* bones."
Dragged to a subterranean chamber reeking of iron and despair, Chen endured calibrated savagery. Fists fell like hailstones, yet each time, he rose—spine like tempered steel, gaze unbroken. Tian twirled a bone scalpel, intrigued. "Most weep for mercy by now. You... *fascinate*."
As the blade kissed Chen's patella, the door imploded. A silhouette backlit by emergency lights barked, "*Desist!*" —a voice carrying both imperial authority and the promise of retribution.
The Oracle's Betrayal
The casino doors exploded inward beneath a thunderous kick, the merciless noon sun bleaching all corporeal detail from the intruder's silhouette. A blade-sharp voice cleaved the charged air:
"**Desist!**"
Wu Tian's katana arrested its lethal arc above Chen Liang's exposed patella. The crime lord tilted his head with serpentine deliberation, a vulpine grin emerging as he squinted against the solar assault. Through swollen eyelids resembling bruised persimmons, Chen Liang discerned Old Ma's stooped figure materialising from the photic tempest – a wizened samurai emerging through nirvanic flames.
The patriarch advanced between twin rows of Wu Tian's jackals, their obsidian gazes tracking his progress like scimitar blades, flanked by stone-faced retainers. The atmosphere coalesced into palpable viscosity – a grenade pin held between Wu Tian's manicured fingers. Yet the underworld emperor merely reclined in indolent majesty, accepting a lit Cohiba from a subordinate whose tremulous hands betrayed the room's electric tension.
"To what celestial alignment do I owe this visitation, Tianye?" Old Ma's obeisance remained unshaken as tobacco rings ghosted across his weather-beaten visage.
Wu Tian's laughter crackled like papyrus burning. "Since when do temple mice court the lion's den?"
"The boy's redemption."
A polished oxford lifted Chen Liang's chin. "*This* gutter vermin?" The katana's kiss danced millimetres above the femoral artery. "What claim binds you?"
"A passing comet in life's firmament."
"Fifty thousand jiao repairs my door. The carrion stays."
"Go..." Chen Liang's whisper erupted in crimson bubbles. "This celestial war exceeds your constellation."
Old Ma's cane struck marble like a thunderclap. "Scarlet Tiger provoked this blood feud. The cub's impetuousness merits discipline, not sacrificial slaughter."
Wu Tian bared canines in a death's-head rictus. "*Impetuousness* severed my blood brother's Achilles' tendons."
The revelation struck like a magistrate's seal. Old Ma's arthritic knuckles blanched against his cane before deploying the celestial gambit: "The Venerable Xu demands audience."
Recognition flickered behind Wu Tian's nicotine veil. Jewelled fingers drummed a funereal rhythm on jade armrests. "A life wager then. Victory walks. Defeat..." The unsaid verdict coiled like a silken noose.
Against Old Ma's silent supplication, Chen Liang rasped, "**Accorded.**"
The ivory dice cup slid across the haematite-stained felt. "Cast your destiny."
Chen Liang's tremor-riddled hands managed two palsied shakes. "Three-five-six," Wu Tian intoned with oracular certainty before the bones stilled. The revealed pips smirked in confirmation.
Now, the crime lord performed with lethal choreography – wrists describing mandalic arcs before the cup detonated against the table like Ragnarök's arrival. "**Divine the void.**"
Chen Liang's pupils dilated as clairvoyant senses awakened... only to collapse like shattered crystal, vertigo's tsunami obliterating cosmic visions. The chalice that once overflowed with fate's secrets now stood as impenetrable as Ilium's walls. Saltwater despair traced his jawline as the abyss yawned beneath his soul.
The lacquered cedar coffin cradled its skeletal secret – numbered ossements awaiting revelation to decree whether he'd depart sovereign... or dismembered supplicant.
Narrow Escape
Chen Liang's composure shattered like Venetian glass.
His entire confidence against Wu Tian had been anchored in his clairvoyant gift—this supernatural advantage was now vanished, leaving him defenceless against the gaming den lord's machinations. Survival itself teetered in the balance.
He shook his head violently, eyelids fluttering like wounded moths as he strained to penetrate the obsidian dice cup's impenetrable veil. Cold sweat carved icy trails down his vertebrae, each droplet a testament to mounting dread.
Wu Tian's patience evaporated as swiftly as morning dew. A serpentine smile curled his lips as he snapped his fingers. From shadowed corners emerged a henchman bearing an ivory-hilted dagger, its blade catching lamplight like frozen malice.
*Thunk!*
The quivering steel embedded itself in mahogany, mere millimetres from Chen Liang's trembling digits. "Tick-tock," Wu Tian purred, manicured nails drumming a funeral march against woodgrain.
Old Ma's weathered countenance furrowed like ancient parchment. "Young Chen? Any revelation?" The question hung suspended in the opium-thick air.
Chen Liang's throat constricted. Summoning final reserves, he willed cosmic alignment—if golden coins could reignite his vitality... Bloodshot eyes snapped shut. A familiar chime resonated through his psyche.
*"Anovasa guides me!"*
The world crystallised into diamond clarity. Through the now-transparent vessel lay three shattered dice, ivory fragments whispering *zero points*. His declaration emerged hoarse, consciousness unravelling at the edges.
Chaos erupted. Wu Tian's thugs exchanged bewildered glances while Old Ma's breath hitched in midair. The crime lord's mask fractured, rage twisting his features into a grotesque Noh theatre grimace.
*"Leave!"* Wu Tian spat through clenched teeth, storming from the den like a retreating typhoon. The unopened dice cup remained a silent accuser on emerald felt.
Returning consciousness brought antiseptic assaults – hospital fluorescents glared like wrathful deities. Bandages constricted his torso, each breath a branding iron reminder of mortality's lease.
Old Ma's chuckle carried camphor-tinged relief. "Youth's resilience never ceases to astonish." The antiquarian's eyes held unspoken enquiries, yet discretion prevailed. "Wu Tian conceded without verification – unprecedented in his wretched chronicle."
Later, in marital chambers thick with unspoken wounds, Zhao Wan'er's whispered apologies dissolved against scarred emotions. They lay like opposing continents, a chasm of silence widening between.
Dawn found Chen Liang haunting bazaars, a newfound purpose steeling his resolve. Survival demanded resources – wealth to arm his family, coins to fuel his gift. Fingers brushed a Song dynasty vase, its aura faint yet promising salvation.
The Lakeheart Manor reconciliation dinner unfolded as a tragicomedy. Old Ma's gracious nod to Zhao Wan'er ("A celestial union") shattered as the matriarch's entourage invaded. Zhang Minghao's arrival completed the farce, his smarmy grin igniting fresh tensions.
*"I said wait!"* The matriarch's slap reverberated through the dining sanctum, silverware trembling in sympathy. Chen Liang's jaw tightened, the unopened dice cup of destiny commencing its eternal spin.
The Counterfeit Bracelet
"And you insisted on awaiting his arrival?"
Chen Liang's gaze blazed into his mother-in-law, fury smouldering beneath his veneer of composure. He had no intention of sabotaging his wife's meticulously orchestrated olive branch. Since the hospital debacle, familial tensions had calcified, and Zhao Wan'er's effort to mend the rift between him and her mother was both transparent and poignant. Yet Tang Mengru's audacity recognised no bounds—summoning Zhang Minghao, the very suitor she'd thrust upon Wan'er, to this dinner ostensibly honouring Old Ma's benevolence. Was this calculated provocation, or did she truly perceive Chen Liang as spectral—or better yet, interred?
The air in the private dining chamber congealed like chilled plasma.
Zhang Minghao hovered at the threshold, clutching a velvet-lined case, his disquiet poorly veiled. Chen Liang's brusque dismissal pricked his pride, yet he cloaked his umbrage in courtly decorum. "Should my presence prove disagreeable," he intoned, affecting wounded propriety, "I shall withdraw. Auntie Tang, this trinket I pledged to you—a rarity among jades." He deposited the box with ceremonial precision before pivoting toward departure.
Tang Mengru erupted from her seat, seizing both the gift and Zhang's forearm. "You'll sit beside me, Minghao," she decreed, skewering her son-in-law with a venomous glare. "Let us witness who presumes to banish guests!"
Zhao Wan'er interposed, her voice quavering: "Mother, this gathering was meant to reconcile, not inflame. Why would you—"
"I extend invitations at my pleasure!" Tang hissed, her eyes scouring Chen Liang with naked revulsion. "Don't imagine me blind to your thievery—pilfering heirlooms to bankroll your clan's indulgences! That wastrel father of yours—" she thrust an accusatory finger at Chen Lianguo, whose face drained of colour "—bled my daughter white settling his gambling debts! A thousand banquets couldn't redeem what you've plundered!"
Chen Lianguo recoiled as from a physical blow. The aged man parted his lips in placation, but Wan'er severed the tirade: "Enough! If this spectacle persists, we dine elsewhere." She rose, offering her father-in-law a contrite bow. "The fault is mine. Let us depart."
Old Ma, the venerated antiquarian, inclined his head sagely. "Companionship transcends venue."
As the party stirred to leave, Tang Mengru lunged to barricade her daughter. "Very well! Not another syllable!" She capitulated through clenched teeth, though her eyes vowed retribution.
The meal resumed, partitioned by glacial silence.
Chen Liang ventured diplomacy, elevating his goblet: "Father, we owe Old Ma our profound gratitude. His magnanimity funded your surgery."
Chen Lianguo's arthritic hand trembled as he raised his wine. "To Old Ma's boundless compassion!"
The antiquarian dismissed the formality with a wave. "Address me as Brother Ma. We are kin in spirit here."
Their cordiality fanned Tang's rancour. Seizing the moment, Zhang Minghao produced a lacquered case. "Auntie Tang", he crooned, "you admired the blood-jade bracelet I bestowed upon Wan'er. After months of pursuit, I present its twin."
Within the nested satin lay a crimson circlet glowing like captured twilight. Tang gasped, performing astonishment. "This must command a king's ransom!"
"A trifling six hundred thousand yuan," Zhang demurred, savouring Chen Liang's stony countenance. "Paltry recompense for your radiance."
As Tang preened, Old Ma extended a desiccated hand. "Might I inspect this marvel?"
The chamber stilled. Reluctantly, Tang surrendered her prize. To universal astonishment, the antiquarian passed it to Chen Liang. "Your assessment, young scholar?"
Chen's eyes flickered with eldritch luminescence—*"Anovasa illuminates."*
The bracelet unveiled its truth: no venerable patina, but a creeping miasma of mortality.
"Well?" Tang sneered. "Can a dilettante discern quality?"
Chen Liang met Zhang's smug visage and smiled. "This bracelet", he proclaimed, "is counterfeit."
Elder Ma's Summons
"This jade bracelet—'tis a counterfeit masterpiece!"
A sardonic smirk etched itself upon Chen Liang's countenance. His pronouncement carried no personal malice toward his mother-in-law, Tang Mengru, or Zhang Minghao, merely articulating dispassionate observation with clinical precision. While disdaining petty calumny, his unvarnished candor inevitably stirred controversy's cauldron.
Tang Mengru's strident rebuttal pierced the charged atmosphere: "Thou charlatan! Pretender to expertise thou dost not possess! This reeks of base envy—the spiteful imaginings of one who could never aspire to such treasures!" Her claw-like fingers caressed the blood-jade bangles with covetous devotion, relics Zhang had allegedly procured from a Qing dynasty general's sepulcher through auction house channels.
Zhang Minghao's patrician composure fractured momentarily, his aristocratic veneer cracking like Ming dynasty eggshell porcelain. "Though commercial rivals, I've maintained cordial decorum," he countered with glacial formality. "This groundless slander dishonors both my ancestral house's reputation and Bo Ya Zhai's century-spanning legacy." His family's antique emporium in West Street's Curio Quarter stood as an institution of unimpeachable standing.
Elder Ma's intervention carried the tectonic gravity of shifting continental plates. Cradling the disputed artifacts with archivist's precision, the venerable connoisseur murmured, "I place credence in Young Chen's discernment." Disregarding Tang's spluttering protests, he embarked upon an erudite exposition:
"Authentic xueyu forms through hematite permeation within arterial networks of entombed nobility across millennia. These" – he gestured dismissively – "bear hallmarks of modern artifice. Observe the sepulchral miasma clinging to corpse-soaked burial ground imitations." Immersing the bangle in steaming water unleashed a putrid stench that confirmed his verdict.
Zhang's aristocratic pallor turned ashen as ancient funerary silk. The revelation of Chen's prior triumph—identifying a misattributed Han dynasty censer that netted Elder Ma a 600,000 RMB windfall—compounded his humiliation. Tang Mengru's avaricious gaze now measured her son-in-law with recalculated intensity.
Elder Ma's proposition hung suspended like a priceless Song dynasty scroll unfurling: "Join my establishment. Thirty thousand monthly stipend base, five percent commission on acquisitions." The offer shimmered with implicit potential—in this realm where singular transactions routinely breached seven figures, it represented not mere employment but initiation into the inner sanctum of cultural custodianship.
As the familial tableau's stunned silence crystallized, Chen Liang stood poised upon the chrysalis edge of metamorphosis—from domestic pariah to ordained arbiter of China's material legacy.
Dreams Require Financial Investment
All ocular attention converged upon Chen Liang, Zhang Minghao's gaze congealing into glacial stilettos. To his embittered perception, this convivial gathering manifested as a meticulously orchestrated mortification—the hematite-jade bracelet imbroglio now compounded by professional entrapment.
Mr. Ma's mesmeric proposition—a monthly emolument of 30,000 yuan crowned by 5% commission royalties—induced sepulchral silence. Such munificence transcended industrial orthodoxy, particularly for an aspirant bearing mere junior secondary credentials. Even Zhang's most obsequious associates would scarcely proffer such largesse to kin, let alone strangers.
Chen's deliberation hovered like suspended temple incense. "Profoundly honored, Mr. Ma," he finally articulated with sacerdotal gravity, "yet my covenant with competitive gaming permits no bifurcated allegiance."
A seismic wave of incredulity undulated through the assembly. Tang Mengru's composure developed tectonic fractures; her indignation at this perceived ingratitude manifested as smoldering magma beneath continental plates. Paradoxically, Zhao Wanwan, the marital lodestar, radiated stoic equanimity: "Your moral compass commands my unwavering fidelity."
The antiquarian patron, embodying quicksilver adaptability, acquiesced: "Youth's chariot must pursue auroral horizons." His counterproposition—preserving the gilded remuneration package with temporal elasticity—dissolved tensions like alkahest, though Tang's sotto voce lamentations regarding "profligate providence" persisted like vestigial smoke.
In crepuscular seclusion, Chen restored the onyx VIP credential with silken resolve: "Privileges shall be forged in merit's crucible, not dispensed as alms." The elder's nod, weighted with hierophantic approbation, ratified this covenant of latent ascendance.
Keep Your Distance from My Wife!
West Street Antique Market.
A ground-floor emporium teemed with patrons, its unassuming location belying the clandestine treasures within. These underground auctions—organized by enterprising dealers to circumvent formal auction houses' exorbitant commissions—became arenas where intuition dueled with deception, a gambler's paradise for discerning connoisseurs.
Chen Liang hastened through the entrance, only to be barred until Old Ma, the seasoned collector, intervened with a nod of recognition. The protocols were immutable: observe without contact, heed the merchant's soliloquy, then wager at one's peril.
The curtain rose with a resplendent cloisonné gu vessel. "A Qing-dynasty folk rendition emulating Ming craftsmanship," the auctioneer proclaimed, his gavel striking the lectern at an inaugural bid of 200,000 yuan. While others clustered around the piece like moths to a flame, Chen Liang's gaze intensified—his singular vision penetrated the enameled façade, exposing pristine copperwork beneath its chromatic veneer.
"It bears...undeniable verisimilitude," he confided to Old Ma, though lacking the visceral resonance of previous encounters with genuine antiquities. The elder collector's brow furrowed during his scrutiny, yet ultimately he deferred to the younger man's instinct, escalating bids until Zhang Minghao's father countered with lupine persistence.
As subsequent artifacts emerged, a pattern materialized. Chen Liang's ostentatious appraisals—"This" specimen shows remarkable potential, Elder" Ma!"—transformed into cunning lures. The Zhangs, guided by their informant stationed behind Chen Liang's seat, became ensnared in the snare, voraciously amassing every "endorsed" curio.
When the final gavel descended, the Zhangs preened over their acquisitions while Ma and Chen Liang stood bereft of spoils. "How does destitution suit your palate?" Zhang Minghao taunted, his chest inflated with pyrrhic triumph.
Chen Liang advanced, his diction glacial as hoarfrost. "A caveat for your collection—those 'priceless relics' you've amassed? Masterful forgeries. Our theatrical display was orchestrated exclusively for your benefit." Leaning inward, his whisper carried venomous precision: "Henceforth, let your presumptuous overtures remain leagues from my wife's presence."
Zhang Minghao's countenance blanched as epiphany struck—they'd been checkmated in their gambit. Meanwhile, Old Ma's knowing smile deepened its creases. Tonight's true prize lay not in material gain but in the exquisite savor of poetic justice, served at perfect zero degrees.
A Lesson in Humility
"Allow me to impart a revelation. Every artifact you pursued today is a counterfeit—exquisitely crafted replicas orchestrated for this spectacle. Henceforth, maintain a prudent distance from my wife."
Zhang Minghao's face drained of color. Though instinct compelled him to scrutinize his acquisitions, his trembling hands froze mid-gesture, knuckles whitening. "Having failed to secure a single bid, you resort to petty bluster?" he sneered, yet a bead of perspiration glistened at his temple, betraying his bravado.
Chen Liang arched an eyebrow, his gaze sharp as winter frost. "Still convinced your machinations went undetected?" His finger swept imperiously toward the youth flanking Zhang.
Zhang's breath hitched. *How could he have uncovered this?* The sting of humiliation burned fiercer than acid.
Earlier, upon recognizing Master Ma among the auction attendees, Zhang had recalled yesterday's indignity. Observing Chen's tardy arrival, he had hissed to his accomplice, "Shadow them. Whatever they desire, seize it." Every murmured exchange between Ma and Chen had been relayed through concealed earpieces, fueling his predatory bids.
Yet hubris blinds even the cunning.
"Absurd!" Zhang thundered, though Master Ma's faint smirk gnawed at his resolve. "This farce is beneath contempt!"
"Then inspect your treasures," Chen countered, exhaling a plume of smoke that coiled like phantom serpents around Zhang's rigid posture. The sudden edge in his voice severed Zhang's retort. "Consider this a courtesy. My wife remains beyond your grasp."
Under his father's iron grip, Zhang was dragged from the hall, abandoning their "priceless" spoils. The auctioneer scurried after them, proffering a complimentary scroll, only to be met with venom: "Keep your trash! I'd sooner wipe my hands with latrine parchment!"
As Chen languidly claimed the discarded painting, Zhang's neck twitched involuntarily—that particular canvas...
Who Declared... This Mere Trash?
The antique shop proprietor cast a sidelong glance at Chen Liang.
His eyes darted slyly, feigning hesitation: "Well... I cannot simply relinquish it. The Zhangs are esteemed patrons—their recent auction expenditure surpassed millions. This painting was but a complimentary token. Should you desire it..." He trailed off theatrically.
"One definitive price: a hundred thousand!"
The proprietor's audacious extortion hung thick in the air.
Master Ma levelled an icy gaze at him.
Misinterpreting this as tacit approval of Chen Liang's interest, the proprietor grew emboldened. In the West Street Antique Market, Master Ma's legendary discernment was gospel—his interest alone could transmute dross to gold. A seasoned opportunist, the proprietor seized the moment to exploit.
"Wh-what?" Chen Liang stammered, flustered. "You offered it freely! How now this exorbitant sum?"
"Nonnegotiable. Final offer," the proprietor asserted.
"This..." Chen Liang wavered.
Observing this, the proprietor's pulse quickened. What moments prior had been discarded as refuse now shimmered as potential profit. Hesitation signalled vulnerability. Though perplexed by Chen Liang's sudden fixation, Master Ma interceded.
"Ten yuan—for your tobacco," Master Ma stated coldly.
"Master Ma, such cruelty! No merchant bargains thus," the proprietor whined.
"Nor do honest men extort. The painting holds no value to me—cease this charade," Master Ma countered.
Cornered, the proprietor forced a chuckle. "Very well—fifty thousand. Not a coin less. For a gentleman of his discernment, mere trifles!" His face contorted in mock anguish, though the painting had cost him nothing—a throw-in from prior dealings. Profit, however trifling, remained profit.
"Pfah. This scrap merits ten yuan. Add ninety for your silver tongue."
"Impossible! My cost exceeded ten thousand!" The proprietor shook his head vehemently.
"One hundred more. Final bid."
The price cascaded from 100,000 to 10,000. Chen Liang's heart hammered. Before the proprietor could demur, he blurted, "Ten thousand! Done!"
Master Ma's eyes narrowed. Recognising the youth's desperation, Chen Liang bowed his head. "I... apologise, Master Ma."
The proprietor grinned, thrusting the painting into Chen Liang's grasp. The young man accepted it awkwardly.
"Master Ma... might you advance the sum?"
Master Ma stiffened—had he not just disbursed 600,000 for the jar? Yet he counted out the notes without query. His auction funds, meant for treasures, now served this curious purpose.
As the proprietor reached greedily, a voice sliced through: "Stay your hand."
Zhang Minghao sneered at Chen Liang. Humiliated earlier, he'd deny this upstart even victory over detritus.
"That painting belongs to me," Zhang proclaimed.
Chen Liang clutched the artwork. '"Tis mine by transaction."
"It remains *my* property," Zhang retorted.
"You spurned the proprietor's offer. My purchase stands lawful."
"Precisely—his offer extended to *me*. Thus, ownership persists," Zhang smirked.
The proprietor's gaze darted between Chen Liang's cash and his VIP client. "Regrets, young sir. Mr. Zhang reclaims..."
"You renege on sworn terms?" Chen Liang paled.
"Let me elucidate," Zhang jeered. "I care not for this trash. Yet I'd sooner rend it to kindling or wipe my posterior with it than see *you* possess it!"
Chen Liang glared, revolted yet resolute. Master Ma pressed a steadying hand to his arm.
"Stand firm. None shall wrest what's rightfully claimed."
Zhang turned to the gathering crowd. "Does the venerable Master Ma now pilfer from juniors?"
A murmur rippled through the onlookers. Reputation here held the weight of jade.
Master Ma scanned the assembly. "Who among you forgets our covenant? A pact binds when goods and coin exchange—*save the buyer's voluntary release*." His gaze pinned the proprietor. "Violate this canon, and West Street shall know you no more."
The proprietor blanched. Market laws were inviolable—transgressors became spectral pariahs.
Zhang, realising his miscalculation, spat: "Keep your offal! Boyazhai* shelters true masterworks." He whirled to depart.
Chen Liang's voice rang clear, trembling with revelation:
**"Who declared... this mere trash?"**
To be continuous…