002 An Unexpected Calamity

As his excitement faded, Yang Tang, slightly dejected but unwilling to admit defeat, still made his way to Old Street. As expected, he found almost no antique stalls. After asking around, he learned that, starting from March 1st, all street vendors would be banned in this area, so after the new year, almost no antique dealers had come to set up shop.

Faced with this blow, Yang Tang felt uneasy—not so much about missing out on a lucky find, but more concerned about whether this meant he’d also missed his chance to meet his future wife.

Fortunately, Yang Tang had been nearly forty before he was reborn into this life, so his mental fortitude was more than sufficient. Or perhaps his previous life’s experience had taught him a simple truth: whatever Heaven wills, so be it; all one can do is strive and leave the rest to fate.

But since he was already on Old Street, Yang Tang decided he might as well have a look around, maybe even pick up something cheap. This was a habit he’d developed over years as a househusband—one not easily shaken.

Unfortunately, he saw nothing both cheap and good along the way. But when he reached the end of the street, he discovered a few antique stalls, each with a sign proclaiming “Clearance Sale.”

Yang Tang had no expectation of finding one of those legendary treasures of his past life, but nonetheless, he wandered over and began browsing among the small handful of others—who might well have been planted there to draw in business.

“Boss, since it’s a clearance, how are these things priced?” Yang Tang asked, picking up a string of beads.

The boss, with dead-fish eyes, was absorbed in his newspaper and drag on his cigarette. Barely glancing at Yang Tang, he jerked his chin at the largest pile of trinkets. “This pile, ten bucks each. The smaller pile in the middle, fifty each. The rest, a hundred apiece. No haggling.”

Yang Tang instantly realized the goods weren’t real antiques—otherwise, the prices wouldn’t be so rigid. He lost interest in looking closely, instead scanning the items quickly, mentally noting the ones he liked without picking them up, so as not to tip off the owner and invite a price hike.

After a while, having made his selection, Yang Tang dragged several small items over to the boss. “Boss, these six pieces. Give me a deal—fifty for all?”

The boss didn’t bother to examine Yang Tang’s picks, just glanced at the number and shape of the items. He squinted at Yang Tang with those dead eyes for a full two seconds before looking away, taking another drag. Finally, he pulled a hand from under his seat and raised a thumb. “Sixty for all. Or take one less.”

“That’s steep,” Yang Tang muttered, but still reached into his back pocket for his money.

The boss’s lips curled in a faint smile. He said nothing, just watched Yang Tang’s movements.

Yang Tang fished out his cash—mostly fives and tens, no large bills, the standard currency (1 Standard Dollar ≈ 1 USD ≈ 1 Pound). He counted and, looking troubled, said, “Boss, I’ve only got about seventy on me, and that’s my meal money for the week. How about all six for fifty?”

“No way,” the boss refused flatly. “That pile’s ten each, no bargaining.”

With a wry expression, Yang Tang put back the roughest-made item, counted out fifty, and tossed the money onto the stall. “Give me a bag.”

The boss carelessly yanked a black garbage bag from under his stool and tossed it to Yang Tang, then picked up the cash from the table, straightened it, and slowly put it away.

Yang Tang quickly packed his five chosen trinkets into the bag, took one last look at the stall, and walked off.

Once out of sight, he pursed his lips in a secret smile, took out the five items for closer inspection, and kept only one—a piece resembling a thangka. The other four rough trinkets, he wrapped in the garbage bag and tossed into a roadside dumpster.

The thangka was of a material that seemed neither quite gold nor non-gold, at first glance like jade, on closer inspection like plastic. The craftsmanship was exquisite, less than half the size of a palm, covered in strange patterns—some kind of design, though Yang Tang studied it for a long time without making out exactly what it was. Still, he didn’t feel spending fifty on it was a loss—there was instead a small thrill of having found something worthwhile.

“Hm, there’s a hole in this thangka, probably for threading a cord. I’ll need to spend a little more,” he mused.

Leaving Old Street, Yang Tang took a few turns and arrived at New Street, the area near the school where all sorts of small shops were concentrated. If the boarding students didn’t eat at school, they invariably came to New Street to eat out.

On New Street, there were noodle shops, restaurants, even hotpot and stir-fry joints. Billiard halls, rental bookstores, and arcade rooms were more numerous here than on any nearby street. At the corner there was also a dry cleaner, a small supermarket, and a market—basically, unless something was extremely rare, you could buy it on New Street.

Yang Tang crossed the street, heading straight for the dry cleaner at the corner, not noticing the tall figure by the arcade entrance waving at him.

******

Inside the arcade, a blond youth smoking a cigarette called to the tall figure, “Hey, Da Fei, you playing or not?”

“I’m out of cash, what’s the point?” Da Fei growled.

“Want me to lend you some?” Blondie offered.

Da Fei shot him a glare. “Er Huang, spare me the act—unless you’re not charging interest.”

The blond, feeling awkward under Da Fei’s stare, looked away. “The money’s Brother Bi’s, I can’t lend it without interest…”

“Then forget it. I’ll go borrow a few bucks from my buddy and come back to play!” With that, Da Fei ignored Blondie’s attempts to stop him and strode out of the arcade.

A guy nearby with four earrings muttered, “Er Huang, did you forget what Brother Bi said? You just let Da Fei walk off like that?”

“I didn’t forget, but Da Fei’s a star athlete, trained in martial arts, fights dirty, and he’s not even eighteen. If he finds out we set him up, you wanna take the beating or should I?”

Four-Earrings fell silent.

******

By now, Yang Tang had entered the dry cleaner. “Ma’am, do you have any red cords?”

The owner, a woman in her early forties with a graceful air, was discussing cleaning methods for a leather jacket with a female customer. At Yang Tang’s question, she replied absentmindedly, “Red what?”

“Red cord—for hanging this.” He showed her the thangka before tucking it back inside his shirt pocket.

“Yes, let me look for one!” The owner was clearly the type who jumped from one thing to another. Once she understood what Yang Tang wanted, she left the leather-jacket customer behind and went to rummage behind the counter, calling out, “The cleaning method I just recommended is the best—think it over!”

The customer, preparing to have her jacket dry-cleaned, flushed with anger at the owner’s words. She snatched her jacket back from the counter and snapped, “If you can’t clean it, I’ll try another shop.”

Feigning a search for the red cord, the owner bristled at this. “Who says I can’t?” With that, she darted over and grabbed the jacket’s hem.

Watching this, Yang Tang was speechless. Were these two older women about to get into a catfight? The thought had barely crossed his mind when the customer yanked hard on her end.

There was a ripping sound.

The jacket’s hem slipped from the owner’s grasp, arcing beautifully through the air, and struck the iron hanging above the counter.

Unluckily, the iron was usually unplugged, but today, the owner had plugged it in earlier to press another customer’s clothes. Who could have guessed that a failed business deal would turn the iron into a deadly weapon?

The iron swung in a perfect arc and, faceplate first, hurtled directly toward Yang Tang. He was so startled that his first reaction wasn’t to dodge, but to shield his face with both hands and lean back.

Anywhere else, but not the face!

With a hiss, the iron landed squarely on Yang Tang’s chest, filling the air with the smell of seared flesh. The owner and the customer both screamed in terror.

To make matters worse, Da Fei, who had followed Yang Tang to borrow money, was a bit slow on the uptake. Seeing Yang Tang burned, his first response wasn’t to help remove the iron, but to grab the owner and the customer, shouting furiously, “My buddy got burned in your shop—you owe us compensation!”

******

An hour later, in the dormitory of the boarding students.

Yang Tang lay on his bed, clutching his aching chest and cursing under his breath.

He had never expected that skipping class for a stroll would land him in such a disaster, and Da Fei’s “timely” arrival had conveniently prevented the owner and customer from helping, leaving the iron to sear him for several extra seconds.

The result was serious. At the hospital, the doctor solemnly informed him that he had a second-degree burn on his chest, would need daily dressing changes, and had to avoid infection or face serious complications.

Fortunately, both the owner and the customer, upon hearing this, each paid him a thousand yuan as medical compensation. Otherwise, the cost of changing his dressings would have been a real burden—and above all, the school must not find out. If the school knew, his parents would find out for sure.

For all the hardship his parents had endured to put him through school for more than a decade—only for him to fail to get into a proper university—Yang Tang carried a deep sense of guilt.

He slept fitfully until dusk. One by one, his three roommates returned, and all were startled to see Yang Tang sprawled in bed, his chest apparently wrapped in gauze.

The dorm leader, Tang Xun, was the most dramatic. “Third, seriously? I was just joking when I told Panda Li you were sick, and you’re actually lying in bed?”

Panda Li was their class teacher, Cen Li—a woman just past forty, not old and still decent-looking, but fond of heavy makeup, especially around her eyes. Years of cosmetics had left the skin darkened, so the boys who didn’t like her called her Panda Li behind her back.

“Yeah, Third Bro, what happened to you?” asked the youngest roommate, Chen Song.

“It’s nothing. Just a burn on my chest—I’ll be fine after a couple days’ rest.”

The second oldest, Duan Yibin—usually the most taciturn—frowned. “Should we ask for more time off for you?”

“Absolutely not. I was burned off campus, so the school can’t know. If Panda Li asks tomorrow, just say I had a fever and was sweating it out in the dorm.”

“All right, then what do you want to eat tonight? I’ll go buy it for you,” Duan Yibin offered. He didn’t talk much, but of all the roommates, he and Yang Tang were the closest—friends since their first year after meeting on the basketball court.

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