Chapter Three: The Eight Steeds of Shangtang

Zhang Qinglin’s eyes grew sharp as memories surged—how small he had been then, and yet he’d already endured such brutality. In a single night, all his relatives and family were gone. His grandfather, until his dying breath, never revealed his father’s whereabouts, and his mother, to protect his grandmother and himself as they hid in the small house, was mercilessly murdered. His grandmother had shoved something wrapped in golden cloth into his arms and locked him in a secret cupboard, sparing him from the slaughter.

After that vicious massacre, snow fell heavily outside, blanketing the world in silence as he wept himself hoarse in the darkness. He was only rescued when Jiang Haiyan, his father’s closest friend, came searching for his father. From that day on, Zhang Qinglin was wracked by a persistent fever. Fortunately, Jiang Haiyan sought doctors far and wide, and his illness gradually eased.

Over the past twenty years, he had followed Jiang Haiyan across the country, finally settling in Beijing. But throughout those two decades, Zhang Qinglin had never ceased to remind himself: no matter the ends of the earth, he would find those who had slaughtered his family.

A sharp crack sounded—a porcelain box from the Qing Dynasty fell from the shelf and broke into three pieces on the floor.

Cheng Che stepped forward, arching an eyebrow at Zhang Qinglin and pointing at him, “You’re in real trouble now. That’s a Qianlong porcelain box! When Uncle Jiang gets back, you’re done for…”

Zhang Qinglin turned, his gaze fixed on the shattered box on the floor. He looked up at Cheng Che, their eyes meeting. Then Zhang Qinglin glanced back at the Qianlong box and said, “What have you actually found out? Stop distracting me with irrelevant things. And don’t gloat—you know you have ways to fix this.”

Cheng Che curled his lip. “Zhang Qinglin, you didn’t even let me finish before deciding it’s irrelevant? I had someone track down your old neighbor. He said he’d overheard your father and a few others talking about finding a treasure map in the tomb discovered by the Sixth Company. Your father believed that if he could find that treasure, he could cure your illness. So only by finding your father can you know what truly happened back then.”

Zhang Qinglin bent down to pick up the fragments of the Qianlong porcelain box, placing them carefully on the pearwood tea table. “If my father could have been found, he’d have been found long ago. Everything you’re saying is pointless—no one knows where he went.”

“I’ve already started looking into it. I believe there’ll be results soon.” Cheng Che knew Zhang Qinglin didn’t believe him, but this time he was determined to prove it.

“Fine, if you’re busy, I’ll leave…” Without looking back, Cheng Che strode toward the door.

“Old Cheng, get back here. From what I know, the Qianlong porcelain boxes were a pair. Back then, your father only gave one to Uncle Jiang, so you must know where the other one is. Stop stalling and bring it here,” Zhang Qinglin called after him from the tea table.

Cheng Che turned, forcing a bitter smile. “Honestly! I’m supposed to pay for the one you broke? Besides, the other box hasn’t been at our place for ages. My old man is tighter than a drum these days—there’s nothing I can do.”

“Hey, you sure you don’t want the ‘Eight Steeds of the Tang Dynasty’ painting anymore? Fine! Don’t come around here if you’re not after something. Every time you show up, it spells trouble.” As he spoke, Zhang Qinglin bent to retrieve a finely carved wooden tea-leaf box from under the table and carefully placed the broken porcelain pieces inside.

“You…” Cheng Che was so furious his eyes went round, pointing at Zhang Qinglin.

Just then, footsteps sounded at the door.

“Cheng Che? What are you doing here so early in the morning…”

A sweet, lovely young woman appeared at the doorway.

“Hehe, Xinyue, you’re early today. If you’re free, I’ll take you shopping,” Cheng Che said, quickly withdrawing his pointing hand and turning with a broad smile.

Jiang Xinyue wore a pale pink suit dress, her wavy hair framing her round, fair face, and she held a green-patterned scroll case to her chest. She walked over to the tea table. “Qinglin, here’s what you asked for.”

Jiang Xinyue was Jiang Haiyan’s cherished daughter, the apple of his eye. Since her mother’s passing ten years ago, she had changed—no longer the pampered girl she once was.

“Yueyue, are you sure this is the one?” Zhang Qinglin cleared the table, making space as he reached for the scroll case in her arms and unrolled it.

An eighty-centimeter-long, forty-centimeter-wide silk painting lay before them.

Cheng Che stepped closer, astonished by the painting on the table. On the silk scroll, eight lifelike steeds were depicted in various poses, each distinct from the next. After careful restoration, the painting was nearly perfect.

But Zhang Qinglin’s next words left the other two stunned.

“Yueyue, don’t be upset by what I’m about to say.” Zhang Qinglin gently stroked the surface of the scroll.

“This painting is a forgery. The brushwork and colors are identical to the original, but…” He ran his finger to the third horse from the left. “Look here, the direction of this horse’s head is off…”

Jiang Xinyue was visibly shocked. She looked over and over from Zhang Qinglin’s vantage point, but saw nothing wrong. She’d had it examined before coming, and everyone said it was authentic.

“Qinglin, don’t joke. That’s impossible—I had it authenticated. It really is Han Gan’s original!”

“No, Xinyue, Old Zhang is right—it’s a fake, but a masterful one.” Cheng Che studied the area Zhang Qinglin had indicated.

Jiang Xinyue’s face grew more troubled. “You can’t just point and call it fake. I really had it appraised!”

“Who did you ask?” Cheng Che asked quietly.

“Jin Suanzi, the antique expert…”

“What!? Jin Suanzi? He’s no expert—he’s a con artist! Xinyue, how much did you pay him?” Cheng Che moved to her side.

“One hundred thousand…” Jiang Xinyue replied in a low voice.

“Come on, Xinyue, let’s go find him. Old Zhang, you come too.” To be swindled out of a hundred thousand yuan for a forgery was infuriating.

Jiang Xinyue had hoped Zhang Qinglin could resell the painting for a profit, but now she was left with nothing and was deeply upset. The money was meant for her university tuition—how could she explain this to her father?

Distressed and frustrated, Jiang Xinyue’s bright eyes looked at the two brothers before her.

“When I left yesterday, his assistant said he’d booked a flight last night. What should we do now?”

“Yueyue, what about the person who sold you the painting? Where is he?” Zhang Qinglin asked.

Jiang Xinyue’s expression changed. “He was an out-of-towner. After we’d had the painting authenticated by Jin Suanzi, he left. But I have his number.” She pulled out a slip of paper and dialed, but the phone rang unanswered.

Zhang Qinglin had already seen Jiang Xinyue’s distress. He knew how hard Uncle Jiang had worked to earn that money over the years.

“Yueyue, don’t worry. I’ll make sure your tuition is covered before Uncle Jiang gets back,” Zhang Qinglin said.

“Tuition? Oh, so that’s it. Zhang Qinglin, I wondered how you managed to get your hands on this painting. Xinyue, you’re just too good to him. As he is now, how is he going to repay you? The only way forward is to find the genuine ‘Eight Steeds of the Tang Dynasty’ painting.” Cheng Che cast a look of disdain at Zhang Qinglin.

The “Eight Steeds of the Tang Dynasty” was a masterpiece by Han Gan, a famous painter of the Tang era. It was said that the eight steeds embodied the spirit of the dragon horse. Whoever owned this painting would rise swiftly in fortune and status, and it was coveted by collectors everywhere.

A year ago, Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che had wandered through Panjiayuan and seen a copy of the “Eight Steeds” hanging in a shop called Zhenbao Hall in the southeast corner. It was displayed in the most prominent spot by the entrance, and anyone who saw it felt their spirits lifted. No matter the price they offered, the old shopkeeper refused to sell. When they returned later, the painting was gone, and Cheng Che had been searching for it ever since.

(Friends, don’t forget to add this to your collection—it’ll be easier to read that way! Hehe…)