Chapter Four: The Auction

At dusk, the crimson sunset poured into the ancient courtyard within Beijing’s Second Ring Road. The place where Zhang Qinglin and his companions lived was the oldest among all the siheyuan in the area. Though it had been renovated and repaired, it still could not hide its timeless elegance and the traces of its waning years.

Carrying a bowl and chopsticks, Zhang Qinglin walked to the stone table at the center of the courtyard and glanced toward the east wing. He saw Jiang Xinyue, now dressed in loose sportswear, push open the door and walk over.

“Yueyue, dinner’s ready. I made your favorite pine mushroom cakes today,” Zhang Qinglin said, putting down the bowl and chopsticks and pushing the plate of golden, crispy, tender cakes in front of Jiang Xinyue.

“I could smell those cakes all the way from the main street,” Cheng Che burst in enthusiastically from the entrance, plopping himself down on a stone stool. His eyes never left the plate as he grabbed two cakes and stuffed them into his mouth.

Zhang Qinglin’s eyes widened, and he swung a hand at Cheng Che’s head. “What are you doing? Are those for you? Spit them out! Why is your head so big…”

Watching the two bicker over the cakes, Jiang Xinyue let out a laugh, then got up to head to the kitchen.

“All right, what’s the situation?” Zhang Qinglin asked.

Cheng Che wiped his mouth with his right hand. “Right, business. There’s an antique auction tomorrow morning at the East Third Ring. The Shang Tang Eight Steeds painting will be up for auction there. How about we go take a look?”

“Sounds good. Let’s go tomorrow.”

—

The morning sun rose, washing the sky a pure blue, pleasing to the eye. Zhang Qinglin, dressed in a suit, looked up at the magnificent bronze statue in front of the garden.

In the center stood a statue with a beast’s face and a human body. Behind it, above the grand entrance, shone four golden characters: Tianxiang International.

Inside, the words “Beijing Tianxiang International Antique Auction” were displayed. The event was impressive, drawing crowds of businessmen, renowned antique experts, and a number of journalists.

Cheng Che had rummaged through boxes early that morning to find Zhang Qinglin a suit, insisting that such places called for formal attire. Though the suit was a bit tight, Zhang Qinglin’s innate bearing was something no clothing could conceal.

They found their seats according to their numbers. Cheng Che adjusted his collar, sat down, and stroked his chin, surveying the room. Zhang Qinglin sat straight, eyes fixed on the stage not far ahead.

To the left of the stage was a standard auction table—though without a gavel—and to the right, a long table with five chairs, presumably for the national antique appraisal experts. Before long, the hall was filled.

“Hey, Lao Zhang, look over there—Lewis is here, too, and the girl next to him isn’t bad either!” Cheng Che’s gaze flicked toward a man and woman seated diagonally across from them.

Following his look, Zhang Qinglin saw a balding man with his arm around a flirtatious woman, chattering away. He felt goosebumps rise all over.

At that moment, a host took the stage, microphone in hand. He looked mature and calm, surveying the room before tapping the mic twice. “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning.”

His deep, magnetic voice silenced the crowd instantly. With a wave, an usher brought an item on stage. The host picked up the gavel from her tray and approached the table.

The gavel was rare, carved with a dragon motif, its sound crisp and clean. The auction officially began.

The first item was a Han Dynasty jade pillow, exquisitely crafted. Many vied for it, and to everyone’s surprise, it was claimed for fifty thousand by Wang Jiashen, owner of Yongshen Shengmao.

As one antique after another was auctioned, Zhang Qinglin felt a strange sensation—almost as if the relics were alive, whispering their stories and drawing him into their worlds.

When the fifth item appeared—a Tang Dynasty bronze sunflower mirror—Zhang Qinglin was captivated by its eight-petal design and fine condition. As the usher angled the mirror toward the crowd, a sudden flash struck his eyes, and he reflexively rubbed them.

And then, all at once, Cheng Che’s chatter vanished; so did the host’s voice. Silence enveloped him.

“Whimpering… Whimpering…”

Who was crying?

Zhang Qinglin blinked and looked around. All was darkness, except for a giant golden-bronze wall before him. The sound of sobbing grew stronger.

He looked again—the space was still pitch-black, the sobs seeming to come from behind the wall.

What was happening?

Suddenly, the golden-bronze wall began to move, its folds rippling and shifting into a round, edgeless outline. Within, shadowy shapes appeared.

Silk-draped beds, latticed windows—gradually, a soft light emerged.

It was a corner of a young woman’s chamber from antiquity.

Two figures drifted into the scene. “Miss, don’t be sad. Master will surely find a way; he won’t let you enter the palace.”

“Really?”

The scene shifted, the crying resumed.

“They’re all liars… Why did you deceive me… Heh… heh…” A wavering figure appeared.

Zhang Qinglin couldn’t make sense of it, but from the dialogue, it seemed a young lady from a wealthy family had been chosen for the palace, unwillingly, and something had happened.

Now, finally, faces appeared. A woman of extraordinary beauty, with dark hair cascading down, gazed left and right, eyes wide, hand over her mouth.

“Hm?” Zhang Qinglin stared, puzzled by the beautiful image frozen before him.

Suddenly, darkness fell.

Cheng Che’s voice sounded in his ears. Zhang Qinglin jolted awake, standing abruptly.

“Hm?” He realized he’d just had a dream, and slowly sat down.

“Cheng Che, are you sure the Shang Tang Eight Steeds painting is up for auction today?” Zhang Qinglin asked, watching as the usher removed the bronze sunflower mirror from the stage.

“It’s not over yet, is it?” Cheng Che replied.

“How much did the bronze mirror go for? Who bought it?” Zhang Qinglin asked quietly, still intrigued by the mysterious mirror.

Cheng Che fiddled with his paddle. “What were you even looking at? The mirror’s bronze surface was peeling—no one wanted it. Look! Look…”

On stage, two elegant ushers displayed the much-anticipated Shang Tang Eight Steeds painting. The authentic artwork was unveiled before the audience.

Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che studied it carefully—it was indeed the original. Now, all that remained was the starting bid.

As the host’s magnetic voice resounded, paddles were raised one after another, the price climbing from fifty thousand to two hundred thousand.

After observing the bidders, Zhang Qinglin gripped Cheng Che’s trembling hand and announced, “Two hundred fifty thousand…”

“Zhang Qinglin, are you crazy? We don’t have that kind of money…” Cheng Che glared at him, trying to force the paddle down.

“Your dad does!” Zhang Qinglin winked.

Two hundred fifty thousand! For this painting, it was already a record. Just as everyone thought Zhang Qinglin had it in the bag—

“Three hundred fifty thousand…” A clear, powerful young woman’s voice rang out from three rows ahead.

Next to her, a black-clad companion raised a paddle.

Her bid stirred whispers throughout the hall. When the host’s gavel fell, she rose, head held high with a cool arrogance, and strode out.

Zhang Qinglin’s gaze lingered on her pale blue qipao, her long hair cascading down her back, bare shoulders exuding a subtle allure as she walked away.

Cheng Che stared. “Who is she? So generous. Lao Zhang, let’s go. It’s over—we’ll have to think of something else.”

After leaving the auction with the crowd, Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che spotted the young woman who had just won the Shang Tang Eight Steeds.

She carried the scroll box toward a black sedan by the flowerbeds. As she opened the door, a strange man suddenly pulled her and the painting inside. The driver was dragged out by another ruffian, who took the wheel and sped off.

Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che witnessed the entire scene unfold before them.

“Lao Zhang, don’t just stand there—help her!” Cheng Che punched Zhang Qinglin’s arm.

He had never before seen a young woman brazenly abducted in broad daylight. The two chased the car onto the main road.

Cheng Che leapt onto a battered motorbike parked by the curb.

“Lao Zhang, get on!” The pair pursued the black sedan relentlessly.

“This way, this way…” Zhang Qinglin clung to Cheng Che’s jacket, pointing as the car weaved through traffic.

Gritting his teeth, Cheng Che revved the bike, surging ahead to cut off the sedan, which screeched to a halt.

The driver kicked open the door and stormed out. Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che dismounted, but before Cheng Che could steady the bike, the man charged at them, snarling, “Don’t stick your noses where they don’t belong.”

“Damn it, no one talks to me like that on my turf!” Cheng Che said, handing the bike to Zhang Qinglin, who stepped forward to steady it.

A scuffle ensued. Realizing they were outmatched, the two thugs retreated. Suddenly, two more men burst from the roadside, jumped into the sedan, snatched the scroll box from the girl, and bolted.

Zhang Qinglin, still by the car, asked, “Cheng Che, are you all right?”

Cheng Che, his back to him, waved for help. Zhang Qinglin set the bike aside and hurried over.

“Help me up… ow…” Cheng Che gripped his shoulder, steadying himself.

The young woman, dejected, walked to the car. Zhang Qinglin asked, “Miss, are you hurt? We can take you to the police.”

Her tearful eyes met his. “No, we can’t call the police. We can’t.”

“Why not?” Cheng Che asked, giving Zhang Qinglin a puzzled look, then turning back to the girl for an answer.