Chapter 82: The Silk Manuscript

This card without a signature plunged Zhang Qinglin into deep thought. He had felt someone tailing him as soon as he arrived at Beijing airport, then someone had delivered something to Uncle Jiang, and now this card had appeared.

He was puzzled—at first, he suspected Wanqing, but thinking it over, it was impossible. If it were Wanqing, he wouldn’t be standing here now.

“Brother, I’ve finished decocting the medicine. Drink it while it’s hot. What are you thinking about?” Jiang Xinyue entered Zhang Qinglin’s bedroom, carrying the freshly brewed herbal medicine.

Zhang Qinglin’s eyes flashed. He rose from the desk and took the bowl from Jiang Xinyue’s hands. “Thank you, Yueyue. Has Uncle Jiang not returned yet?”

Jiang Xinyue leaned against the desk and shook her head. “No, he hasn’t. By the way, brother, what do you think my dad took out from that file bag? Its shape was odd, looked like some ancient object.”

“It’s probably a bronze fish coin. Such an exquisitely unique fish coin doesn’t seem like something made with modern craftsmanship. If it really is a bronze fish coin, it could date back two thousand years to the Spring and Autumn or Warring States period,” Zhang Qinglin said as he sipped the bitter medicine.

“A bronze fish coin? Ancient currency? That must be a real antique,” Jiang Xinyue remarked.

“Yes. Judging by how anxious Uncle Jiang was, it must be something very important to Uncle Fu. I’ve finished it. Here you go,” Zhang Qinglin drained the bowl in one gulp and handed it to Jiang Xinyue.

Jiang Xinyue reminded him not to stay up late, then took the bowl and returned to her room.

After she left, Zhang Qinglin took out the notebook, the map, and those old photographs he had hidden in the old Zhang family house. He placed them on the desk and retrieved the key Wu Cheng’an had given him. All these things were subtly connected to the Zhang family, but the most crucial, related to his father’s whereabouts, was the last photograph Xu Bin had given him.

He picked up the photo, his bright eyes fixed on the man in it. Uncle Jiang had said it was the son of Dog Grandpa, the pharmacist on the west side of the village. He had asked Ah Yong to investigate the man.

His name was Gou An. In his youth, he had apprenticed as an artisan and once accompanied Zhang Qinglin’s father to Shanghai. Strangely, after the massacre of the Zhang family, Gou An vanished without a trace; no one could find him.

In the dead of night, Zhang Qinglin awoke suddenly from a dream, hearing the sound of the gate closing and footsteps. He blinked, his gaze sweeping toward the window—he knew Uncle Jiang had returned. But Uncle Fu’s shop wasn’t far, so for Uncle Jiang to come back so late, it must have involved more than just delivering something.

Listening to the wind outside, the night passed swiftly. The next morning, Zhang Qinglin opened his eyes to voices and shouting in the courtyard.

“Uncle Jiang, I bought old tofu and pastries. Xinyue, fetch some bowls. Has Old Zhang not woken up yet?”

Rubbing his sleepy eyes, Zhang Qinglin walked out and saw Cheng Che.

Cheng Che turned to him, “Old Zhang, you’re awake. Come have breakfast.”

“Cheng Che? Why are you here? That’s odd—your old man let you out so quickly this time… Don’t tell me—” Zhang Qinglin took a sip of the old tofu Jiang Xinyue had poured for him.

Cheng Che grinned, “Heh, I promised the old man I’d work at his company for now. He was so pleased he stopped locking me up. From now on, your little brother here is an office worker—a white-collar man.”

“You should have done this long ago, always idling about. Now’s the time to learn from your father and do business properly!” Uncle Jiang, having finished brushing his teeth, rinsed his mouth and set down his toothbrush, walking out of the kitchen with his hands behind his back.

Cheng Che chuckled, “You’re right, Uncle Jiang. Starting tomorrow, I’ll no longer be a free man. Old Zhang, you should come hang out at my place whenever you’re free, and bring Xinyue along.”

“Don’t worry, I’d go even if you didn’t say so,” Zhang Qinglin replied.

Uncle Jiang looked at Zhang Qinglin, “Xiaolin, after breakfast, come to the study. I have something to discuss with you.”

…

Entering Uncle Jiang’s study, Zhang Qinglin saw Uncle Jiang standing with his back to him at the old rosewood desk.

“Xiaolin, come here.”

Approaching the desk, Zhang Qinglin saw Uncle Jiang place a small wooden box wrapped in golden cloth before him. Uncle Jiang spoke slowly, “Xiaolin, you’ve grown up now. There are things you ought to know; perhaps they will be helpful to you.”

As he spoke, Uncle Jiang opened the box. Inside, neatly folded, was a piece of tattered, yellowed silk. The edges were ragged, clearly not a complete piece. The silk was densely inscribed with many characters Zhang Qinglin couldn’t recognize.

Uncle Jiang’s expression was grave and solemn. “This is half of a silk manuscript your father brought out from the Han King’s tomb. Besides recording lunar prohibitions and the cycles of the seasons, it also describes how to escape soul-transference rituals. But only half survives, so your father took a few men and, following the map hidden in the other half, went to the Luo River.”

“The Luo River? Why would my father go there? Was it really for treasure? He’s not that kind of person. How could he be?” Zhang Qinglin’s eyes reddened, his emotions surging as he struggled to control them.

Uncle Jiang’s eyes brimmed with tears. He sighed deeply. “I believe he wasn’t a greedy man. I grew up with your father, sharing everything. I know his character best—he was upright, efficient, and cautious. Someone must have betrayed him, but we’ve never discovered who. In any case, you must trust your father.”

“If he’s still alive, I will find him and ask him face-to-face,” Zhang Qinglin said firmly, staring at the silk manuscript in the box.