130: Chapter 130 Thirty-two Small Yellow Croakers

Air that had been sealed for over seventy years squeezed out from the gaps, carrying a stale, dry scent of rust.

The lid opened.

Lu Zheng's flashlight flickered on, its beam striking the opening of the box.

Jiang Chen reached his hand inside.

His fingertips first touched coarse burlap, wrapped extremely tightly layer upon layer.

The burlap had already become brittle; with a slight push of his fingertips, it crumbled into powder and rustled down.

He peeled away the shredded cloth, his fingers probing further inside, and then he stopped.

What his fingertips touched was icy cold.

It wasn't the cold of cast iron, but that heavy, heat-absorbing chill unique to precious metal.

He curled his fingers, grasped one, and pulled it out.

Within the beam of the flashlight, a rectangular gold bar lay in his palm.

It was a dull, heavy golden-yellow that seemed almost solidified, its surface stained with fine burlap fibers and over seventy years of dust, but the quality of the gold itself hadn't been corroded in the slightest.

An English inscription was engraved on the side of the bar with clear strokes—the mint mark of the British HSBC Bank on the Shanghai Bund from back in the day.

Little Yellow Croakers.

The backyard was so quiet that only the sound of the Wutong leaves remained.

Jiang Chen flipped the gold bar over; the serial number and weight were engraved on the back.

Three hundred and seventy grams.

He weighed the gold bar in his palm; the solid weight and the pressure against his hand felt more direct than any number.

He placed the gold bar onto the velvet cloth Lu Zheng had already spread out nearby and reached in again.

The second, the third, the fourth.

Layer after layer of burlap was peeled away, and gold bars emerged one by one from the shredded remnants, spreading a dull golden light under the flashlight.

The burlap fibers made a tiny rustling sound as they broke, like the sound of snow falling on the ground.

Lu Zheng squatted beside him, tucking the flashlight under his arm to free both hands to receive the gold bars.

As he received each one, he stacked them neatly on the velvet cloth in an orderly row.

His movements were steady, and he didn't say a word.

Five bars.

Eight bars.

Twelve bars.

The gold bars formed two rows on the velvet, their dull golden luster merging into one, like a silent twilight unearthed from beneath the ground.

Twenty bars.

Twenty-five bars.

Thirty bars.

Jiang Chen's hand reached the very bottom of the iron box, sweeping his fingertips along the cast iron base to fish out the final gold bar.

Burlap fragments rustled down from between his fingers, landing on the cast iron surface at the bottom of the box, mixing with the dust of over seventy years.

He straightened up and placed the last gold bar on the velvet.

Thirty-two bars.

Not a single one missing.

The flashlight beam swept over the thirty-two gold bars on the velvet; each one was over ninety-seven percent pure, and each weighed around three hundred and seventy grams.

At market price, the value of this box was at least fifty million or more.

But at this moment, they lay quietly stacked on the velvet like thirty-two heavy pieces of old days, invited out from the earth and spread before him.

Jiang Chen squatted by the box, looking down at the patch of dull golden light, silent for a long while.

Then he smiled.

It was a smile that started at the corners of his mouth and slowly rippled into his eyes.

He squatted there, his hands still stained with burlap fragments and seventy years of dust, just looking at those thirty-two gold bars and laughing.

His laughter wasn't loud, but the tension he'd been holding in his chest was completely released.

He reached out and picked up the bar on the very edge, flipped it over, and slowly wiped his thumb across the HSBC mint mark, clearing away the surface dust.

The gold bar weighed heavily in his fingers, its chill seeping into his skin bit by bit, only to be warmed by his body temperature bit by bit.

He weighed it, like weighing an answer he had waited a long time for.

"Pack them up."

His voice still carried a smile he hadn't fully suppressed.

Lu Zheng glanced at him, the corners of his own mouth twitching slightly.

He pulled out the portable safe he had prepared beforehand—black, matte-finished, and without any markings.

He rolled up the velvet along with the gold bars, wrapped them tightly, and placed them into the foam slots of the lining.

The lid was closed, the dials turned, and the combination lock clicked shut.

Jiang Chen took the safe and weighed it in his hand.

Thirty-two gold bars, less than twelve kilograms, yet they felt like the entire weight of another era pressing down on his hand.

He turned around and glanced at that Wutong tree.

In the night, the full extent of the canopy was unclear; only the thick silhouette of the trunk and the massive shadows cast by the branches on the courtyard wall were visible.

The roots were still entrenched underground, continuing to clutch the empty void where the contents had been removed.

Having clutched it for over seventy years, even though the items inside were gone, it would continue to clutch it, holding onto a hollow secret.

"Thanks for your hard work."

He patted the trunk, like patting an old fellow who had stood guard for over seventy years.

Then he withdrew his hand, carrying the safe through the main hall, his footsteps significantly lighter than when he arrived.

When he reached the doorway of the hall, he even stepped aside to make room.

In truth, the doorframe was wide enough that there was no need to yield; it was his mood that made him do it.

Lu Zheng followed behind; seeing this, he said nothing, but took an extra look at the two words on the lintel as he closed the courtyard gate.

"Qi Wu" was now just a blurred silhouette in the night.

The flagstone path of Wutong Lane shimmered with a thin layer of light under the streetlamps.

The lane was deserted, with only the sound of cars from the distant main street—though a bit noisy, it was reassuring.

Jiang Chen opened the car door and sat in the back, resting the safe on his lap, placing his palm over it and tapping his fingertips twice.

Once, twice.

It was the kind of gesture one only makes after the dust has settled, but tonight's tapping was lighter than usual, like he was beating a rhythm that belonged only to him.

"Mr. Jiang," Lu Zheng glanced at him through the rearview mirror, "Heading back?"

Jiang Chen leaned against the seat back and let out a long breath.

The streetlamps outside the window receded one by one; Wutong Lane grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, finally shrinking into a blurred outline of an entrance before merging into the layered night of the Old City District.

The gate of Courtyard No. 17 was no longer visible, nor was the canopy of the Wutong tree, but the two words "Qi Wu" on the lintel remained bright in his mind.

The phoenix rests on the Wutong.

A phoenix does not land on a place without treasure.

He looked down at the safe on his lap and pressed his palm against its surface.

"Let's go."

He said, his voice carrying a momentum he couldn't suppress, "Let's go back for a drink."

Lu Zheng glanced at him through the mirror and replied, "Yes, sir."

The car drove out of the Old City District, its taillights carving two streaks of dull red light in the night, soon swallowed by the deepening darkness.

In the back seat, Jiang Chen leaned against the backrest, his right hand resting on the safe, his fingertips tapping it occasionally.

The rhythm synced with the music in the car.

At some point, Lu Zheng had turned on the radio to a station playing old songs; it happened to be a fast-paced jazz piece.

The slight curve at the corner of his mouth, which had been there since he was squatting under the Wutong tree, hadn't faded yet; instead, it had grown a bit wider.