51: Chapter 51 Let's see how long you can keep up this act.

The documents were thin, yet every word was an eyesore, like poison-tipped daggers.

Travel records, times, routes, stopping points—everything was laid out before him in meticulous detail, as if every move Hu Tian made was under his surveillance, like a "24/7 panoramic live stream."

Cuiyun Peak.

That name leaped off the page like a thin needle, silently piercing Zhao Shanhe's chest and sending a sharp pain through him—a portent that "when enemies meet, they are filled with extra hatred."

He slowly placed the documents on the table and took a sip from his teacup, but he couldn't taste a thing. He then set the cup back down with a dull thud, as if venting the fury in his heart; the sound was enough to make one's skin crawl.

Standing beside him was a man in his early thirties with a crew cut, a square face, and sharp eyes. His name was Chen Feng, one of Zhao Shanhe's capable subordinates who had followed him for seven or eight years. He was as loyal as they came, practically his "right-hand man," always ready to charge into battle.

"Did you find out? How long did he stay over at Cuiyun Peak?"

Zhao Shanhe's voice was low and hoarse, carrying an unquestionable authority, like a lion about to lose its temper, ready to pounce on its prey at any moment.

Zhao Shanhe's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an inherent sense of oppression that made people afraid to look him in the eye.

Chen Feng bowed slightly, his tone cautious as if reporting on a military situation: "I checked. According to the records, he stayed around Cuiyun Peak for nearly two days that day, then returned the way he came. There were no other unusual actions; it was just like he went for an outing."

Two days.

Zhao Shanhe's eyes slowly narrowed, his gaze sharper than a knife.

That area, Cuiyun Peak—ordinary tourists would never go out of their way to go there. There were no scenic spots, no famous sites, and the mountain roads were rugged. Except for the local old hunters, average people would never go there; it was a place where "even birds don't lay eggs."

How did this young man named Hu Tian find his way there?

What exactly did he do there?

Could he have gone "treasure hunting"?

Zhao Shanhe tapped his fingers lightly on the table in a rhythmic pattern. After a moment of silence, he spoke slowly, his tone laced with a hint of murderous intent: "Where is he now?"

"I've already arranged for people to keep an eye on the hotel front desk."

Chen Feng replied, his tone carrying a hint of smugness, "Word is he went out shopping tonight, and he's with a woman, so he probably won't be back too early."

Zhao Shanhe nodded, something flashing deep in his eyes. He folded the travel records and pushed them aside. He spoke calmly, but beneath that calm hid a raging storm: "Arrange for two men at the hotel entrance. When he comes back, don't make a move; just meet him, chat for a bit, and probe his background."

Chen Feng paused slightly, "You want to test him? To see if he's a 'fellow traveler'?"

"Hmm."

Zhao Shanhe looked up, his expression composed, as if everything were under his control. "I want to see if he really doesn't know anything, or if he's just pretending not to know. If it's the latter, then don't blame me for being impolite."

These were two completely different situations, and handling them would naturally be worlds apart—one was a "passerby," the other a "mortal enemy."

Chen Feng acknowledged the order and turned to leave. The room returned to silence, save for the night wind of Jinling City lightly tapping against the glass, making faint sounds as if accompanying the coming storm.

Zhao Shanhe sat alone by the tea table, his gaze fixed on the table surface for a long time, while his mind calculated various possibilities. His expression was like that of a chess player in the middle of a game.

Cuiyun Peak.

Regardless of whether Hu Tian did it intentionally or unintentionally, he had to find out. Even if he had to "dig three feet into the ground," he would get to the bottom of it.

Downstairs, by the wide parking plaza at the hotel entrance, Chen Feng made a phone call and whispered a few words. Soon, two sturdy men emerged from the shadows, stopped near the lobby entrance, and lit cigarettes. They looked casual, as if just loitering and waiting for someone, but they were quietly taking in every figure entering and leaving.

The atmosphere of waiting spread silently, as if an invisible net were being cast.

...

Antique Street by the Qinhuai River.

The night wind by the river carried a hint of damp chill. The red lanterns along the bank dyed the river surface a warm orange, reflecting and gently rippling, like a flowing oil painting.

The Antique Street stretched along the riverbank, with stalls lined up on both sides. It was brightly lit and bustling with excitement, practically a replica of a "Ghost Market."

Various antiques and artifacts were spread out on stall cloths: jade, porcelain, bronzeware, calligraphy, and paintings. They were so numerous and varied that it was dazzling, as if one were in a giant "treasure pavilion."

Hu Tian and Zhou Waner walked side by side through the crowd. Zhou Waner would occasionally stop, her eyes caught by some trinket on a stall, and she would lean in to take a look. Hu Tian's gaze, however, remained calm and composed, unhurried. In his mind, he was secretly operating the Treasure Hunting Radar, quietly scanning ahead. His focused look was just like someone "clearing mines."

The second green halo was just ahead, not far away; its radiance was even more dazzling than a night-luminescent pearl.

Hu Tian's pace unconsciously slowed, his gaze locking onto the direction of the halo, as if he had locked onto prey.

It was a stall not far from the stone railing by the river. The stall wasn't very large; a piece of dark, old cloth was spread on the ground, with a dozen or so scattered items on it, but there were quite a few people gathered around.

Seven or eight people had surrounded the stall. Some crouched down, picking up an item to examine it closely under the light; others stood on the outer circle with their hands behind their backs, standing on tiptoe to peer inside. There were also two gray-haired elders huddled together, whispering and exchanging opinions, their expressions thoughtful as if they were conducting some secret transaction.

People came and went, yet no one actually made an offer, as if everyone was testing each other, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Hu Tian led Zhou Waner over slowly. His gaze passed over the crowd to first size up the stall owner; that look was like someone "scrutinizing" an opponent.

Sitting behind the stall was a man around fifty.

He was short and stout, a bit round in shape. He wore a faded cotton shirt with a front-button closure, buttoned up tightly. There was a ring of fine stitching at the collar, looking like a mend, which showed immediately that he was someone who cherished his clothes very much.

His face was broad with slightly high cheekbones, and his complexion was dark—the kind of base color left by years of wind and sun. His skin was rough, with deep horizontal lines on his forehead and nasolabial folds on both sides of his mouth. When he wasn't smiling, he looked somewhat stern, even carrying a bit of a mean streak, as if ready to "start a fight" at any moment.

He wore a dark gray old cloth hat on his head, the brim pulled a bit low, covering half his eyebrows. His eyes were under the brim, half-closed, unhurriedly scanning every face that gathered around. His gaze was neither deep nor shallow, like a pool of water of unfathomable depth, making it hard to tell what he was thinking.

He had an old velvet cloth draped over his legs, and his right hand held a string of old agarwood prayer beads. His fingers were slowly, steadily flicking them one by one. The movements were extremely slow and steady, each one appearing well-considered, showing the seasoned composure of someone long-tempered by the market, as if everything were under his control.

Someone at the stall picked up a small bronze ornament and asked for the price. He didn't even lift his eyelids, slowly spitting out a few words. His voice was low, hoarse, and gravelly, carrying a slight accent from out of town—it sounded like a dialect from the Wanbei region. His words were filled with indifference, as if whether he sold it or not had nothing to do with him; it was up to you.

Hu Tian stood on the outer edge of the crowd, watching for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. He thought to himself: "This boss has good acting skills, but unfortunately, he ran into me, a man with 'fiery eyes.' Let's see how long you can keep up the act."

He had seen many stall owners like this; the more they pretended to be indifferent, the more calculating they often were in their hearts.

Zhou Waner leaned in, her feminine scent drifting into Hu Tian's nose. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, her voice as soft and sweet as cotton candy: "What are you looking at? Did you find some 'big treasure'?"

Hu Tian didn't answer immediately. His gaze slowly shifted from the stall owner to the stall cloth, wandering slowly among those artifacts, lost in thought, as if he were "selecting a concubine."

Hu Tian scanned the items on the cloth, and he already had a rough idea in his mind.

On the left were three blue and white porcelain bowls. The shape was regular, and the glaze was fairly lustrous, but one glance from Hu Tian told him something was wrong—the body was too light, the foot rim was too regular, and the trimming marks on the base looked like they were left by a machine. Where was the unevenness characteristic of hand-trimmed pottery?

Nine times out of ten, these were mass-produced antique imitations from Jingdezhen, costing only a few dozen yuan, yet placed here to be sold as old goods. They were meant to scam laymen—selling dog meat while hanging up a sheep's head.

Next to the bowls stood a mounted painting and calligraphy piece, said to be a piece of running script by a famous master from the ming dynasty. The paper had been treated to look old, and at first glance, it had a faint yellowish-brown tint. However, the spirit of the ink was wrong; the brushwork was limp, the force scattered. Between the lines, it exuded the restlessness of a modern person imitating an ancient one. Hu Tian didn't even reach out; he just swept his gaze over it and couldn't be bothered to look a second time. It was simply "an eyesore."

Further to the right were several pieces of bronzeware: a beast-head bronze incense burner and two bronze mirrors. The casting was passable, and the imitation of the bronze patina had clearly taken some effort, with layers of green and red rust looking quite aged. However, the color of the rust was too uniform, too deliberate—it looked like the effect of artificial acid, not the mottled, ancient look of something that had truly slept underground for centuries. It was pitted and uneven, just like a "plastic surgery face."

There were also a few pieces of jade placed on a dark velvet cloth, very conspicuous. There was a white jade bracelet, a pendant, and a thumb ring. They were white, but a "thieving" white, emitting a plastic-like luster. Hu Tian sneered inwardly—glass pretending to be jade, or simply low-priced white jade material spiked with fluorescent powder. It might fool a layman, but an expert could see through it at a glance.