Before long, Lin Zhao published headquarters' secret orders as a missing-person notice in Shanghai's Economic New Journal.
When Chen Fan saw headquarters' reply, he expressionlessly wished Boss Dai's honored mother "health, longevity, and blessings for ten thousand years."
What the fuck did that mean? What did they mean, lie low in place and await activation?
He even had to abandon all previous means of contact. Wasn't that plainly saying he was a discarded pawn, a kite with its string cut?
Of course, at his current level, he hardly qualified as a kite...
Still, anger was anger and dissatisfaction was dissatisfaction. He had no right to challenge headquarters' orders. All he could do was obey and wait for the activation order!
But before that, he had to stay alive. Even a discarded pawn had to eat!
Kingston Road, Zhabei, Shanghai.
Despite its imposing name, it was really just a slum teeming with hoodlums, laborers, and all manner of people from society's bottom rung.
With the sun already high, Chen Fan emerged from Xiaocui's rented room carrying a wicker suitcase, thoroughly satisfied.
Given the present circumstances, Chen Fan was quite pleased with his current body.
He had to admit that this body, put through all kinds of high-intensity training, was as sturdy as a young tiger and brimmed with inexhaustible energy.
At the very least, it was far stronger than his previous body, which left him dizzy and lightheaded whenever he stood after squatting for a few seconds.
Stepping onto Kingston Road, Chen Fan strolled leisurely to Shengping Theatre, sat at a snack stall across from it, and ordered a bowl of small wontons and a bottle of soda.
It was past nine in the morning, and the theatre had yet to open. Chen Fan was in no hurry and waited patiently at the stall.
These little stalls made their living off the theatre's stream of customers, and, of course, the performers inside.
In those days, opera performers were no stars, nor did they earn much. People ranked them at the very bottom of the lowliest professions.
Even a prostitute like Xiaocui stood a rung above them.
When they met, those performers even had to address her as Auntie!
Yet the lower people stood, the better they understood how to survive in the cracks.
Opera troupes traveled north and south, changing locations at regular intervals. The owner of Shengping Theatre exploited this to pack smuggled supplies, ammunition, and even locally produced opium into costume trunks and sell them along the Yangtze River.
Chen Fan had come here because he, too, wanted to return to his old trade.
The theatre's owner had once been his father's supplier, a middleman in Shanghai's underground arms and scarce-goods trade. Publicly, he was the owner of Shengping Theatre. Nobody knew his real name; in the underworld, everyone called him Old Knife Handle.
In the past, Chen Zhongming had obtained goods from Old Knife Handle, then distributed them to the surrounding areas.
There was nothing problematic about those goods themselves. In Republican-era Shanghai, smuggling was more commonplace than eating.
However, Chen Zhongming had been too bold back then. Egged on by Old Knife Handle, he had actually dared to sell locally produced opium in the French Concession.
That had really stirred up a hornet's nest.
Shanghai at the time had the Greater and Lesser Bagudang. Shen Xingshan and Ji Yunqing headed the Greater Bagudang, while the Lesser Bagudang consisted of Boss Du, Boss Huang, and their associates.
They essentially monopolized this trade.
The French Concession sold imported opium. They obtained it from the British and French for just a hundred silver dollars a crate, then sold it at a profit like winning three rounds of gambling in a row-at least an eightfold return.
For an independent merchant from out of town to conduct this business in the French Concession, selling locally produced opium at that, naturally encroached on these bosses' interests. It was tantamount to courting death.
The result went without saying. Boss Du sent Ye Zhuoshan and Rui Qingrong, two of his Four Great Guardians, to drag Chen Zhongming back to the Green Gang's punishment hall.
In the end, Chen Zhongming's sworn brother Cao Youshan persuaded Lin Guisheng to intervene and save him. But Boss Du intended to make an example of him. Though he agreed to release him, he had not agreed to let them off.
He ordered Chen Zhongming savagely beaten and expelled from Shanghai along with Chen Fan, strictly forbidding them from returning.
Having just endured brutal punishment, Chen Zhongming grew sicker from days of arduous travel and never recovered. Not long after reaching Jinling, he passed away.
Returning to the present, Chen Fan took the last drag of his cigarette, then stood and straightened his collar.
He had no intention of throwing in his lot with Old Knife Handle, but he did intend to "talk business" with him.
Because throughout Shanghai, this old bastard was still the quickest source of scarce goods.
Past ten, Shengping Theatre finally opened. Its entrance might have been small, but a whole different world lay inside.
The auditorium could seat about two hundred people, and several private rooms adjoined the backstage area. These were clearly intended for people with particular needs.
After all, making a living as an opera performer in those days was no easy task. Every trade had its rules; it depended on how far you were willing to go.
Chen Fan did not stop. Farther inside stood an iron door. Old Knife Handle's real "office" lay behind it.
Several people stood outside the iron door. The brothel attendant stationed there was called A Xiang. The instant he recognized the visitor, his expression changed.
After all, Chen Fan had left a very deep impression on him back then!
"Y-young Master Chen, h-how did you..."
Chen Fan asked directly, "Is Sixth Master here?"
A Xiang instinctively swallowed. "Y-yes, he's in the back. Please wait a moment. I'll announce you right away."
"No need. I'll go in myself." Chen Fan patted the attendant's shoulder. The man shuddered in fright and did not dare stop him.
Just as he was about to push open the iron door, a thick arm reached out. "Who are you?"
Chen Fan looked up at the arm's owner. "New here? I haven't seen you before."
"I haven't seen you either." The man clearly had a bad temper. "You can't go in without the boss's permission," he said viciously.
"Is that so?" Chen Yang's brows drew together slightly!
Beside him, the attendant A Xiang immediately paled. "He can go in! He can! Agen, go announce him. Tell the boss an old acquaintance is here."
The two enforcers beside the iron door visibly froze, evidently surprised by how respectfully A Xiang treated him.
"Wait here," Agen said irritably.
Less than half a minute after he entered, a clatter came from inside, as though something had been knocked over.
Immediately afterward, the iron door was yanked open from within, and a middle-aged man appeared in the doorway.
The newcomer was short and stout, in his early fifties, and wore a gray squirrel-fur robe. Shrewdness was written all over him.
Seeing Chen Fan, Old Knife Handle forced a smile uglier than tears. "Young Master Chen, it's been years. Why didn't you send word before coming?"
Chen Fan said nothing, merely smiling at him.
That very smile made Old Knife Handle's knees buckle. He nearly fell to them.
On that night three years ago, Chen Fan had walked in wearing the same smile.
That day, eight bodyguards had been sitting in Old Knife Handle's office, several of them renowned fighters in Shanghai's underworld.
Chen Fan had entered alone.
Then, in less than two minutes, he had put all eight bodyguards on the floor.
His Bajiquan had truly struck down gods and Buddhas alike.
Those eight experts had not even lasted two minutes before being beaten into a heap.
At the sight, Old Knife Handle had nearly wet himself...
"Sixth Master, it's been so long. I'm a guest, after all. Aren't you going to invite me in for a seat?" Chen Fan had already stepped over the iron doorway's threshold...
Only then did Old Knife Handle recover. He hurriedly stepped aside to make way, then shot Agen a vicious glare, his face plainly saying, "Get the fuck away from here."
It was nearly mid-December, and Shanghai's temperatures had fallen. Two charcoal braziers kept the office warm.
A tea set and half a plate of osmanthus cakes sat on a large red sandalwood desk.
Old Knife Handle stood behind the desk, rubbing his hands.
Chen Fan made himself right at home, pulling up a chair and pouring himself some tea. "Have a seat, Sixth Master. This is your turf. Why are you standing?"
Only then did Old Knife Handle perch on the edge of a chair.
"Young Master Chen, three years ago, you took the money and agreed to wipe the slate clean. You're not..."
"Don't be nervous." Chen Fan sipped the tea. It was bitter as hell!
Old Knife Handle could not bear to replace his tea leaves. Years had passed, but the old fellow was still as stingy as ever.
Spitting out a bit of tea-leaf froth, Chen Fan said quietly, "I'm not here to demand money."
"That business was settled, goods paid for and delivered. I won't keep harping on it..."
A little color returned to Old Knife Handle's face. "Then you're here to..."
"I want to do business with you."
"Business?" Old Knife Handle sounded as though he had heard the strangest thing in the world.
His father had died because he listened to his urging, and now the son wanted to take the same road.
Since ancient times, the underworld had been a road of no return. Knowing how difficult it was, he still dared set foot on it.
"Yes, business." Chen Fan set down his teacup. "Sixth Master, I'll be frank. I've just arrived from Jinling. Right now, I'm a nobody and strapped for cash. I'm looking for a way to make a living."
Old Knife Handle said nothing, merely calculating rapidly. Chen Zhongnian's son actually dared come to him to do business?
To him, this was even more absurd than a weasel paying a New Year's visit to a chicken.
But he dared not say so aloud and could only ask tentatively, "What sort of business did you have in mind?"
"Whatever you have, I'll sell. Whatever's scarce, I'll sell." Chen Fan sounded entirely casual.
Old Knife Handle frowned, stood, and rustled about in a corner of the office, fetching a tin of tea leaves before lifting the pot and refilling Chen Fan's tea.
This time, of course, he used fresh leaves. The delicate fragrance of Biluochun mingled with the scent of charcoal, creating an indescribably comforting blend.
Chen Fan lifted the lidded cup and took a small sip. "Oh, that's good. Pre-Qingming tea. A rare treat!"
Old Knife Handle smiled in agreement. Now that he knew why Chen Fan had come, he actually relaxed.
He had feared that Chen Fan, this hothead, would disregard the rules and run wild. If it came to blows, even all his men attacking together would be useless!
Now that Chen Fan was willing to sit and talk, Old Knife Handle was in no hurry. His usual shrewd expression returned.
Settling into his sandalwood chair, he leaned back, casually picked up the pair of glossy lion's-head walnuts on the desk, and silently rolled them in his hand.
Chen Fan set down his teacup and narrowed his eyes at the Oath of the Peach Garden painting hanging on the wall.
It was a fine painting. Lord Guan, with his three strands of long beard, glared as though ready to cut someone down.
The room remained quiet for quite some time.
"Young Master Chen," Old Knife Handle said conversationally, "getting goods from me isn't difficult. But there's one thing: business takes capital. How much do you have?"
Chen Fan took two items from his overcoat's inner pocket and gently laid them on the red sandalwood desk.
Two small gold bars.
"This is the deposit," Chen Fan said, then pushed the goods list he had prepared toward Old Knife Handle.
Old Knife Handle took the sheet and glanced at it, then looked at the small gold bars on the desk.
In the braziers' glow, the gold bars shone a soft yellow. They were of full purity.
But after reading the goods list, anyone would understand how little two small gold bars amounted to beside these goods.
To put it bluntly, they were barely a drop in the bucket.
Old Knife Handle did not reach for them. He did not even give them another look.
He lifted his own tea, took a gentle sip, and said slowly, "Two? Young Master Chen, forgive me for speaking bluntly."
"Any errand boy under me handles more money than this."
Chen Fan did not get angry. Instead, he smiled and took back the gold bars. "Sixth Master, if I had capital, would I need to come to you?"
"True enough." Old Knife Handle set down his tea bowl and tapped his fingers on the desk. "But you have to consider my position too."
"I run a business, not a charity. You want connections? I have them. You want goods? I have those too."
"But now you want to take away goods worth thousands of silver dollars with just two small gold bars. If you were in my place, would you agree to that deal?"
Chen Fan leaned against his chair back, in no hurry to answer.
Seeing him remain silent, Old Knife Handle sighed and set the pair of lion's-head walnuts on the desk.
"Young Master Chen, there are things I wanted to tell you three years ago, but you didn't give me the chance then."
"I can't escape responsibility for your father's death. I know that."
"But there's one thing I must make clear. Chen Zhongnian chose to take that deal himself."
"How many people were fighting over that shipment back then? If I hadn't given my goods to Chen Zhongnian, I would have given them to someone else."
"Since he took the job, he should have known its dangers."
"He lost his life over it, and that hurt me too. But my conscience is clear, because this trade has its rules."
"Your father understood Shanghai's rules better than I do."
"As they say, life and death are ordained, and wealth and honor rest with Heaven. If you lose, you accept it. If you take a beating, you stand straight. In this world, we live at Heaven's mercy. Whether you win or lose comes down to your own ability."
"How many heroes have come and gone through this cosmopolitan city? How many nameless skeletons lie at the bottom of the Huangpu River?"
"Even if Chen Zhongnian came back to life and stood before me, I'd say the same thing. Business is business, personal ties are personal ties. The two cannot be mixed."
Chen Fan raised a thumb. "Sixth Master, nothing wrong with what you said. That's frank and fair."
"It's not frankness. It's the rules." Old Knife Handle waved a hand. "If you want to do business with me, you have to follow my rules."
"The items on this list cost at least a thousand silver dollars. Two small gold bars certainly won't cover it."
"Still, I'm not someone who refuses all personal consideration. For Chen Zhongnian's sake alone, I have to do you this favor."
"No capital? That's all right. There is one way: you put in the work."
[To all new and longtime readers, this book won't be like the last one. I plan to spend two years writing it at a steady pace, with an estimated length of over four million Chinese characters. The last book was under a buyout contract, so I really had no choice. Without finishing it, I couldn't receive benefits for this one. So please feel free to add this book to your collections. I already have experience completing several million characters' worth of fiction, and I'm thoroughly familiar with the outline. There's even less need to worry about me using AI; Qidian is cracking down on AI across the board now. In short, as long as you're willing to read, I'll keep writing...]