Chapter Twenty-Six: The Middle-Aged Man

Outside the house, beneath the eaves where sparrows perched, stood a man whose frame was as massive as an ox, with a waist as round as a drum, a bald head and a broad face—yet, incongruously, he wore a pair of small round spectacles with stone lenses, arms folded across his chest, blocking the wooden door. The sight was so mismatched it was almost comical.

The scar-faced man was just about to take a step forward when the burly bald man barked out two curt words in a rough voice: "Wait here!"

Han Shizhong hastily tugged at the scar-faced man's sleeve. At this, the scar-faced man swallowed his anger and stood obediently aside.

A quarter of an hour later, a voice sounded from within, mellow yet refined: "Ah, so it's Master Han. Please, come in."

Only then did the burly bald man shift aside, still wearing an expression of utter disdain. As the two men prepared to enter, the bald man pointed at the scar-faced one and said, "You’re not coming in. Wait outside."

The scar-faced man was nearly beside himself with rage. This was exactly the kind of contempt that made his blood boil, but with his master present, he could only swallow the insult in silence. Shooting a glare at the bald man, he cursed inwardly: “You damned fool, look at you—one day, if I get the chance, I'll smash those stupid glasses of yours and see if you still act so high and mighty.”

The bald man regarded the scar-faced man as if he were nothing but thin air, not so much as flinching.

Inside the house, the furnishings were simple and old-fashioned. At a desk sat a middle-aged man in a straight-collared white robe, his sleeves rolled up, holding a fine wolf-hair brush. Before him, a Spring Outing painting seemed to leap to life from the paper, the brushwork masterful.

Han Shizhong gazed at the painting, captivated, and could not help but exclaim, “Sir, that is truly a masterpiece. Your artistry is beyond compare; I am in awe.”

At this, the middle-aged man burst out laughing, tossed aside his brush, rolled up the painting, then crushed it between his hands and tore it to shreds before tossing it into the wastebasket.

Han Shizhong stared, dumbfounded. He had no idea what had just happened—had he said something wrong? For a moment, he stood frozen in confusion.

The man, unbothered, washed his hands and smiled calmly. “Master Han, how does this Spring Outing compare to the one by Zhan Ziqian?”

Zhan Ziqian, also known as Elder Zhan, was from Sui Dynasty, hailing from present-day Xinyang in Shandong. Revered as the forefather of Tang painting, he was especially renowned for his landscapes—Spring Outing being one of his masterpieces.

Han Shizhong, unsure how to answer, managed only, “Each has its own merit, its own charm.”

The man laughed. “Come now, Master Han, you're being evasive. Such diplomatic words only spare my feelings.”

Han Shizhong blushed with embarrassment and murmured, “Not at all, not at all.”

The man gazed at the scraps of paper and said softly, “As they say, when the spirit is right, the art flows. Since I couldn’t reach that state, I would not keep it. Without the proper spirit, the painting is nothing.”

He continued, “Master Han, it’s been some time since I last saw you.”

“Yes, it has. I was delayed by some pressing matters recently,” Han Shizhong replied.

“Oh?” the man said with interest, then added, “Indeed, your network is scattered, your strongholds collapsed, and you've lost quite a few men. With the authorities so vigilant, you must have been busy.”

At this frank assessment, Han Shizhong’s face flushed and paled in turn.

“So you’ve heard about the Qingyang affair too, sir.”

“Hmph. There is nothing in this world I cannot learn if I wish to. Only the means differ.”

“Indeed, sir. With your extensive connections, nothing escapes your notice.”

The man cut him off. “Now, what brings you here?”

Han Shizhong quickly produced several objects from the bag on his back and placed them on the desk. The man picked them up, sniffed them with little interest, turned them over in his hands, then pointed at one. “These must be what you dug out from the tomb, all from the early Tang. Except for this twin-eared Tang Jun piece, which is somewhat interesting, the rest are unremarkable, though their condition is fair. At least there’s something genuine among them.”

“Sir, with your wide knowledge, these are nothing to you,” Han Shizhong flattered.

“But this time,” Han Shizhong added eagerly, “we found something truly extraordinary in the tomb—a rare treasure. Only…”

“Only what?”

“It is a Soul-Summoning Vessel.”

“A Soul-Summoning Vessel?” The man’s expression finally shifted, his face growing strange.

Han Shizhong recounted everything that had happened in the tomb, omitting only the detail about Blood-robed Wuchang’s rescue, instead claiming he and the scar-faced man had fought their way out together.

Han Shizhong knew well that a true man keeps his word; he had promised Blood-robed Wuchang never to reveal the rescue, and besides, he had no wish to provoke such a terrifying figure. Better to make more friends than enemies, and better still, to avoid him altogether—one’s life was precious, after all.

As Han Shizhong described the events, especially the bizarre green light entering the body and the living turning into corpses, the man’s brows knit together in a deep frown.

Upon hearing of the Soul-Refining Formation of a Hundred Ghosts, the man’s entire body seemed to tense, his gaze growing distant. He rose and paced the room, restless, muttering to himself, “Walking corpses, the Soul-Refining Formation, the Soul-Summoning Vessel… What is the connection between these three?”

Han Shizhong feigned ignorance, but inwardly sneered: Of course you cannot guess—you lack the most crucial piece: Blood-robed Wuchang. Not that I know the connection either, nor do I wish to. Having lived this long, I know there are things one should never know; too much curiosity can kill a man. A little confusion is the key to a long life.

This, in fact, was Han Shizhong’s philosophy—if you must gamble with your life, at least know what it’s worth.

Suddenly, the middle-aged man regained his composure, the previous anxiety gone, once again exuding refined calm. He said softly, “Master Han, very good. I’ll take all these items. Should you come across anything else of value, bring it to me. As for what I’ve asked you to find, once you have it, you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you for your kindness. Rest assured, I have not been negligent. I’ve been searching for clues, and at the slightest hint, I act at once,” Han Shizhong said, bowing.

The man opened a drawer beside his desk, took out several yellowed talismans from a book titled The Upper Azure Record, wrote a note, and handed them all to Han Shizhong. “Here is your payment for this time—fair and as agreed. Take the note to Rare Treasures Hall on East Second Street, and the proprietor there will give you what you’re owed.”