Chapter Six: Descendants of Distinguished Families

As the blood-soaked cleaver was about to strike my neck, my mind buzzed and I opened my eyes—it had all been a dream.

I glanced out the window, where a pale glow was already rising in the eastern sky. I sighed and sat up, thinking how much easier it would be if I could simply ignore this matter. I could carry on with my business as usual, but now even my sleep was restless. With this thought, I got out of bed and checked the clock: a quarter past five. I walked into the foyer, brewed a cup of tea, and took two pieces of cake from the fridge. As I ate and sipped my tea, I suddenly noticed a drop of blood slipping down beside my hand.

Time ticked by until seven o'clock. I picked up my phone, nervously turned it on, and exhaled in relief when I saw no new messages, calls, or notifications on WeChat or via text. I opened my contacts and dialed Mengya. Soon, her sweet voice came through the line.

"Hey, why are you calling so early?"

"Nothing, just wanted to check if you were up yet."

Mengya laughed, and an inexplicable chill ran through me as the terrifying figure from last night's dream flashed in my mind.

"Pick me up around eight-thirty, let's go straight to Liulichang," she said.

True to her punctual nature, Mengya's car arrived downstairs by twenty past eight. I peered down from my window and saw her in the car, appearing unchanged from afar. I walked out the building, and Mengya stepped out of the car as well. I studied her closely: she looked as youthful and radiant as always. Without greeting her, I settled into the passenger seat. Mengya started the engine.

I stole glances at Mengya as we drove, searching for any hint of change. She seemed perfectly normal, even smiling at me. “What’s going on with you today? You’re acting strange.” Cold sweat broke out across my brow; every time she smiled, I recalled the monstrous face from my dream.

At nine o'clock, Mengya and I arrived at Rongbaozhai Tower in Liulichang, Xicheng District, Beijing. There, Master Jun and Xiao Xie were waiting outside, Xiao Xie holding a red wooden box containing the gold mask.

I waved to them, and Master Jun came over. Together, we entered the basement of Rongbaozhai Tower.

The basement was divided into small rooms, most selling calligraphy and paintings—counterfeits abounded, genuine pieces were rare. We walked deep into the basement, and beside the elevator was a room larger than the others. A wooden placard stood beside the door, inscribed in bold letters: "Shop for Sale and Antiques Inside."

I paused in surprise and peered inside. There sat a man in his fifties, dressed in black traditional attire and wearing cloth shoes with layered soles. He sat at the table, shoulders slumped in a daze.

I knocked on the doorframe, “Ren Taian, what’s the matter? Missing your wife?”

Ren Taian looked up, his eyes brightening, “Ah, Brother Qiu, you’ve finally come,” he said, almost in tears.

Puzzled, I asked, “Brother Ren, what’s wrong? Why are you closing the shop?”

Ren Taian sighed, “Brother Qiu, have you heard about the swindler at the Antique Market a few days ago?”

“I caught wind of it, but don’t really know the details.”

Ren Taian wiped his tears, “My son Ren Bo recently participated in a WeChat auction on the second floor of the Antique Market. He spent ten thousand yuan on a painting and got to know the artist. The man claimed to be the grandson of Wu Hufan—a famous painter—skilled in imitating works by Zhang Daqian, Chen Shaomei, Wu Hufan, and others. He was quite the conversationalist.”

I interrupted him, “Brother Ren, please sit down. Tell me the whole story from the beginning.”

Ren Taian sat and recounted the events that had transpired in his family.

His son’s name was Ren Bo. In ancient times, names often followed the order: Bo, Zhong, Shu, Ji, so Ren Taian’s eldest son was Ren Bo. Ren Bo had just begun to make a name for himself in the antique circles, acquainted with almost every dealer in Beijing, thanks to his father’s longstanding reputation.

Half a year ago, Ren Bo was strolling through the Antique Market as usual. As he was about to leave, he ran into the proprietor of “Hanyunxuan” on the second floor.

Recognizing an acquaintance, Ren Bo greeted her. The proprietor was warm and invited him upstairs for tea. Unable to refuse, Ren Bo followed her to “Hanyunxuan.”

As they sat, Ren Bo sipped his tea and sensed she had something to say. He set down his cup and smiled, “Manager, you must have something you want to discuss?”

She smiled, “Not much, really. We’ve recently launched a micro auction. Interested in seeing the goods?”

Ren Bo thought, the tea at the Antique Market is never free, and nodded. The proprietor took out a painting—an unmounted scroll.

She unfurled the scroll. At its center was a depiction of Shouxing, the God of Longevity, rendered in the style of Chen Shaomei, exquisitely painted. Ren Bo frowned at the inscription—it wasn’t Chen Shaomei. Instead, it read, “Jiangzuo Wuyue.”

Ren Bo looked up, “Who is Jiangzuo Wuyue? I don’t recognize the name.”

The proprietor smiled mysteriously, “Are you familiar with Wu Hufan?”

Ren Bo nodded—who wasn’t?

He examined the seal, which read, “Woyun Painting Pavilion.”

“This Mr. Wu Yue is Wu Hufan’s grandson. Since childhood, he learned painting from Sun Yunsheng, a disciple of Zhang Daqian. He’s quite accomplished.”

Ren Bo nodded, “The painting is indeed excellent.”

“Moreover, Mr. Wu Yue has a unique skill: imitation. This year alone, he’s earned tens of millions by imitating Zhang Daqian’s works.”

Ren Bo was stunned. Just by copying paintings, one could earn millions! He agreed to participate in the micro auction, and that evening, acquired the Longevity painting in the style of Chen Shaomei for ten thousand yuan.

The next day, Ren Bo went to the Antique Market to pay and collect his purchase. Upon entering, he saw the proprietor and a man dining together. The man wore traditional Chinese attire, layered cloth shoes, and held a sandalwood folding fan carved by Yu Zi’an, eating hungrily.

The proprietor introduced him, “Mr. Wu, this is the buyer of your painting, Ren Bo from the Ren family of Liulichang.”

Mr. Wu Yue, seated at the table, nodded and smiled, then continued eating.

Ren Bo thought, if he could build a rapport with Mr. Wu, he could commission more imitations in the future. He sat nearby, striking up conversation. Mr. Wu was affable and talkative; after several hours, they became friends. They toured the Antique Market together, and that night, Mr. Wu promised to paint a splash-ink landscape in the style of Zhang Daqian for Ren Bo. Over the next month, they visited nearly every antique shop in Beijing together, spending days at the market and evenings dining together.

A few days later, as usual, they toured the market. Ren Bo smiled, “Mr. Wu, about the splash-ink painting…”

Wu Yue nodded, “I haven’t started yet, too many things lately. Just finished commissions for Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and Poly Auction.” He pulled out his phone.

“Brother Liu, the Lang Shining piece for Poly is ready. Come pick it up.” He hung up and looked at Ren Bo.

“My courtyard in West Hill No. 1 is being renovated, so I’m busy with that. How about this: I’ll start painting tomorrow.”

Ren Bo was delighted but noticed Wu Yue looked troubled. “Mr. Wu, is there some difficulty?”

Wu Yue nodded, “If you want a splash-ink in Zhang Daqian’s style, I don’t have the right pigments. I need to buy them. Can you get hold of old pigments?”

Ren Bo shook his head. Wu Yue made a call, then told Ren Bo, “I’ve spoken to my apprentice, Zhang Xuanyu. Tonight, settle the pigment payment with him, and I’ll have him send the pigments here. As soon as they arrive, I’ll paint for you. In a few days, I’ll reimburse you for the pigments.”

Ren Bo thought, how expensive could pigments be? That evening, he added Zhang Xuanyu on WeChat. When he saw the bill: Phthalocyanine blue, fifty thousand; Stone blue, eighty-five thousand; Emerald green, fifty-five thousand—totaling nearly five hundred thousand.

Ren Bo was shocked—how could it be so expensive? He hesitated, but recalled the lavish spending on Mr. Wu these past weeks—thousands on food and gifts. Besides, Mr. Wu said he’d repay him soon. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So, the next morning, Ren Bo transferred the money to Zhang Xuanyu’s account.

Afterward, Ren Bo notified Wu Yue via WeChat, “Mr. Wu, the pigment payment has been transferred to your apprentice Zhang Xuanyu.”

Suddenly, a reply popped up: Wu Yue has enabled friend verification. You are not his friend. Please send a friend request. Upon approval, you may chat.

Ren Bo’s mind buzzed—he realized he’d been swindled, and rushed to tell his father, Ren Taian, everything.

Ren Taian sighed, “Reporting to the police won’t help. You completed a legitimate transaction; they won’t accept your case. Take it as a lesson learned,” he said, comforting his son.

Ren Taian thought losing hundreds of thousands was merely a costly lesson. But a few days later, something unexpected happened. Four or five acquaintances from the Antique Market arrived at Ren Taian’s shop.

He greeted them with a smile, but their faces were grave.

“Taian, is your son Ren Bo here? Take a look at this.”

One handed him a letter: Today, I have collected the following items—one Han Dynasty gilt bronze kneeling lamp, among fifteen goods. Guarantor: Ren Bo. Recipient: Wu Yue.

Ren Taian’s vision blurred, and he collapsed at the table.