Volume One: Beihai Qinyang Chapter 10: One Million

The spring water gently sprinkled over the painting, the ink on the scroll dissolving completely, merging into a single mass. Luo Dayou’s face was grave; moments ago, he had only experimented tentatively, for there were many ways to unlock a painting within a painting, and the wrong method could easily ruin the scroll.

It seemed his guess was correct. He drew out a thin blade with his right hand, then carefully began to separate the layers. His movements were slow and meticulous, mindful of the delicate paper soaked with water—too much force, and it would tear apart.

Zhang Yiming and Qin Yang watched intently. Compared to Qin Yang, Zhang Yiming was visibly more excited, his face flushed as though the painting before him was already his own possession. Qin Yang, seeing this, was at a loss—wasn’t it just a painting? Was it really worth all this fuss? Yet, for those who love art, joy is inevitable; for those who do not, a painting is worthless.

Bored, Qin Yang wandered around, noticing several wooden boxes on a distant shelf, each exuding a faint aroma of medicinal herbs. His spirits were suddenly lifted; he hadn’t expected Zhang Yiming to have so many treasures, and he fell into contemplation.

At that moment, Zhang Yiming called out to him, “Brother Qin, hurry over, the separation is done!”

They were now drying the scroll, and its features began to emerge.

“A painting by Zhu Qingshan—unbelievable! Isn’t it said that only one of his works remains?” Zhang Yiming exclaimed, moved. “And what is this ‘Winter Birds Building Nests’?”

Luo Dayou examined it carefully, looking delighted. “It’s definitely a Zhu Qingshan painting. If we go by the last auction price for his work, this scroll is worth at least three million.”

“Three million?” Qin Yang was astounded. He had never imagined the painting could be so valuable; he’d thought fifty thousand would be a good price, but he had underestimated its worth.

Zhang Yiming pondered and said, “Brother Qin, I won’t deceive you. At the last auction, everyone thought it was Zhu Qingshan’s only surviving work, so the price soared to three million. Zhu Qingshan’s history isn’t long. So, I won’t let you lose out: I’ll pay you two million eight hundred thousand for this painting. What do you say?”

Though he spoke casually, Zhang Yiming was still somewhat nervous. Truth be told, he loved this painting so much he would not let it slip away.

“Brother Zhang, I don’t understand these things. I’ll let you decide,” Qin Yang replied, grinning as he lounged on the sofa.

Zhang Yiming hadn’t expected Qin Yang to be so straightforward; he was overjoyed, and his fondness for Qin Yang grew.

“Brother Zhang, do you have more medicinal herbs here? I just caught a whiff of wild ginseng,” Qin Yang said, smiling.

Zhang Yiming was startled. Qin Yang had wandered about and somehow detected his wild ginseng—how could that be? He always kept it in sealed boxes to preserve its potency. His eyes widened, as though he had seen a ghost.

“Brother Qin, how did you know?” He no longer regarded Qin Yang as a child, but as an equal.

Rubbing his nose, Qin Yang replied, “I once studied with an old herbalist for a few days and grew familiar with the scents. I guessed when I caught the aroma, and it turns out I was right.”

“Brother Zhang, I’m quite fond of wild ginseng. Would you be willing to part with it?”

Zhang Yiming waved his hand generously, flush with today’s gains and in high spirits. “I bought those two wild ginseng roots for one million two hundred thousand. I’ll sell them to you for the same price.”

“Deal.”

Qin Yang didn’t ask for details—if Zhang Yiming paid that price, the ginseng must be worth it.

Sure enough, when Zhang Yiming brought him the ginseng, Qin Yang inspected them carefully. One was nearly fifteen hundred years old; the other, just reaching a thousand years. In today’s world, such thousand-year wild ginseng is rare, especially two roots.

As the saying goes, wild ginseng can save lives.

He had been in Bincheng for so long, but only today had his eyes truly been opened.

Two million eight hundred thirty thousand, subtracting the one million two hundred thousand for the ginseng, left him with one million six hundred thirty thousand in cash.

It all felt like a dream. He had never seen so much money before; money, in his mind, was always heavy and ponderous.

He and Zhang Yiming examined the Zhu Qingshan painting together; the three of them sighed with admiration. Qin Yang, lacking an appreciation for art, prepared to take his leave.

Zhang Yiming insisted he stay for a meal and chat, but Qin Yang found an excuse and left quickly.

With two wild ginseng roots in hand, he had to maximize their effects before their inner energy dissipated, or his money would be wasted.

On the way, he bought two hens and returned to the company, heading straight for his dormitory. Living alone, he had no fear of interruption and began preparing his meal.

He stewed the hens, placing the thousand-year wild ginseng in the pot. The oldest ginseng, he popped into his mouth in two or three bites. Fortunately, no one else was present, or they would have cried out at the waste.

He activated the Immortal Slaying Technique, and soon felt a stream of energy circulating within, his face alight with joy.

It was truly effective.

Meanwhile, Wang Lei and Li Jun were patrolling, passing near Qin Yang’s dormitory. The aroma stopped them in their tracks.

“Wow, Wang Lei, what do you think Brother Yang’s cooking up? Surely he’s not keeping it all to himself?” Li Jun’s eyes bulged as he spoke to Wang Lei.

Wang Lei nodded, a sly grin appearing. “Looks like it. Should we go check? I heard the boss rushed back carrying two hens.”

The smell and mention of hen made their mouths water.

Damn, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!

The oldest ginseng in his stomach made his true energy stronger, just a step away from advancing to Intermediate Enlightenment. He knew breakthroughs wouldn’t come easily, but still felt a twinge of disappointment at not succeeding.

He ladled out a bowl of chicken soup, savoring its tempting aroma.

This taste is wonderful. Honestly, with my wit, not becoming a chef is a waste. He muttered as he drank.

Just then, voices came from outside. “Brother Yang, you’re absolutely right. With such delicious food, not being a chef is a real loss.”

“That’s right, Brother Yang. You can’t finish this whole pot yourself. Wang and I will help you out.”

Qin Yang finally understood—the two were here to claim a share of the food.

Just as he was about to speak, his expression changed; leaving a quick word, he rushed out: “You two eat up, I’m full. Don’t forget to wash up afterward.”

Back in his room, he locked the door behind him.

He hadn’t expected that only two bowls of chicken soup would once again bring him to the brink of a breakthrough. Frowning slightly, he entered meditation anew.