Rebirth in a Courtyard: I Am a Little Hunter

As they were talking, Zhao Dashan, who was also over fifty and had a stocky build, came over, dragged a chair over, and sat down to join the conversation.

The conversation naturally shifted from Wei Chen's astonishing wild boar to the common "pain" of the purchasing staff—the cunning village officials, the difficult villagers, and their perpetually insatiable appetites.

"You wouldn't believe it, Xiao Wei," Zhao Dashan slapped his thigh, his face full of bitterness and resentment, "Just last month, I went to that little Wangzhuang village in the south to collect eggs, and good heavens! That village secretary, that old fox surnamed Wang! He spent the whole afternoon joking around with me, insisting that all the chickens were brooding and there were no eggs! And what happened? The moment I left, I heard that he had sold all the eggs to his acquaintances at the supply and marketing cooperative at a high price! I was so angry my liver hurt!"

Master Hu immediately chimed in, "What's that? When I was young, I went to Beishan to buy mountain products, and that was a real rip-off! They promised me walnuts, but they mixed in half stones! The weight was so heavy... When I weighed them back, the section chief almost ate me alive!" Wei Chen listened quietly and offered him a cigarette at the right moment.

He lit tea for the two senior figures, then held his own teacup, occasionally interjecting with a question like, "Really?" or "And then?" His face displayed just the right amount of surprise and sympathy, making him appear like a humble junior eager to learn.

But in his heart, everything was crystal clear. These complaints contained countless experiences and tricks of rural purchasing: which villages were honest, which people were cunning, which mountain products were easily adulterated, and which season was the most profitable to buy... These were invaluable treasures that could not be learned from books. Like a patient sponge, he silently absorbed this "rustic wisdom" that had accumulated over half a lifetime.

Other people in the office came and went, their eyes filled with complex emotions as they saw Wei Chen chatting and laughing leisurely with the two "old hands".

Envy is understandable; after all, who wouldn't want to catch their breath after accomplishing an impossible task? But at a deeper level, there's also a hint of unspeakable alienation—this newcomer seems to have found his place in this deep pool too quickly, and in a way that they can't replicate.

As the afterglow of the setting sun painted the towering chimneys of the steel rolling mill a golden-red hue, and the bell rang sharply to signal the end of the workday, Wei Chen's pace of life did not slow down completely.

Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, he would finish dinner early at the canteen, then hop on his bicycle and speed off to the "small blast furnace" steelmaking site designated by the neighborhood committee.

The location was on an abandoned threshing ground. From afar, you could see several small blast furnaces, roughly built of refractory bricks and billowing black smoke, standing like a few clumsy yet fanatical giants.

The roaring fire illuminated the surroundings and cast a red glow on the sweat-drenched faces of the workers standing before it. The air was thick with the pungent smells of sulfur, coke, and the intense heat of smelting metal, while the massive blowers roared deafeningly.

Wei Chen skillfully registered at the entrance and received a pair of worn-out coarse cloth gloves and a tattered willow helmet. He usually joined the raw materials group, responsible for using large iron tongs to pick up piles of scrap iron—rusty iron pots, broken farm tools, twisted steel bars, and even iron window frames that had been taken from who-knows-where—and throw them into the furnace that seemed capable of swallowing everything.

The intense heat of the furnace scorched the skin from several meters away, and sweat instantly soaked through the clothes, only to be quickly dried as they approached the furnace opening, leaving behind a layer of white salt stains.

"Wei Chen! Over here! Give me a hand!" A street activist, his face covered in coal dust and his voice hoarse, shouted, waving a pair of pliers. Together, they pried up a heavy, abandoned rail, chanting as they trudged toward the furnace opening.

A wave of scorching heat hit us, almost suffocating us. The rails were thrown into the furnace and instantly engulfed by the orange-red flames, emitting a dull "clang" and the groaning of twisting metal.

"Well done!" someone shouted encouragingly from the side. Wei Chen wiped the mixture of sweat and coal ash from his face, grinned, revealing a set of teeth that looked exceptionally white in the firelight. Without saying anything more, he turned and ran towards the next pile of scrap metal.

Here, there is no dazzling halo of a rising star in steel mill purchasing, only a silent and hardworking ordinary worker named "Xiao Wei".

The heavy physical labor, the scorching heat of the stove, and the deafening noise were nothing to his robust physique; rather, they were a kind of relaxation.

Every time he forcefully fed the scrap metal, every time he watched it melt and transform in the flames, he felt a simple, grounded sense of responsibility to contribute his meager strength to this country in dire need of rebuilding.

On Sundays, he would spend the entire day here. While other purchasing agents might be resting or visiting relatives and friends, Wei Chen was always active by the stove, the blower, or the waste pile.

Old Zhang, the head of the neighborhood committee, a thin but vigorous old Party member, patted him on the shoulder more than once and said to others in a hoarse but loud voice, "Look at young Wei! Young and conscious! This is the kind of good youth of our new society!" Wei Chen just smiled shyly and continued to swing the heavy iron pliers.

However, beneath this seemingly calm and regular surface of life, there are undercurrents that no one knows about.

Every other week, late at night, when the city of Beijing is completely asleep and even the most diligent night watchmen are dozing off against the wall, Wei Chen would appear like a ghost.

He avoided main roads, choosing instead to traverse winding, narrow alleyways without streetlights. In a completely dark, unobserved corner, he stopped and took a deep breath.

The next moment, a sickeningly subtle "crackling" sound came from his body, as if his bones were being forcibly shifted. His tall figure began to swell, his muscles bulging like inflated balloons, stretching his once-fitting clothes tightly.

The facial contours also distorted and changed; the cheekbones became higher, the jawline wider, the brow bones more prominent, and even the skin tone seemed to darken in the shadows. The entire process was accompanied by muscle-tearing pain and intense dizziness; each transformation felt like a form of torture.

A few breaths later, the one standing in place was no longer the handsome and composed Wei Chen, but a burly, unfamiliar man with a towering frame, a rugged and fierce face, and sharp, hawk-like eyes. He stretched his much thicker neck, his Adam's apple bobbing, and uttered a deep, hoarse voice: "Black Panther."

This avatar, named "Black Panther," was the same one he had taken during his last trip to the Ghost Market. He pulled a cart with a large wooden frame from his backpack and silently disappeared into the deeper night, stealthily making his way towards the Ghost Market—a forgotten, chaotic, and vibrant area on the edge of the city.

The rendezvous point was still the same quiet corner piled with old tires and discarded wooden crates as before. Under the dim light of the oil lamp, Tiger's scarred face appeared precisely on time. Behind him followed two silent, wiry men, their eyes scanning the surroundings warily.

"Black Panther Brother! Right on time!" Tiger grinned, revealing a set of teeth stained yellow by smoke. His smile had a gangster vibe, but his eyes swept over the outline of the goods on the cart, which were covered by tarpaulin, with sharp, knife-like eyes.

"Brother Tiger." Black Panther's voice was low and short, like sandpaper rubbing. He didn't waste any more words, took a step forward, and suddenly lifted a corner of the oilcloth.

Under the dim light, two plump, white-furred domestic pigs, even exuding warmth, were clearly visible! They were tightly bound with thick hemp ropes and lay quietly on the cart. Their thick flesh gleamed with a healthy and enticing sheen under the oil lamp, a stark contrast to the ferocious and rough appearance of the wild boars from before.

Tiger's eyes flashed with a sharp light! He took a step forward, pressed his rough fingers hard against the pig's body, feeling its firm and elastic texture, and then sniffed it carefully. There was only the unique, faint smell of feed and cleanliness of domestic pigs, with absolutely no trace of the fishy smell of wild animals.

His facial scar twitched slightly with excitement: "Excellent! Top-quality domesticated goods! Brother Black Panther, your connections are... solid!" He gave a thumbs up, making no attempt to hide his admiration. In the extremely scarce Ghost Market, such consistently high-quality goods with mysterious origins were the most valuable of all!

Weighing and calculating the price were procedures they were already adept at. The two pigs weighed a little over 650 jin (approximately 325 kg) live. Under the rules of the "ghost market," the prices were naturally far higher than those at the steel rolling mill.

"Same as always, one dollar and two cents a pound! Six hundred and fifty-two pounds, rounded down to six hundred and fifty! Seven hundred and eighty dollars exactly!" Tiger Brother's abacus was working fast. He pulled out a bulging oilcloth bag from his pocket, inside which was a thick stack of banknotes of various denominations. He moistened his mouth with saliva, his fingers flying across the counter, and handed the exact amount to "Black Panther".

"Black Panther" took the money, didn't even glance at it, and stuffed it directly into his pocket. With a slight thought, he stored it in his spatial storage. He remained almost completely silent throughout, only coldly scanning his surroundings with his sharp eyes. The transaction was complete. He pulled the cart, and his burly figure quickly disappeared into the deepest darkness before dawn, as if he had never been there.

And so, in the calm of the past two weeks, "Black Panther" appeared four times as promised. Eight plump, high-quality domestic pigs, weighing a total of over 2,600 jin, were exchanged for a thick wad of cash totaling more than 3,100 yuan.

Every transaction was clean and efficient, and every time "Black Panther" appeared and disappeared like a ghost. Mysterious, powerful, punctual, and with solid goods—this image became clearer and clearer in Tiger's mind, and the foundation of trust was quietly built up in one silent transaction after another.

Of course, Wei Chen never let his guard down. Every time he changed routes, every time he altered even the smallest details, every time Tiger Brother made a seemingly casual but actually probing conversation, he remained highly vigilant. This money was not easy to earn; it was like dancing on a knife's edge.

Half a month passed quietly amidst the changing of the seasons, the aroma of tea in the office, the roar of the steel furnace, and the clandestine transactions late at night. Meanwhile, changes were silently accumulating in Wei Chen's east courtyard.