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Haozi nearly slammed on the brakes: "Hu Dahai? That Hu Dahai from the Green Brick Club? How do you know him?"

"I found his contact information online, sent him a message saying that I had a national treasure-level antique that he had never seen before, and that if the actual item didn't match, I would spare his life. Only then did he reluctantly let me go over."

Haozi looked at him skeptically for a few seconds, then clicked his tongue and said, "That old man is notoriously arrogant; ordinary travelers can't even get a glimpse of him. Go try your luck, but don't get your hopes up too high. If things don't go well for me outside, I'll call the police and they'll be there to pick you up."

Twenty minutes later, the car stopped at the intersection of Treasure Street.

Hidden in the heart of the old city, Treasure Street is lined with old buildings from the Republican era, their blue bricks and gray tiles bearing the marks of time. Some shops are mostly closed, revealing stacks of wood and dusty old goods inside; a few are still open, their doors half-closed, the interiors dark, with glimpses of antique shelves and hanging calligraphy and paintings. The air is filled with the scent of old wood mixed with aged paper, and the autumn sun slants in, warming the stone pavement, while sycamore leaves twirl and fall in the breeze.

Haozi didn't go in. He found an old teahouse at the street corner and sat down. "You go ahead," he said, "I'll wait outside. Hu Dahai's place has strict rules; unauthorized people aren't allowed in. If you don't come out in an hour, I'll call the police. If anyone gives you trouble, just text me. I'll be waiting for you outside."

Lin Yanzhou walked in alone. The further he went in, the fewer people there were, and the shops on both sides became quieter. Occasionally, someone would come out from a doorway, dressed plainly, walking quietly, but with a sharp look in their eyes that only an expert would have.

Hu Dahai's "Blue Brick Guild Hall" is located at the deepest part of the street. There is no signboard or house number, only a pair of vermilion-lacquered wooden doors. The door knockers are two bronze dragon-head ornaments, polished to a shine by countless hands, with edges gleaming with a dark gold luster. Most of the paint on the door panels has faded, revealing the dark brown old wood grain underneath, making it look even older than the street itself.

Lin Yanzhou stepped forward and knocked three times; the sound of the copper ring striking the wooden surface carried far in the quiet alley.

The door opened a crack from the inside, and a middle-aged man in a gray cotton jacket peeked out. He was about fifty years old, lean, with a dark complexion and an old scar on his chin. His gaze, like a dull knife, slowly swept over the newcomer.

"Who should I look for?"

"Lin Yanzhou has made an appointment with Boss Hu."

The man in gray looked him up and down, asked no further questions, and stepped aside, saying, "Go in, the boss is in the front hall."

Lin Yanzhou stepped across the threshold. Under his feet lay a single, old blue brick, worn smooth as a mirror by countless feet. Fine bits of black mud were embedded in the cracks, creating a thin, slippery feel underfoot, as if years of dampness had seeped into the stone. He passed through a narrow, dark passageway. The walls on either side were also made of blue bricks, unpainted, the moss on the bricks dried into a dark brown, as if they hadn't been cleaned for many years. The scent of wood and old paper in the air grew stronger, carrying a quietude accumulated over decades.

After passing through a screen wall, the front hall suddenly opens up.

It was an elegant, antique-style room. Hanging in the center was a Ming Dynasty landscape scroll. The silk had yellowed, but the ink remained deep and rich. The mountains were layered, and the water vapor was misty. Below the painting was a long rosewood table, its corners covered with copper, the worn areas revealing the dark red wood grain. On the table was a celadon incense burner, its lid carved with lotus scrolls. A thick layer of ash had accumulated, the sandalwood burning very slowly, the smoke thin and straight, condensing and dispersing in the air, mingling with the unique scent of old wood and antique paper in the room.

On the antique shelves on both sides, several pieces of porcelain and jade carvings are displayed, all of excellent quality. Against the west wall stands a huanghuali wood display cabinet, which displays seals, inkstones, Buddhist beads, and bamboo-carved brush holders. Each item is understated, yet none of them seem to have been placed there casually.

The room was dimly lit, with two lamps lit even during the day. The lampshades were old-fashioned copper wire shades, which filtered the light to make it gentle and soft, giving the surfaces of the objects a calm, oily sheen.

Hu Dahai sat on the grand master's chair on the right side of the central hall.

He was a burly man with broad shoulders and a thick back. His square face had full cheeks and a ruddy complexion. His brow bones were high, and his gaze held the composure and coldness of someone who had been in charge for many years. He wore a dark gray cotton-linen jacket with the cuffs casually rolled up twice, revealing thick wrists with prominent veins. Around his neck hung an old jade pendant, its color warm and lustrous, its patina thick and rich, indicating it had been worn close to his body for countless years. On his left thumb was a jade thumb ring, its deep green color gleaming with a faint, cold light under the dim lamplight. A thin, long scratch was faintly visible on the inside of the ring face, as if it had been struck by something hard.

He was pouring tea from a purple clay teapot into a cup, his movements unhurried and unhurried, without even lifting his eyelids.

"sit."

One word, even the word "please" is omitted.

Lin Yanzhou sat down in the guest seat. The chair was made of old mahogany, which was slightly hard to sit on, and the back of the chair had been worn with a warm luster.

After pouring the tea, Hu Dahai placed the teapot back on the table, then raised his eyelids and his gaze lingered for a moment on the young man opposite him—short hair, an ordinary black jacket, no brocade box or handbag beside him, his posture was steady, neither timid nor obsequious. But there was absolutely no indication from his whole being that he was there to sell a "big item".

He picked up his teacup, took a slow sip, and said in a low voice, but the message "Don't waste my time" was clear: "My friend, the Green Brick Club doesn't accept walk-in customers. You contacted me saying you had something to sell. Where is it?"