The Mightiest Son-in-Law

Chapter 9: Who Declared...

Chapter 9: Who Declared... This Mere Trash?

The antique shop proprietor cast a sidelong glance at Chen Liang.

His eyes darted slyly, feigning hesitation: "Well... I cannot simply relinquish it. The Zhangs are esteemed patrons—their recent auction expenditure surpassed millions. This painting was but a complimentary token. Should you desire it..." He trailed off theatrically.

"One definitive price: a hundred thousand!"

The proprietor’s audacious extortion hung thick in the air.

Master Ma levelled an icy gaze at him.

Misinterpreting this as tacit approval of Chen Liang’s interest, the proprietor grew emboldened. In the West Street Antique Market, Master Ma’s legendary discernment was gospel—his interest alone could transmute dross to gold. A seasoned opportunist, the proprietor seized the moment to exploit it.

"Why-what?" Chen Liang stammered, flustered. "You offered it freely! What is this exorbitant sum?"

"Nonnegotiable. Final offer," the proprietor asserted.

"This..." Chen Liang wavered.

Observing this, the proprietor’s pulse quickened. What moments prior had been discarded as refuse now shimmered as potential profit. Hesitation signalled vulnerability. Though perplexed by Chen Liang’s sudden fixation, Master Ma interceded.

"Ten yuan—for your tobacco," Master Ma stated coldly.

"Master Ma, such cruelty! "No merchant bargains thus," the proprietor whined.

"Nor do honest men extort. "The painting holds no value to me—cease this charade," Master Ma countered.

Cornered, the proprietor forced a chuckle. "Very well—fifty thousand." Not a coin less. "For a gentleman of his discernment, mere trifles!" His face contorted in mock anguish, though the painting had cost him nothing—a throw-in from prior dealings. Profit, however trifling, remained profit.

"Pfah. This scrap merits ten yuan. Add ninety to your silver tongue."

"Impossible! "My cost exceeded ten thousand!" The proprietor shook his head vehemently.

"One hundred more. Final bid."

The price cascaded from 100,000 to 10,000. Chen Liang’s heart hammered. Before the proprietor could demur, he blurted, "Ten thousand! Done!"

Master Ma’s eyes narrowed. Recognizing the youth’s desperation, Chen Liang bowed his head. "I... apologize, Master Ma."

The proprietor grinned, thrusting the painting into Chen Liang’s grasp. The young man accepted it awkwardly.

"Master Ma... might you advance the sum?"

Master Ma stiffened—had he not just disbursed 600,000 for the jar? Yet he counted out the notes without query. His auction funds, meant for treasures, now served this curious purpose.

As the proprietor reached greedily, a voice sliced through: "Keep your hand."

Zhang Minghao sneered at Chen Liang. Humiliated earlier, he’d deny this upstart, even victory over detritus.

"That painting belongs to me," Zhang proclaimed.

Chen Liang clutched the artwork." This is mine by transaction."

"It remains *my* property," Zhang retorted.

"You spurned the proprietor’s offer. My purchase stands lawful."

"Precisely—his offer extended to *me*. "Thus, ownership persists," Zhang smirked.

The proprietor’s gaze darted between Chen Liang’s cash and his VIP client. "Regrets, young sir. Mr. Zhang reclaims..."

"You renege on sworn terms?" Chen Liang paled.

"Let me elucidate," Zhang jeered. I don't care about this trash. Yet I’d sooner rend it to kindling or wipe my posterior with it than see *you* possess it!"

Chen Liang glared, revolted yet resolute. Master Ma pressed a steadying hand into his arm.

"Stand firm. None shall wrest what’s rightfully claimed."

Zhang turned to the gathering crowd. "Does the venerable Master Ma now pilfer from juniors?"

A murmur rippled through the onlookers. The reputation here held the weight of jade.

Master Ma scanned the assembly. "Who among you forgets our covenant? A pact binds when goods and coins exchange—*saves the buyer’s voluntary release. His gaze was pinned on the proprietor. "Violate this canon, and West Street shall know you no more."

The proprietor blanched. Market laws were inviolable—transgressors became spectral pariahs.

Zhang, realizing his miscalculation, spat: "Keep your offal! Boyazhai* shelters true masterworks." He whirled to depart.

Chen Liang’s voice rang clear, trembling with revelation:

**"Who declared... this mere trash?"**

The Ultimate Bargain

Zhang Minghao halted mid-stride, pivoting sharply to confront Chen Liang.

The dispersing crowd crystallized into stillness.

Each visage is etched with identical wonder:

*Had fortune revealed itself?

With deliberate ceremony, Chen Liang unfurled the scroll before the assembled onlookers. Even street vendors recognized the work as a crude modern reproduction—scarcely worth ten yuan. As Zhang Minghao had scoffed derisively earlier, "In the realm of antiquities, there exist no trivial objects—only undiscerning eyes." He had dismissed the painting's clumsy brushwork as worthless.

Elder Ma exhaled wearily. "Shelve this folly. Let ten thousand yuan serve as your tutelage."

"Master Ma, I implore you—observe more closely. "There lies a peculiarity within," Chen Liang countered, his voice quivering with restrained fervour.

Zhang Minghao chuckled mirthlessly, clapping Chen Liang's shoulder with mock camaraderie. Heed the master's wisdom. Ten thousand for chamber pot parchment? Costly pedagogy, yet instructive!" His barbed wit provoked titters throughout the assembly.

Unyielding, Chen Liang fixed Zhang Minghao with a piercing glare before entreating the elder anew. "I beg your re-examination."

Reluctantly, Master Ma produced his jeweler's loupe. The shopkeeper shook his head—he'd personally authenticated the painting's mediocrity before gifting it. Yet as derisive whispers swirled ("Should this be genuine, my stall overflows with Ming treasures!"), the elder's brow abruptly furrowed.

"Hold... "The mounting technique bears uncommon artistry," he murmured, demanding specialized tools.

The crowd suspended its breath as Master Ma meticulously peeled back a corner of the mounting with surgical precision. When the revelation dawned hours later, gasps rippled like thunder: beneath the shoddy replica glimmered a **concealed masterpiece**—an authentic work by Tang Bohu!

"**A palimpsest of paintings!**" Master Ma exclaimed, mopping his glistening brow. "Young Chen, your perception eclipses even mine!"

Zhang Minghao's cigarette tumbled from slack lips. He surged forward, devouring every brushstroke and seal with desperate scrutiny. As scion of the esteemed *Boya Zhai Antique Emporium*, he recognized Tang Bohu's hallmarks—the ethereal ink washes, the lyrical composition. His countenance contorted with venomous envy. "You...!" he spat venomously.

Chen Liang shrugged. "The merchant first proffered it to *you."

Master Ma's aged fingers traced the fragile rice paper. "A magnum opus... yet marred here," he lamented, indicating a spectral tear.

Fuming on the Brink of Collapse

The air grew palpably taut with tension.

Bystanders stood motionless, their gazes riveted upon Master Ma.

With a furrowed brow, Master Ma gave a solemn headshake. Authentic, yet fragmented—stratified into triple laminae. This is the basal layer."

"Elaborate, if you would," Chen Liang inquired, perplexed.

Master Ma elucidated with scholarly precision: In eras past, virtuoso brushmasters could imbue their ink through multiple sheets. Profit-driven opportunists now dissect genuine works into stratified simulacra. The seller's kin, foreseeing their prodigal son's recklessness, devised this ruse to safeguard Tang Bohu's magnum opus. Tragic irony ordained its discard as mere refuse, gifted to this very shopkeeper.

Oblivious to this labyrinthine history, Chen Liang had initially braced for a reprise of the "cloisonné vase" debacle—where patina-cloaked artifice once duped him. Relief washed over him as authenticity was affirmed.

"Intact, its worth would transcend mortal measure," Master Ma lamented, his voice tinged with reverence.

"Authenticity suffices," Chen Liang countered with a grin.

The shopkeeper crumpled to his knees before the scroll, trembling as if poisoned by gall. This masterpiece—acquired gratis, dismissed as dross, is bartered for a paltry ten thousand! Anguish of regret consumed him.

"I shall reclaim it! Name your price!" the shopkeeper entreated.

Chen Liang deferred to Master Ma, who stroked his beard contemplatively. "Heed my counsel: retain it. If compelled to sell, let ten million be your threshold."

"Ten million?!" Chen Liang exclaimed in breathless astonishment, having anticipated mere millions.

"The upper strata would redouble their value. A complete work? "A celestial sum," Master Ma intoned, each syllable hammering like a gavel.

The shopkeeper and Zhang Minghao stood as men condemned, their chests constricting under the weight of opportunity squandered. The crowd—earlier mockers of Chen Liang—slunk away, faces aflame with chagrin.

Zhang Minghao's bloodshot eyes blazed. "Two million! I demand it!"

"Two million? Reserve such trifles for privy paper!" Chen Liang retorted with icy disdain.

"Cease this insolence! "That painting is my birthright!" Zhang roared, veins throbbing.

Chen Liang turned a deaf ear.

"Three million!" the shopkeeper interposed desperately.

These bids withered beneath Master Ma's valuation. Chen Liang addressed the venerable connoisseur: "Does this work stir your passion, Master Ma?"

"What connoisseur would spurn Tang Bohu's genius? Yet liquidity fails me—assets lie bound in dormant inventories."

"Then accept it for three million. The initial capital flowed from your coffers, after all."

After protracted negotiations steeped in mutual deference, they settled at five million—halving the appraisal, sharing both risk and honor.

As Chen Liang secured his fortune in cash and gilt-edged cards, Zhang Minghao choked on vitriol. Humiliation scalded him twofold: the "dross" he'd scorned now glittered with seven-figure allure, and worse—this "worthless son-in-law" had outmaneuvered him. Darkness encroached on his vision; a guttural rasp escaped his throat as he crumpled to the ground.

Tidings of Zhang's dual disgrace—outwitted and felled by his own fury—rippled through West Street Antique Market like wildfire, etching itself into legend.

To be continuous…