roccoschili Chapter 2: Dragon's Roar
Chapter 2: Dragon's Roar
The next morning, Cheng Xiaojin went to Tong Kexin's braised pork stall for breakfast as usual.
The braised pork stall is located at the entrance of an alley on Huguosi Street. It consists of two folding tables, four long benches, and a canopy overhead. It's as simple as it gets, but the taste is absolutely amazing.
Tong Kexin stood behind the stove, her apron splattered with oil, stirring the pot with a large iron ladle in one hand, and frowned when she saw Cheng Xiaojin.
"Another order on credit?"
"Who said I was on credit? I brought money with me today." Cheng Xiaojin plopped down on the stool, pulled out twenty yuan from his pocket, and slapped it on the table.
Tong Kexin glanced at the crumpled banknote.
"You said last week you'd pay me back this week, this week you said next week, which week are you referring to?"
"Next week, I promise."
Your promise is worthless.
"What are you talking about? When have I ever farted?"
"Just open your mouth."
Several old neighbors at the next table laughed.
Tong Kexin served him a bowl of braised pork. The baked buns were cut into neat squares, the large intestines were cleaned thoroughly, and the broth was rich but not greasy.
Cheng Xiaojin slurped up a mouthful of soup and squinted his eyes comfortably.
"Kexin, if you had this skill, you'd be second or even first in a competition."
"Come on." Tong Kexin took a rag and wiped the table, stopping in front of him.
"Cheng Xiaojin, how old are you this year?"
"Twenty-six."
"You're 26 and still setting up a street stall? Don't you have any other ideas?"
"Yes, I'd like to buy a courtyard house within the Second Ring Road."
Tong Kexin almost threw the rag in his face.
"Are you dreaming? Do you even know how much a courtyard house in the Second Ring Road costs?"
"I don't know, but I can at least have a goal."
"Your goal is even less reliable than the fake antique you've acquired."
"I don't have any fake antiques on my stall."
Tong Kexin snorted and turned back to work behind the stove.
Cheng Xiaojin buried his head in eating braised pork, his mind racing with plans for the day.
I made 300 yuan yesterday, paid 500 yuan for the stall fee, and had less than 200 yuan left in my pocket.
I still have rent to pay at the end of the month, 1,500.
I still owe Miao Daqing 600 yuan for his stall last month.
With daily food and drink expenses included, this month will be another tight budget.
He had considered doing something else, but after so many years in the antique business, he didn't know how to do anything else.
Working? He couldn't sit still.
Starting a business? I don't have the capital.
Although street vending earns less money, it's carefree; you don't have to worry about what others think, and you can close up whenever you want.
After finishing his braised pork, Cheng Xiaojin rode his old bicycle to Panjiayuan.
I had just set up my stall when I saw the old farmer from Hebei from yesterday.
The old farmer changed his clothes today, but he was still holding the burlap sack in his arms.
He stood in the aisle opposite the stall, looking this way.
Cheng Xiaojin pretended not to see and lowered her head to tidy up the things on the stall.
About ten minutes later, the old farmer finally moved over.
"Young man."
Cheng Xiaojin looked up.
"Sir, you were standing at the door yesterday, and you're here again today?"
The old farmer rubbed his hands together, hesitated for a moment, then placed the burlap sack on the cloth and untied the rope.
Inside was a lump of iron.
It was filthy, rusted beyond recognition, and irregularly shaped, about the size of two fists.
"What is this?" Cheng Xiaojin picked it up and looked at it; it was heavy.
"My old house was demolished; they dug it out from under the foundation," the old farmer said with a heavy Hebei accent.
"When we were digging the foundation, we came across a layer of old bricks, and this was buried underneath them."
Where are you from?
"Baoding, Mancheng."
Cheng Xiaojin casually stroked the surface of the iron lump with his fingers, asking absentmindedly.
"Mancheng, huh? That place has produced some good things, you know the Mancheng Han Tombs, right?"
"I know, I know, it's right behind my house in the mountains."
Have you taken this item elsewhere to have it seen?
The old farmer sighed.
"I looked at it, went to five or six stalls, but they all said it was scrap metal and didn't want it."
Cheng Xiaojin flipped the iron lump over, intending to glance at it briefly before sending the old farmer away.
Nine times out of ten, this thing is just a piece of old iron. You can dig up anything from the ground in the countryside: iron pot fragments, iron nails, plowshares, horseshoes—it's nothing unusual.
But his fingers suddenly stopped.
The moment his fingertip touched the surface of the metal lump, he felt something was wrong.
The texture of the rust layer.
Ordinary rust is rough, has a strong grainy texture, and feels rough to the touch.
But the rust layer on this lump of iron is different. Underneath the rusted skin is a very fine transition layer that is smooth yet slightly rough, and rough yet resilient.
Cheng Xiaojin has been in this industry for over a decade. He grew up handling things with his grandfather, experiencing thousands of items of various materials. He can tell with his eyes closed what texture corresponds to what era and craftsmanship.
This feel is unlike that of ordinary cast iron.
His fingers moved even slower, as if he were reading Braille, feeling the texture of the iron lump inch by inch.
There are marks under the rust layer, very blurry protrusions, which are not naturally formed marks, but rather man-made engravings.
The pattern was covered by rust, making it impossible to see exactly what it was, but he could sense the engraving technique: the blade was deep and narrow, and the angle of the cut was 45 degrees.
He had only seen this chiseling technique in his grandfather's notes; it was called oblique engraving, a common technique for ironware before the Ming Dynasty.
Before the Ming Dynasty.
Cheng Xiaojin's expression didn't change, and her hands didn't tremble, but her heart skipped a beat.
He casually flipped the metal lump over and lightly flicked it at an inconspicuous spot on the bottom with his thumbnail.
Ding.
The sound was muffled, not the dry, sharp sound of ordinary ironware.
The sound was deep and long, spreading out from the point where the fingernail struck, and the echo traveled inside the metal lump for several seconds before dissipating.
Cheng Xiaojin's breathing paused for a moment.
His grandfather taught him that when listening to the sound of metal objects, you should mainly listen to three things: timbre, duration, and end note.
The sound of new iron is crisp and short.
Lao Tie's voice was deep and long.
But there is a type of iron that produces a sound that is neither crisp nor deep, but rather melodious and lingering, with the echo reverberating between the fingers for several seconds after being struck.
Grandpa called this sound a dragon's roar.
The old man said that he had only seen iron capable of emitting a dragon's roar twice in his life, both times in museums, behind glass cases.
The first time was at the Forbidden City, and the second time was at the National Museum of China.
Both items are ritual implements related to warding off evil spirits, controlling water, and protecting the home.
Cheng Xiaojin put the metal lump down and quietly rubbed his fingers on his pants to remove the rust from his fingertips.
"Sir, how much do you want for this?"
The old farmer held up five fingers.
"Five thousand."
Cheng Xiaojin smiled.
"Sir, this lump of iron is so rusty. I'll have to spend money to remove the rust if I take it back, and it won't be easy to sell. Five thousand is too expensive."
"Then how much will you say?"
"one hundred."
"One hundred? Are you trying to fob me off like a beggar?"
"Sir, please don't worry. To tell you the truth, nobody wants this in Panjiayuan. You've been to five or six stalls already, has anyone offered a hundred?"
The old farmer choked.
Cheng Xiaojin held up three fingers.
"Three hundred, I'll add another two hundred. Don't bother running anymore, the tricycle is parked outside, the parking fee alone is several tens of yuan a day."
The old farmer shook his head.
"No, at least two thousand."
"Sir, two thousand is enough for me to buy a whole batch of brand new cast iron ornaments, the kind that are even gold-plated."
The two of them chatted back and forth for almost half an hour.
While haggling over the price, Cheng Xiaojin subtly observed the old farmer's expression and bottom line.
The old farmer wasn't a businessman, so he didn't have any bargaining skills; he just stubbornly held on, pushing the price down from 5,000 to 3,000, then from 3,000 to 1,500, until Cheng Xiaojin finally managed to haggle it down to 800.
"Alright, sir, eight hundred. You see, I really want it." Cheng Xiaojin took out his money from his pocket, counted out eight hundred-yuan bills from the bottom of his drawer, and handed them over.
The old farmer took the money, counted it twice, put it in his inner pocket, sighed, and left.
Cheng Xiaojin wrapped the lump of iron in a cloth and stuffed it into his backpack.
His hands were trembling slightly.
If his judgment is correct, this object dates back to at least before the Ming Dynasty, and it is not an ordinary iron artifact, but rather a ritual implement of some kind.
As for what exactly it is, he dared not draw a conclusion; he would have to find someone who truly understands it to take a look.
"Xiao Jin, what junk did you just buy?" Old Li from next door came over, craning his neck to see.
Cheng Xiaojin zipped up his backpack and said with a grin.
"A lump of iron, I'll use it as a weight when I get back."
"How much did it cost?"
"Eight hundred."
"Eight hundred for a weight? Are you out of your mind?"
"Never mind that, I'm happy to do it."
Cheng Xiaojin slung his backpack over his shoulder and began packing up his stall.
While he was tidying up, he glanced casually at a corner on the east side of the market.
A fat man was standing there.
He was wearing sunglasses, a dark jacket, and had an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
The fat man wasn't browsing the stalls or looking at the goods; he just stood there, facing Cheng Xiaojin's direction.
Cheng Xiaojin withdrew her gaze, her movements unchanged, and continued packing her things.
But he was cautious and peeked through the gap in the cloth again.
The fat man is still there.