Chapter 2
Jin City was the second largest city in Nan Jiang Province, and also the southernmost. In summer, it was hot from morning until night. Especially after nine o’clock, the temperature would steadily rise, making people reluctant to go outside.
It was exactly nine o’clock now. There weren’t many people on the streets, and the university town was no exception.
On the already scorching road surface, a man sped by on an electric bike. Even though the sun beat down on his exposed forearms, he felt no heat at all—nor did he sweat.
That man was Jiang Jitang, someone with one foot already in the grave.
The university town was located in the southern part of Jin City, bordering the old district, not far from Jiang Jitang’s home.
There were six universities nearby: Nan Lian University, where Jiang Jitang studied; the neighboring Nan Jiang Film Academy and Nan Jiang Academy of Fine Arts; Nan Jiang University and Nan Jiang Normal University in the next block; and the youngest, Nan Jiang College of Finance and Economics.
He had traveled this road for several years. He could ride it with his eyes closed. Jiang Jitang rode his second-hand electric scooter at full speed into the nearby Nan Jiang Academy of Fine Arts.
Just as he entered the campus gates, he saw a slogan on the academy’s white walls: “Care for Students’ Mental Health”. But there were barely any people on the road. Only the student life street area seemed to have some noise.
It was graduation season. There were probably senior students holding a flea market in the academy square, selling used items. But that was not his destination.
He only had sixteen yuan of shopping money, and every penny had to be used wisely. The best option, of course, was zero-cost acquisition.
The seven-shaped building by the shore of Mingyue Lake was the Fine Arts Department’s main base. The studio of the graduating class of the Chinese painting major was on the seventh floor.
As his bike passed the front door of the heptagon-shaped building and he was about to park, he noticed remnants of caution tape saying “Warning, Do Not Enter” at the entrance. The door was also locked.
Had another student jumped?
That thought flashed across his mind.
Hot weather agitated the liver, and made people prone to depression. In the month leading up to graduation, several universities nearby had incidents.
Some jumped due to employment pressure, some drowned after emotional crises, one even choked to death while eating skewers—rushing into the next life as if catching a departure schedule.
He wasn’t really interested in these matters, but he had no choice—ever since he got kicked out of the old class group chat, people still sent these rumors daily. Everyone had gone numb to it.
Unable to enter through the front, Jiang Jitang rode to the back entrance. The back door was left slightly open.
There was a parking lot behind the building. He stopped his scooter, locked it, took out a red-neon vest that said “Cleaner” and two foldable supermarket bags from the back seat, and pulled out a mask.
Wearing the red-neon vest and mask, Jiang Jitang casually took the broom and dustpan sitting by the doorway, then took the elevator to the seventh floor.
There wasn’t a single person inside the building; the atmosphere was especially gloomy. Jiang Jitang arrived at the seventh floor. The portrait paintings on the wall were silently watching. Every classroom stood wide open for him.
There were three classes in the Chinese painting major, all on this floor. He went to Class One first.
Opening the door revealed paintbrushes and absorbent sponges scattered across the floor, with paint tubes and unused xuan paper [1] tossed in the corners.
Sunlight streamed through gaps in the curtains, making the dust dance.
These items were all abandoned by graduating students—mostly too worn to resell, and taking them back home would be bothersome and bulky. So they simply left them in the studio. It was like this every year.
He expertly tidied up the messy classroom while putting anything usable into his shopping bags.
“Not bad.”
There were quite a few partially-used tubes of paint. They were all from the same brand series—likely required by the instructor.
Watercolor and ink paints ranged from very cheap to unbelievably expensive. What the students used was mid-range, professional-grade, not top-tier.
That was why the leftovers were discarded.
If they had been master-grade or collectible-grade Chinese painting pigments, even if they had to be carried in a suitcase, they would have found a way to take them. One five-milliliter tube of master-level pigment could cost dozens or even hundreds of yuan. You’d need a family gold mine to throw those away casually.
Besides tube pigments, there were also many pigment cakes, and not a few paintbrushes, palettes, absorbent sponges, and Xuan paper.
With just a quick walkthrough of the studio, he collected half a bag already.
As a courtesy, Jiang Jitang swept the floor, straightened the easels, and threw trash into the bin. The studio instantly looked much cleaner.
After finishing the first room, he entered the second. Inside was a middle-aged man—the first living person he’d seen since coming in.
The two were startled.
The man held a bunch of white chrysanthemums. When his gaze met Jiang Jitang’s, he looked confused. “Student…?”
“Hello, teacher. I’m a cleaner, here to clean the classroom.”
“Cleaner?” The teacher hesitated. “Do you know what happened in this classroom…”
Jiang Jitang had already seen the table filled with white chrysanthemums and recalled the caution tape downstairs.
Was this the class where the incident occurred?
“Don’t worry, teacher. I won’t touch that table.”
He noticed the teacher’s bag contained several crumpled sheets of drawing paper, and a corner of a metal pigment box was sticking out. “Are these things being thrown away? I can dispose of them.”
“…Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
With an outsider present, it wasn’t convenient to mourn privately. The teacher set down the chrysanthemums and left. Jiang Jitang cleaned the classroom, keeping what should be kept, throwing away what should be discarded—except for that table covered in flowers.
It was indeed a strange table. It seemed to be covered in pencil-writing—densely packed—from the gray metal frame to the wood surface.
The writing looked like fishing net enclosing the corner. But upon closer inspection, it was all smudged, completely unreadable.
Jiang Jitang glanced at it briefly, then lowered his head and continued cleaning.
Just like that, in only one hour and forty-two minutes, he finished cleaning all three classrooms and collected a full bag of Chinese painting pigments and tools.
Now he was only missing one thing: a painting box.
Painting boxes were hard to scavenge but could be bought cheaply.
Jiang Jitang looked out the window. In the distance was the direction of the graduation flea market.
The flea market inside the academy was seasonal, appearing only during the months of graduation season.
The vendors were all graduating students cleaning out old items. Their prices were far lower than the usual second-hand price. If you negotiated a little, you could get them even cheaper.
Study tools, books, and clothing were ideal to hunt there.
“Sixteen yuan left—throw in this inkstone set as a bonus. These beginner-level supplies are useless now. It’d be a shame to toss them out. If I bring them back, they’ll just gather dust. Just let me deal with them.”
“Take it, take it—you’re too good at bargaining.” The student, eager to get home, waved generously.
Thus, Jiang Jitang spent only twelve yuan to buy a nearly-new portable oil painting box, and four yuan for a round inkstone with an ink stick.
The first collection task was completed perfectly, even more smoothly than planned.
“All done. Time to head home. I can deal with two more orders on the way.”
Leaving the university town, he followed the opposite route of the old city bus and arrived at Old Street, located in the southwestern corner of Jin City, right between the university town and his home.
Old Street was a commercial district abandoned by time. After the city center relocated eastward, it had been in decline for over thirty years.
East was new, west was old; south was poor, north was wealthy. The city’s framework had solidified and rarely changed. The four corners of Jin City held four entirely different landscapes.
Old Street consisted of three stone-paved roads, each wide enough for only one vehicle. On both sides were two-story brick-and-tile buildings with storefronts. The low shops sold everything—practical and cheap.
But the most important reason he chose this area was: aside from the two ends of those three streets, the whole district had no surveillance cameras. The vendors didn’t install any either—making it very convenient for him.
Jiang Jitang walked into a shop at the end of the alley selling hens, eggs, and chicks. The shop owner, an old gentleman, greeted him enthusiastically while fanning himself:
“These are all free-range mountain chickens. They eat grass seeds, bugs, corn, and grains. No feed. They run all over the mountain. The meat is firm and doesn’t fall apart even after long cooking.”
“Two old hens for soup, more than two years old.”
“Ok, got it.”
The old gentleman picked out a three-year-old hen and a two-and-a-half-year-old hen. They weren’t very big. “Look, full of life!”
They seemed very lively—sharp-clawed too.
Jiang Jitang stared at the hens for a long time, then picked them up to weigh. He nodded. “I’ll take them.”
The two hens were sold for one hundred and twenty yuan.
Jiang Jitang walked out holding one in each hand. He turned into an alley. When he came back out, the hens were gone.
The portable backpack was great—otherwise taking too many things home would draw attention.
If the neighbors chatted and shared information, they’d say: That Jiang kid at No. 305 always brings stuff home—never takes anything out. Could he be raising some kind of beast that devours everything?
He’d be exposed immediately.
After tossing the two hens into the portable backpack, he wiped his hands clean and sprayed disinfectant from his pocket. Next, he needed to buy an abacus.
Old Street also sold abacuses—traditional wooden ones. He ignored the new ones and rummaged through the second-hand pile instead.
He searched through three cardboard boxes and picked out a heavy thirteen-row abacus with brass-covered corners.
“Thirty-six,” the owner said casually, not looking closely.
“Thirty-six yuan, here you go.” Afraid the owner would change his mind, Jiang Jitang immediately paid.
With the abacus in hand, he stepped outside and lightly cleaned and polished it on a stone bench by the road. With each wipe, the old abacus gradually revealed its true quality.
It was a fine abacus made of rosewood.
“Aiya, missed treasure!” the bored owner exclaimed, slapping his thigh.
Jiang Jitang smiled happily, even his pale face flushed slightly with a healthy glow.
Once touched good material, he knew immediately. Those dyed miscellaneous wooden abacuses couldn’t compare to the smooth, delicate texture. And the brass corner craftsmanship clearly showed a seasoned artisan’s handiwork.
An abacus like this—made of red sandalwood beads, center divider, and frame—would normally cost several hundred yuan. But buried under a pile of second-hand abacuses, dull with dust, he’d picked it up as a hidden gem.
Jiang Jitang stroked the smooth wood.
He especially loved the process of treasure-hunting. At first it was because he was short on money. Later, he fell in love with discovering overlooked valuables—cleaning and polishing them until they shone once more.
Whether it was objects, or people—he loved the process of refinishing and sculpting them anew.
Putting down the abacus, Jiang Jitang’s thoughts followed the birds crossing the sky, drifting over the district and the entire city.
He had been admitted to the university here four years ago, and Ms. Jiang came with him, planning to stay temporarily. But within one day, he used the internet to handle all necessary procedures. The efficiency and convenience of this city’s government deeply impressed them—who came from a small county town.
“Fast and efficient. No need for personal connections or favors. Government works, people at peace. Great place.” Ms. Jiang said back then that the environment here was nice, suitable for living. Why not settle down here?
So they bought a small building in the southwest corner—half of it had burned down in a fire.
Someone had died there, and part of it was charred, so the price was very low. But after buying it, they barely had any money left. They still had to cover tuition and renovate the house. It felt like they were short on cash in every direction—they had no idea how to make it work.
Jiang Jitang lowered his head and began studying, and in the process, he learned about second-hand markets, discovered many treasure shops hidden in alley corners, and learned how to treasure-hunt and refurbish old items.
It had only been four years, but felt so distant. Back then, Ms. Jiang had not yet gone abroad in pursuit of her dreams. The two of them clung to each other in a corner of the city.
She was responsible for communicating with the construction team. He was responsible for design and procurement.
She was carefree; he had to be meticulous.
He had traveled all over the city’s corners just to find the most cost-effective renovation materials.
If he overheard someone mention a craftsman who offered great work at a good price, he would shamelessly go ask. That way, he made many acquaintances, received enthusiastic responses, and gathered countless money-saving tips.
After school, he would also go help with the work, just to save on labor costs. Over time, he unknowingly mastered many renovation skills. Some of the furniture at home, and even the soft décor, were made by his own hands.
That period of time gave him more insight and knowledge than he had learned in four years at university. Only by bending down to look could he discover another side of the world.
Footnotes:
[1] Xuan paper is a traditional paper originating from China, known for its smooth, strong, and absorbent surface, making it ideal for calligraphy and painting.
