Madam Fang shrieked, a sound more akin to a startled hen than a menacing matriarch. Her face, usually a mask of haughty disdain, was now a mottled purple, twisted with genuine terror. The sight of Zhitong, usually meek and quiet, standing over her unconscious thug, wielding a broken stool leg like a barbarian’s club, was clearly more than she had bargained for. “You… you madwoman!” Madam Fang stammered, backing away. The two remaining thugs, momentarily stunned by their comrade’s sudden collapse, exchanged uneasy glances. They were hired muscle, not fanatics, and the look in Zhitong’s eyes promised significant pain for meager pay. “Get out,” Zhitong’s voice was low, strained, but carried an undeniable menace. “Get out of my sight. If you ever come near my children again, I will break more than just a stool over your heads.” Madam Fang, seeing the unyielding resolve, chose discretion over valor. She grabbed Fang Jiali’s arm, yanking her back. “We’ll go! But don’t think this is over, Ruan Zhitong! We’ll see how long your insolence lasts against proper authority!” With that empty threat, Madam Fang and her now hesitant entourage scrambled away, leaving the unconscious thug sprawling in the dirt. Zhitong watched them go, the adrenaline slowly receding, leaving her trembling. She dropped the splintered wood, her knees weak. Xiaobo and Xiaoxue rushed to her, burying their faces in her skirt. She hugged them fiercely, her cheek pressing against their soft hair. “Mama is here,” she murmured, a silent promise to herself. She had tasted violence, and found a bitter strength in it. But relying on brute force was unsustainable. Madam Fang was right; the police would be involved, and Zhitong, a lone widow, was vulnerable. She needed legitimate power, respect, and a fortress against her in-laws. She looked down at her children, their small hands clinging to her. Her future, their future, depended on her next move. The Qingshui Antique & Trade District beckoned, a place where wealth and influence were forged, a place where she could build an empire. Two days later, Zhitong walked through the bustling Qingshui Antique & Trade District, her twins held securely, one in each arm. The air hummed with hawkers’ cries, the clang of metal, and the earthy scent of old wood and worn porcelain. She had relied on Granny Yao to look in on the house while planning her next moves, but kept the twins by her side today. The money from the ‘Ming cup’ was still substantial, but she needed to invest it wisely. Her destination was a small, vacant storefront tucked between a dusty scroll vendor and a boisterous tea house. Its windows were grimy, and a ‘For Rent’ sign, faded by years of sun, hung crookedly. As she approached, a familiar, grating voice grated on her ears. “The rent is simply too high, Old Man Wei! This place is falling apart! My brother is a Fang, a respectable merchant. You should offer a discount out of respect!” It was Fang Jiali, her hands planted on her hips, haranguing the stooped landlord. Her dress was new, but her manner was as coarse as ever. Old Man Wei, a wizened figure with a wispy beard, merely sighed. “The price is the price, Miss Fang. Many others are interested.” “Nonsense! Who else would want this dump? I’ll take it for 50 yuan a month, no more!” Jiali declared, puffing out her chest. Zhitong stepped forward, her presence unnoticed until she cleared her throat. Fang Jiali spun around, her eyes narrowing into slits. “You! What are you doing here, you pauper? Still trailing after my family’s good fortune?” Zhitong ignored her, addressing Old Man Wei directly. “Good day, Elder Wei. I am Ruan Zhitong. I am interested in renting this establishment. What is the asking price?” Old Man Wei adjusted his spectacles. “Miss Ruan. The rent is 80 yuan a month, paid quarterly in advance. I have other inquiries, but you seem earnest.” “Eighty yuan?!” Jiali shrieked. “Are you mad, Old Man Wei? I was here first! I’ll pay 60! No, 65! That’s my final offer!” She glared at Zhitong, her face blotchy. Zhitong reached into her satchel. She pulled out a thick wad of banknotes, the crisp, new red hundred-yuan notes from her transaction with Kaiming. She counted out 240 yuan, placing the stack squarely on the grimy counter. The sight of so much cash, laid out in plain view, silenced Jiali instantly. “Elder Wei,” Zhitong said, her voice steady, “here is three months’ rent in advance. I will take it.” Old Man Wei stared at the pile of bills. He had not seen so much cash upfront in years. He scooped up the money, his fingers trembling slightly. “Excellent! Excellent, Miss Ruan! The shop is yours! I’ll draw up the papers immediately.” Fang Jiali stood frozen, her jaw slack. The sheer audacity, the blatant exhibition of wealth from the woman she despised, left her speechless. “You… you stole this! You must have!” she finally sputtered. Zhitong merely gave her a cool, dismissive glance. “My affairs are no concern of yours, Sister-in-law.” She turned back to the beaming Old Man Wei. “I will begin preparations today.” Unbeknownst to Zhitong, from a second-story balcony across the street, He Tingye watched the scene unfold. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he saw Zhitong’s quiet triumph, her quiet show of newfound strength. He raised a cup of jasmine tea, taking a slow sip, his gaze lingering on her determined figure. Later that afternoon, Zhitong swept out the dust and cobwebs, Xiaobo and Xiaoxue playing quietly with pebbles outside the storefront. She envisioned a clean, welcoming space, a place where people would trust her judgment. As she wiped down a particularly grimy shelf, her hand brushed against something small and hard in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a smooth, dark stone, no bigger than her thumb, but it pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible golden light. It felt warm to the touch, and a strange prickling sensation ran up her arm. Her brow furrowed. She didn't remember putting it there. When had she acquired such a peculiar object? A cold prickle tightened the skin at the back of her neck. This was not a harmless trinket. It felt… watched. She clutched it, her mind racing. Someone was tracking her. Someone had planted this. Completely oblivious to Zhitong’s discovery, Granny Yao, who had been passing by, paused at the back alley entrance to Zhitong’s new shop. She glanced around furtively, her movements surprisingly agile for her age. With a worn hairpin, she deftly manipulated the rusted iron lock on the back door. There was a soft *click*, barely audible. Granny Yao then pushed the lock back into place, making it appear undisturbed, before melting into the shadows of the alley. A thin smile, not quite reaching her eyes, played on her lips. That night, Zhitong returned to her new shop. The moon hung high, casting long, spectral shadows over the deserted street. A prickle of apprehension made her slow her steps. She had planned to spend a few hours sorting her initial inventory, but a sense of dread now permeated the quiet air. As she neared the storefront, she heard muffled thumps from inside. Her pulse surged in her throat. Thieves? Or worse, Madam Fang’s thugs returning for revenge? Zhitong, remembering the stool, steeled herself. She crept to the door, peering through a crack. Shadows danced within. Three hulking figures, undeniably Fang thugs, were systematically tearing the place apart. Shelves were overturned, the few low cedar tables smashed. They weren't looking for valuables; they were looking to destroy. Zhitong’s fury ignited. They dared to touch her sanctuary, her future. She was about to burst in, when a sudden, collective gasp from the thugs stopped her. They froze, their destructive actions ceasing mid-swing. All three men were staring at the floor, where one of them had just pried up a floorboard. A brilliant, pulsating light emanated from the newly exposed gap. It was a stone, larger than Zhitong’s palm, glowing with an intense, otherworldly sapphire hue. It pulsed rhythmically, like a slow-beating heart. As its light washed over the room, a violent tremor shook Zhitong’s mind. Within her consciousness, the tranquil courtyard, the 'Threshold of Eras', began to hum, a deep, resonant vibration that threatened to tear her mental space apart. The sound was deafening, insistent, pulling at her very core. She felt an urgent, undeniable call, a powerful draw towards the glowing stone, as if it were a missing piece of herself.

The Antique District Debut