Chapter Thirty-One: Gloomwood

After the economic boom following the reform and opening up, a wave of wealthy elites emerged in the country, and luxurious furniture became popular. In the mid-to-late nineties, a craze for rosewood swept through the coastal regions. Rosewood was not only prized for its quality but also symbolized wealth and good fortune. Fine rosewood furniture, with its superior material and exquisite craftsmanship, was already highly valued, and with the hype from nouveau riche speculators, its price skyrocketed, quickly spreading the fever nationwide.

The rosewood table before him could hardly be called “exquisitely crafted.” On the contrary, Ren Jifu’s carpentry skills were so rudimentary that if this table were put up for sale, it would likely fetch less than the raw material itself. He pressed his hands against it and tried to lift—it was unbearably heavy. He managed to raise it less than a foot off the ground before giving up; it must weigh over a hundred pounds.

Rosewood is not a specific kind of wood, but rather a general term for high-end timber, encompassing many varieties. Different woods command vastly different prices. Zhao Zejun’s knowledge of rosewood was limited; he only knew this table was made of some kind of rosewood, but not which kind. He would need a professional to judge.

Such a massive, heavy table was impossible for Zhao Zejun to move alone. He didn’t want anyone else to know about it, so with determination, he found a small saw. After much effort, he cut off a piece about the size of a child’s fist. It felt weighty in his pocket, like a tiny iron brick.

He brought the wood fragment by taxi to the antique and calligraphy market in Yangchuan City.

The antique and calligraphy market was a place of both genuine treasures and deceit. Real items were rare. Most were fraudsters, skilled in persuasion and supported by accomplices to lure people into traps—a vase bought for three yuan could be talked up as a Ming dynasty kiln. There was another group: artisans who specialized in imitation antiques. The most renowned county in the south produced over seventy percent of the country’s high-end replicas. Antique finishing had become a pillar industry there, complete with production lines; the forgeries were so convincing that even industry experts struggled to distinguish real from fake, relying only on intuition.

These artisans didn’t actively deceive; they simply displayed their wares, letting customers judge for themselves. If you believed it genuine, they would sell at the price of the real thing. If not, you could walk away, and they wouldn’t try to stop you.

After his father was laid off in his previous life, he often came to the antique market to deal in stamps and befriended a shopkeeper of similar age, an artisan himself. They got along well and frequently went fishing together.

From his father’s stories, Zhao Zejun felt this man was reliable.

Relying on memory, he found the shop called “Antiquity Studio.”

The shop was unlit, with only sunlight filtering through the windows, casting the space in gloom. At the far end, two shelves lined the walls, displaying jars and bottles. A large bronze brazier stood at the center, its coals glowing warmly. A middle-aged man in his forties sat beneath the window, engrossed in a thread-bound book. When a customer entered, he didn’t look up, merely said, “Feel free to browse,” and continued reading.

This must have been his father’s friend from the previous life, surnamed Shen—Shen Lian.

“Mr. Shen, I’ve come because of your reputation. I have a piece of wood I’d like you to examine.” Zhao Zejun, familiar with Shen Lian’s temperament, went straight to the point.

“Let me see it,” Shen Lian said, putting down his book.

Zhao Zejun handed over the wood. Shen Lian turned it over several times, then abruptly stood and retreated into the back room. Zhao Zejun was puzzled—was this some kind of blatant robbery?

Soon, Shen Lian returned, carrying a basin of water. He set it on the table and dropped the wood into it.

The wood sank!

Shen Lian looked up, his bulging, fish-like eyes fixed on Zhao Zejun. “Where did you get this?”

“What’s the matter?” Zhao Zejun asked, confused.

“We don’t buy stolen goods here, nor anything dug from the earth,” Shen Lian replied, picking the wood from the water and wiping it dry before handing it back.

Zhao Zejun hurried to explain, “You’re mistaken. This was left behind by a friend’s grandfather, meant for a coffin. The grandson is wasteful and a gambler, so he sold it to me. I heard it was rosewood, quite valuable.”

“Oh,” Shen Lian nodded, then picked up the wood again, shaking his head dismissively. “Who told you it was rosewood? Who uses rosewood for coffins? Even the flashiest coal tycoons wouldn’t do something so tasteless.”

Zhao Zejun was taken aback. “Then what is it?”

“Well, calling it rosewood isn’t entirely wrong. Strictly speaking, it’s a variant of rosewood. Young man, have you ever heard the saying: ‘A chest of jewels is not as valuable as a single piece of ebony’?”

“This is ebony?” Zhao Zejun’s eyes lit up.

He remembered from past news that farmers had discovered a large piece of ebony in a river, valued at a million yuan.

He had researched it online: ebony, also called “black wood,” is formed when trees are buried underground during landslides or river shifts and carbonized over centuries, much like coal. With enough time, it would turn to coal. Because of its unique formation, rarity, and hardness, ebony is expensive and is rumored to ward off evil—making it ideal for coffins.

From the Qing dynasty on, ebony was reserved for royalty; commoners were forbidden to use it. In modern times, if such finds are made public, authorities would confiscate them, offering only symbolic compensation to the finder.

Who knows where the Ren family’s ancestor acquired such a large block of black wood? No wonder the government targeted him—this landlord, who oppressed the people in life, even wanted emperor’s privileges in the afterlife!

Shen Lian nodded and continued, “Yes, it’s ebony. But the saying refers specifically to golden-threaded nanmu ebony. If this were golden-threaded nanmu, it would be worth a fortune. From what I see, this is ordinary nanmu—just a small piece, not very valuable.”

“How much could it fetch?” Zhao Zejun asked, though he had not just a small piece, but a massive block.

“A few hundred yuan, at most a thousand. If you want to sell, I’ll buy. But to be clear, once I acquire it and have it crafted by a master, the finished product will at least double in price,” Shen Lian said.

Zhao Zejun considered and asked, “What about a large block?”

“Oh, right. You said your friend’s grandfather used it for a coffin? I’d have to see the actual piece to give you a price.”

“Shall I bring you to see it tomorrow?” Zhao Zejun suggested.

“Sure.”

After leaving Antiquity Studio, Zhao Zejun kept his wits about him. He went to an internet café to research further, then returned to the antique market, consulting several shops. He confirmed that Shen Lian had not misled him regarding price or quality.

In fact, among those he consulted, Shen Lian was the most straightforward, offering the highest price. One shopkeeper even claimed it was just common black hardwood, worth only a few thousand per ton.

Early the next morning, Zhao Zejun guided Shen Lian to Gaogang Village.

This time, he was well prepared. He brought a mason’s trowel and a bottle of dish detergent, scrubbing the table clean of grime to reveal its black-brown true color.

No wonder Ren Jifu couldn’t recognize its value—ebony’s surface is not attractive, appearing charred and battered.

When Shen Lian saw the “mahjong table” made of ebony, his expression soured.