Chapter 96 Liang Zhu (Part 1)

Night. A blaze of fire.

As soon as Qin Huai entered the memory, he felt like he had stepped onto a crime scene.

He was standing outside a warehouse, inside which a fierce fire raged, accompanied by occasional piercing screams. Beside him was a handsome young man dressed in a fitted long coat—a classic wealthy young master straight out of a Republican-era drama.

Yes, a handsome guy.

A traditionally handsome guy.

High nose bridge, well-proportioned features, sharp brows and sparkling eyes. In a TV drama, even if he couldn’t be the male lead, he would easily pass for a passionate second lead.

In front of him lay a box full of blood-stained gold bars, jewels, and silver coins, gleaming under the firelight. The scene looked very much like—

A crime scene.

Not “looked like”—this was a crime scene!

Qin Huai stared in shock at the handsome man in front of him. From his brows and eyes, he could faintly make out the shadow of the older version of Luo Jun.

Wait… why hadn’t the memory summary mentioned a single word about such an exciting scene?

Didn’t Luo Jun say he had robbed a few bandits?

Now this scene…

Qin Huai looked at the burning warehouse, at Luo Jun counting the jewels and gold bars in the box, and wiping the blood off the jewels with a handkerchief.

The people inside the warehouse didn’t look like bandits; Luo Jun looked more like the villain.

So primitive accumulation of capital was all about robbery?

Once he finished counting, Luo Jun happily closed the box. Seeing no one around, he didn’t bother hiding anything. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one out, and held it lightly to his lips.

He lit it and calmly smoked it in the glow of the fire, flicked the ashes, grabbed the box, and left with swagger.

After walking a while, Luo Jun reached the dock. A few rickshaw pullers were napping beside their rickshaws. Luo Jun casually approached one who looked strong and fast, tapping him with the box.

The rickshaw puller opened his eyes, still disoriented but already smiling, and quickly stood up: “Sir, where to?”

Only then did he notice the fire not far away.

“The Richard Restaurant,” Luo Jun said, tossing the rickshaw puller a coin. The man happily accepted it and ran off energetically once Luo Jun got on.

Fast and steady—very professional.

Qin Huai ran behind him. Having marathon experience on dry land, he was fine with this long run.

At the restaurant entrance, Luo Jun tossed the rickshaw puller another coin. The man said a string of good-luck phrases, beaming. Luo Jun walked straight into the hotel. Both the doormen and staff greeted him warmly—clearly a regular.

Qin Huai followed, marveling at the hotel’s interior.

Being a villain had its perks—you had money.

This was eighty or ninety years ago, when rickshaw pullers wore short, grimy jackets whose colors were indiscernible in the cool night, huddling at their vehicles waiting for work.

Luo Jun’s attire alone looked like something out of a TV drama. The hotel was brightly lit, in Western style, with wool carpets, and even the stone columns by the entrance were intricately carved.

The hotel even had elevators.

If Chen Huihong’s memory of Beijing’s inner and outer city felt like two different worlds, Luo Jun’s memory of the hotel versus the outside world was like two different eras.

Luo Jun carried his box down the hallway.

Thick wool carpets muffled his steps and made walking comfortable.

One door was half open, and the clatter of mahjong tiles drifted out. At the doorway stood a portly middle-aged man in a long robe, puffing on a long-stemmed pipe. Seeing Luo Jun, he greeted him warmly:

“Mr. Luo, want to play mahjong? Old Huang’s in a hurry to see his newlywed eighth concubine and insists he has to return to Suzhou by noon tomorrow. We’re short one player.”

“I won’t. I’m going to the theater tomorrow.”

Someone inside called out: “But the show is at night; we could play till five, take a break with some pan-fried buns, won’t delay your theater plans.”

“You don’t understand. Mr. Luo wants to see Liang Zhu. That troupe starts at 2 PM. Don’t think it’s like those evening-only shows.”

“Where did that troupe come from? They start so early?”

“Not sure, seems they became famous in some rural area. They perform Liang Zhu very well. Mr. Luo enjoys it—he’s been attending for several days straight.”

The man at the door didn’t join the conversation inside but smiled at Luo Jun: “Mr. Luo, have you heard? The Shi family troupe has a new trick play, with flying scenes. Want me to get you a good seat?”

Luo Jun’s interest piqued slightly, and he nodded: “Sounds interesting.”

“I knew you’d like it. Who in Shanghai doesn’t know? You love theater, listening to music, movies, newspapers. Truly different from us who play mahjong all night.”

“Don’t let me keep you. I still need one more for my three-person game. By the way, I heard a small gang recently offended you and tried to shake you down—how’s that?”

“Handled,” Luo Jun said casually.

“I heard that gang later—”

“Handled as well.”

Under the middle-aged man’s astonished gaze, Luo Jun continued walking, and the man quickly closed the door gently.

Luo Jun’s room was just ahead.

It was large and luxuriously decorated. Every item looked valuable, from the gilded candlesticks to a modern flush toilet—Qin Huai whistled in amazement.

Even more astonishing: the room was full of newspapers.

Stacked neatly, with the latest edition on top. Scanning quickly, Qin Huai realized they weren’t serious newspapers.

No politics, no bickering, no finance—only novels.

All the newspapers were serial novels.

Luo Jun casually put down the box, picked up a paper, and read with relish.

He was reading a Shushan cultivation novel.

Not only did he read, he even wrote to the author, sending letters to the newspaper.

Qin Huai: “…”

No wonder Luo Jun survived ninety-two years in his first tribulation. Besides being strong enough to maintain his life as a rogue, he had very stable hobbies.

Eighty or ninety years ago, he liked cultivation novels; eighty or ninety years later, he liked fantasy dramas.

After finishing the letter, Luo Jun turned off the lights, drew the curtains, and slept.

Qin Huai glanced at the wall clock—it was only a little past eleven. His schedule back then was much healthier than present-day Luo Jun.

Luo Jun maintained a very healthy routine, unlike the neighboring rooms—bright lights, noise, mahjong, smoke, and other things that lasted until dawn. “Living in decadence” would not be an exaggeration.

By six in the morning, Luo Jun was already awake. Hotel staff had been waiting, carrying a stack of newspapers and asking if he wanted breakfast errands.

Luo Jun handed them his letter, specifying a shop for porridge, side dishes, and buns. The staff went to work.

Luo Jun then leaned back comfortably on the sofa, reading novels.

Qin Huai: “…”

Wait, what kind of carefree life is this?
A tribulation? You call this a tribulation?
This is a vacation! Does he even know what Chen Huihong went through back then?