As dawn broke, Shen Zui strode naturally to the dining table, displaying no sign of fatigue or disorientation. He knew his son's habits too well. No matter how late Shen Lang stayed up, regardless of the night's demands or challenges, he always rose at precisely six in the morning. On the rare occasion an alarm was needed, it was only to confirm the determination he already possessed. Shen Zui had sometimes joked to Shen Lang's siblings, half in jest, half in wonder: "Is he even human, or some kind of robot?" To his surprise, both nodded in agreement, a hint of mystery in their young eyes. Of course, such mischief deserved a small penalty, and Shen Zui rewarded each of them with a playful tap on the head.
Two bowls of porridge, four flower rolls, a few plates of pickles, and some boiled eggs lay before him. As appealing as it was, Shen Zui couldn't help sighing.
"Son, can you humor your old man and pick up a few more rolls next time? You can't expect me to be satisfied with just two rolls. And perhaps you could spare another bowl of porridge—just in case I'm particularly hungry one morning. A father shouldn't go hungry under his own roof, don't you think?"
"Breakfast is the most important meal," Shen Lang replied coolly. "And remember, 'each grain is hard-earned.' If you're still hungry, Dad, feel free to have all the eggs. I don't mind, as long as you can handle it."
Shen Zui sighed and sat down with a half-smile, half-grimace. His son had a way with words that sometimes left him speechless. While he couldn't fault Shen Lang's reasoning, the way he delivered his wisdom could be quite off-putting. Was this really his child? Or was it time, he wondered half-seriously, to find them a mother? But no, that wasn't right; neither Shen Kai nor little Nan had this peculiar style. As he watched his son, Shen Zui shook his head, thinking, You strange little creature.
Before heading out, Shen Zui fished out his wallet and handed Shen Lang 200 yuan. "This should be enough, right? Let me know if you need more. You're on your own here, so don't deprive yourself. I'll manage out there, but you have your stash too, don't you?"
Shen Lang finished tidying the table and accepted the money with a nod. "This is for groceries and household items. As for pocket money, my savings will cover that. I appreciate your concern, Dad, but don't worry about me."
Without another word, Shen Zui left, shaking his head. His son was indeed something else—sharp, witty, and somehow already a budding entrepreneur. A couple of years back, Shen Lang had asked his father to open a bank account for him, claiming he needed a place to stash the money he'd been making on the side. While his family had an inkling of his weekend activities at the flea market, none of them knew the true extent of what he was capable of. Shen Lang's private endeavors were nothing less than the tip of the iceberg.
Was this really his son? Shen Zui mused as he strolled away. Why couldn't he be interested in something less… peculiar? He rubbed his temples, imagining the shenanigans his son might get up to this summer. As long as he doesn't tear down the house, he thought with a resigned smile, I'll be satisfied.
It was a little past eight when Shen Lang grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders. He tucked a few essentials inside: some money, a water bottle, bread, and a notebook with a couple of pens. With his key around his neck and a bit of money in his pocket, he set off.
Passing through the neighborhood, he greeted the elderly folk on their morning walks. They responded with kind nods and friendly smiles as he pedaled past them on his bicycle. The flea market wasn't close—about a twenty-five-minute ride—but with the weather so fine, Shen Lang had no intention of taking the bus. Besides, a little exercise would do him good.
The older residents watched him go, whispering to each other with a knowing nod. Conversations sparked around him, some of them complimentary, others raising questions or offering unsolicited advice.
By the time he arrived, the flea market was bustling. This market had been around for as long as anyone could remember, open only on weekends, and always closing around noon. Shen Lang had discovered it early on in high school. Although it couldn't rival the grandeur of Panjiayuan Market in Beijing, he had found treasures there. It was sheer coincidence that he'd stumbled upon the market that fateful day—his spirits had been low, and he'd wandered the city on the bus, trying to shake off his gloom. He'd ended up there purely by chance, but in that market, he'd come across an unexpected revelation: he wasn't quite like other people.
He hadn't realized it at first. But one day, as he thumbed through some old comic books on display, his hand suddenly burned, as though he'd touched a live coal. He'd jerked his hand back in shock, much to the alarm of the stall owner, who'd stared at him as if he'd seen a ghost. Ever since then, Shen Lang had paid close attention to items that triggered a similar sensation, whether they were worthless knick-knacks or genuine artifacts. If something made his hand feel warm, he knew he had to take it home.
Of course, accumulating random items wasn't a sustainable plan. Driven by curiosity, he had buried himself in research, spent countless hours at the library, and sought out anyone who could share insights. Little by little, he pieced together an understanding. And while he'd only just scratched the surface, he could sense that with enough time, he'd uncover the hidden potential within him.
As he wheeled his bike through the market, Shen Lang exchanged nods with the vendors he knew. He browsed their stalls, keeping an eye out for new finds. Most items here were cheap, often mere replicas or shoddy imitations. Some vendors even sold their wares by the kilogram rather than by the item. It was all part of the charm and thrill of the place.
After browsing for a while, he picked up a couple of imitation paintings supposedly inspired by Zhang Daqian's works. They were clearly fake, yet they called to him. He paid a modest sum and slipped them into his bag. Although he didn't feel the slightest warmth from them, there was something intriguing about their craftsmanship—or perhaps it was their lack thereof. Shen Lang continued to make his rounds, eventually stopping by the used book stalls. While most saw these stalls as piles of old paper, Shen Lang viewed them as treasure troves, where hidden gems could lie buried beneath dusty, forgotten pages.
When he first visited, he'd been perplexed by the weight-based pricing system; it was strange yet oddly thrilling to haul a bundle of books by the kilogram. And occasionally, within these masses of worn-out pages, he'd stumble upon rare finds.
Of course, he wasn't simply a buyer. Over time, he'd managed to accumulate a tidy profit from reselling choice items he'd acquired here. He'd honed his strategy: cash transactions only, with each sale sealed promptly and all goods out the door as quickly as possible. In his mind, secrecy was paramount. He didn't want anyone catching wind of his modest fortune—least of all those who might take advantage of his age and innocence.
Shen Lang's morning passed in quiet contentment. When noon approached, he took a break, munching on a sandwich and sipping from his water bottle. He didn't skimp because he was trying to save money; rather, he preferred the convenience of a simple meal over the hassle of finding a restaurant and risking his unattended items.
Despite the lack of thrilling finds that day, he was satisfied with the stack of books and artwork he'd collected. But he knew the odds were never guaranteed, and in a place like this, the thrill often lay in the unknown. Eventually, the market started to wind down, the vendors packing up their stalls, signaling the end of his excursion.
He pedaled home with his haul in tow, his mind already spinning with possibilities for his next venture.