After seeing He Yulan off, Chen Shuang did not act immediately. She asked Madam Zhou to go about her work while she slowly walked through the mansion, as if reminiscing—though in truth, she was familiarizing herself with every corner of this “new home.”
The mansion was built in the late 1920s, a typical French-style structure with three floors and an attic, along with a neglected backyard garden. The first floor housed the living room, study, dining room, kitchen, and servants’ quarters; the second floor had the master bedroom, guest rooms, and a small sitting room; the third floor had once been an art studio and library, now mostly vacant.
Chen Shuang’s gaze swept over the intricate carvings, stained glass windows, and teak wall panels as calculations raced through her mind. Making the house “look poor” wasn’t as simple as hiding valuables—it had to appear ordinary, even modest, both inside and out, in line with the standards of the era.
She first entered the study, once her father Chen Yixuan’s favorite place. Tall rosewood bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, filled with books—engineering texts, literature, history, philosophy, in both Chinese and foreign languages, even original French editions.
Her eyes landed on an ink landscape painting hanging behind the desk. Elegant and refined, signed by a modern master. She carefully removed and rolled it up—things like this could not be left behind.
She quickly sorted through the shelves, removing foreign-language books, thread-bound classics, and anything that might be labeled “feudal or capitalist.” These she piled in a corner. Then she took out several volumes of Selected Works of Mao and Red Flag magazines from the desk drawer and placed them prominently on the shelves.
After finishing, she didn’t deal with the removed books yet, but instead went to the kitchen.
The kitchen, located at the back of the mansion, was spacious but now quiet. The former cook had left after her parents’ deaths, leaving Madam Zhou to handle everything. A coal stove sat by the wall, with briquettes stacked nearby. Bamboo baskets hung on the walls, and a large water jar held clean water.
Chen Shuang entered, remembering that the cellar entrance was in a small storage room beside the kitchen.
She pushed open the inconspicuous wooden door. A mix of earth and vegetables greeted her. Stone steps led downward.
She didn’t go down immediately. Instead, she fetched a kerosene lamp and matches, lit the wick, and waited for the dim yellow glow to steady.
Holding the lamp, she descended. The cellar was damp and cool, with a stronger earthy smell mixed with the faint rot of vegetables. One side held rotting cabbages and potatoes; the other had broken furniture, empty jars, and clutter covered in dust.
Her gaze fixed on the eastern wall—made entirely of blue bricks. Moss filled the seams. She counted carefully—the third brick.
It looked identical to the others. She touched it, cold and rough, recalling the method: use the black key on the third brick on the east wall.
Under the flickering light, she noticed a faint indentation at the lower right corner—a plum blossom-like symbol.
She took out the oddly shaped black key from her pocket and aligned it with the mark.
It fit perfectly.
Holding her breath, she turned it.
“Click…”
A faint mechanical sound followed. The wall section trembled, dust falling. Then it sank inward and slid open, revealing a narrow, pitch-dark passage.
A stronger scent of camphorwood, paper, and metal wafted out.
Her heartbeat quickened. Raising the lamp, she stepped inside.
The light revealed a scene that stunned her despite her expectations.
The chamber was smaller than the main cellar but carefully constructed, with moisture-proof flooring and treated walls. It spanned over a hundred square meters, filled with neatly stacked wooden chests, camphorwood boxes, and metal trunks, reaching almost to the ceiling.
Near the entrance, dozens of open chests reflected dazzling light—gold bars, stacked neatly, each thick as a finger, glowing with a heavy golden sheen.
Nearby were boxes of silver dollars, wrapped in oil paper, stacked like bricks.
Further in were smaller chests filled with jewels—rubies, sapphires, jade, pearls—sorted meticulously. Gold-inlaid jade ornaments and intricate hairpieces from past generations glittered brilliantly.
Other chests contained foreign currencies—US dollars, Hong Kong dollars—bundled in large sums.
More held scrolls, paintings, porcelain, lacquerware, bronzeware, ivory carvings, bolts of silk…
At least two hundred chests. This was the Chen family’s true century-old wealth—carefully preserved through generations, and in the original story, easily seized by her uncle’s family.
At the far end, separated from the treasure, were several plain oak boxes.
She opened them.
The first held bankbooks from HSBC and other banks, with astonishing balances, along with property deeds across Shanghai, Suzhou, Hangzhou, and even Hong Kong.
The second contained letters—her father’s correspondence with He Botao, including mentions of their children: Chen Shuang and He Yanzhi. One letter proposed a marriage alliance, which her father had accepted.
Several letters were from He Yanzhi himself—concise, respectful, reporting his military life. One line read:
“If Sister Shuang has other wishes, the He family will not object. We only wish her safety and happiness.”
The third box contained donation records—charity contributions, war bonds, and cultural donations—proof of her parents’ patriotism.
The fourth held ration coupons—grain, cloth, oil, sugar—and bundles of cash, worth a fortune in this era.
Chen Shuang felt overwhelmed. Her parents had not only amassed wealth but also prepared carefully for the future.
But such wealth, in turbulent times, was dangerous.
It had to be handled immediately.
At that moment, the jade bracelet on her wrist emitted a warm pulse.
She froze, recalling the novel—activation required blood.
Without hesitation, she pricked her finger with a jade hairpin and pressed the blood onto the bracelet.
The blood was absorbed instantly.
The bracelet glowed—soft, moonlike light filling the chamber. A cool, gentle energy flowed through her body, clearing her mind.
At the same time, she sensed a space—
A misty area, about a dozen cubic meters, with a small stone well at its center.
The spiritual spring space. It was real.
She focused, willing a chest of gold inside.
It vanished—reappearing within the space.
It worked.
She began rapidly storing the most valuable items—gold, jewelry, currency, documents—filling the space around the well.
After about fifty or sixty chests, she felt mentally fatigued. The space was nearly full.
She stopped. Not everything could be taken—an empty vault would attract suspicion. Some items must remain.
A plan formed.
She exited, sealed the wall, and returned upstairs.
Back in the study, she found hidden documents—passports, letters, and a signed donation draft for the mansion. Her parents had foreseen everything.
She stored these as well.
Now, her most critical assets were safe.
Back in the kitchen, Madam Zhou approached anxiously.
“Miss, where have you been?”
“Just the cellar,” Chen Shuang replied. “Let’s start cleaning this afternoon—begin with the living room.”
She gave clear instructions: remove valuables, replace luxury items with simple ones, wear plain clothes.
“This isn’t hardship,” she said softly. “This is survival.”
They worked all afternoon. The mansion transformed—luxury stripped away, replaced with modest simplicity.
By evening, it looked far less conspicuous.
Standing in the quiet living room, Chen Shuang felt the weight of everything—the hidden wealth, the looming danger, the uncertain future.
But at least… she had taken the first step.
“Miss, what would you like for dinner?”
“Something simple,” she replied, turning with a faint but determined smile.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to the street office.”
Night fell. The mansion darkened early, blending into the coming long darkness. Only the magnolia flowers in the corner swayed silently in the wind, releasing their faint, lingering fragrance.