Chapter Fifteen: The Black Market

As Zhang Tiejun and Zhao Ningning pushed through the throngs in the black market, they followed the old man with the ruddy nose into a dilapidated shack.

To their surprise, the old man twisted the handle, revealing a passage wide enough for two.

“Come in,” the ruddy-nosed elder beckoned them inside.

While Zhao Ningning’s innocent curiosity was apparent, Zhang Tiejun remained cautious.

During the War of Resistance, the Japanese Kwantung Army had left behind numerous secret bases—this place seemed to be one of them.

Seven or eight burly men let the ruddy-nosed elder pass but blocked Zhao Ningning and Zhang Tiejun.

“I’m Han Youcai, the boss of this black market. You’re grandchildren of Zhao Youde, so call me Master Han—it’s only fair,” Han declared, flopping down into a grand armchair. The cautious demeanor he had outside vanished, replaced by an invisible, imposing aura.

At that moment, Zhang Tiejun guessed Han Youcai’s true identity. After the founding of the nation, sweeping operations had eliminated tens of thousands of bandits in just a few years. Although the work was thorough, no one could guarantee that no fugitives remained.

Unruly bandits who resisted discipline were naturally abandoned by the times, but some “clever” bandits hung out a respectable front, abandoning their life of pillaging to engage in black market dealings. Han Youcai was one of these.

“Master Han, I was a bit reckless earlier,” Zhang Tiejun said, clasping his fists in a show of respect.

Flattered, Han nodded repeatedly and glanced at Zhao Ningning. “How’s your grandfather doing?”

Zhao Ningning nodded slightly and then recounted the events of the previous day in detail.

Upon learning Zhang Tiejun had come to the rescue, Han couldn’t help but look at him with genuine respect. “Kid, not bad. Saving Zhao Youde shows you’ve got skills. I’ve known Zhao Youde for years, and this is the first time I’ve seen him take a hit.”

Seeing Zhao Ningning’s displeasure, Han quickly added, “Your grandfather and I were sworn brothers back in the days of the Kwantung Mountains. He was the main beam, I was the door frame—we were both artillerymen. After the Japanese came to wipe out the bandits, we lost contact. I didn’t expect his granddaughter and grandson-in-law to have grown so much.”

Only then did Zhang Tiejun realize the connection—Youde, Youcai...

But Zhao Ningning’s attention was elsewhere. A flush crept up her cheeks as if she wanted to explain something, but after a glance at Zhang Tiejun, she obediently fell silent.

“That’s enough chatter. It’s been years since Zhao Youde contacted me. If you’re here, it must be important. Speak,” Han said.

Han examined the ginseng root they handed over, then remarked, “In this frozen wasteland, you managed to find such a treasure?”

After a closer look, he said, “Eighty yuan.”

“Eighty?” Zhang Tiejun was stunned. According to Zhao Youde, even a 10% cut would be eight yuan.

Han chuckled. “What, too little? Your grandfather and I go way back. I’ll add twenty more for you. If you come around more often, we can talk prices.”

Zhao Ningning swallowed hard. Building a new tiled house in the Zhao village only cost a hundred yuan.

“Eighty is fine. Grandpa told me before he left, one must not be greedy,” she said earnestly.

“Take it then. This ginseng will be sold to the Russians—they have money,” Han said, then looked at Zhang Tiejun. “Kid, your skills are pretty good. Come by more often. Bring them down to settle up.”

They entered a small, cramped tent filled with sacks labeled with various goods.

In the 1960s, ten yuan could buy eighty jin of rice, fifteen jin of pork, two hundred steamed buns, five hundred eggs, or a thousand jin of cabbage—enough to feed two or three strong laborers for half a year.

Holding ten yuan in big bills, Zhao Ningning’s hands trembled slightly.

“Brother Tiejun, shall we go?” she whispered cautiously beside him.

But Zhang Tiejun’s gaze was caught by several tightly wrapped sticks in the corner of the tent.

From the moment he stepped inside, the scent of gun oil had drawn his attention.

“Good eye, brother.” The man handing them the money slowly unfolded the oilcloth to reveal a brand-new Arisaka Type 38 rifle.

Accustomed to assault rifles and submachine guns, Zhang Tiejun had only seen such old rifles in military museums. After the Japanese surrender, many of these standard-issue weapons had filtered into civilian hands.

Compared to the old flintlock hunting rifle he carried, this Arisaka easily commanded his attention.

He grabbed it, expertly pulling the bolt. Though its power was modest, its accuracy and range were among the best for firearms of its kind. While it lacked battlefield prominence, for hunting it meant a higher margin for error.

“These were collected by our big boss from several arms dealers in Heilongjiang, planning to sell them in Chahar. If you want one, twenty yuan a piece,” the man said.

Zhang Tiejun shook his head. “No thanks. This old gun’s been my buddy—it’s saved my life more than once.”

“Speaking of guns, Zhao the Cannon apparently has a proper firearm—an American one. The boss said it was taken from some Japanese soldiers back in the day when they were mountain bandits, during a raid. They call it a Springfield…”

“Springfield rifle.”

“That’s right, that one. My goodness, they say that gun’s legendary. Zhao the Cannon used it to take down many little devils and break through enemy lines!”

“Really?” Zhao Ningning’s eyes widened. “My grandfather’s that formidable?”

“Of course. According to the bandits, every artilleryman was a red-hot shot, but to be called a recognized cannonhead—that’s something special.”

Zhang Tiejun never expected that the white-bearded old man he’d soon rescue was such a formidable figure.

“Brother Tiejun, want to trade for a rifle?” Zhao Ningning asked curiously.

“No, just looking around. Ammunition for these old rifles is hard to come by,” Zhang said, shaking his head. Without sufficient logistics support and ammo, a gun was no better than a fire stick. Though the flintlock had many flaws, black powder and small lead balls were easier to source. Most importantly, his funds were limited.