Jiang Mingxi’s advertisement had just appeared in the newspaper, the scent of fresh ink still lingering, when the editors from the press started knocking one after another at the door of her newly rented office.
The first to arrive was Editor Wang from ‘Shanghai News’. He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses and frowned silently at the cramped stairwell.
“Mr. Jiang,” Editor Wang said awkwardly from the corridor cluttered with crates, “our paper recently received dozens of letters from readers expressing doubts about the three thousand-yuan antiques you mentioned in your ad. We kindly ask if you could show us these three thousand-yuan antiques, along with expert Certificates of Authentication, so we can dispel our customers’ concerns.”
Jiang Mingxi calmly invited him inside.
The apartment she rented was in Hongkou District, one of the cheapest rental areas in all of Shanghai.
The place was on the second floor, located above a kitchen in a ‘Shikumen building’, just under the rooftop terrace.
Since the room was about the size of a small pavilion, this type of dwelling was called a ‘Tingzijian’.
She had divided the roughly seventy to eighty square feet of the ‘Tingzijian’ into three areas, simultaneously serving as bedroom, office, and storage.
So when Editor Wang stepped inside, the first thing that caught his eye was the towering stacks of crates.
Jiang Mingxi had only left a narrow passageway open.
She dragged out a paper box from under the bed and took out an object wrapped in burlap.
Of course, she had the three thousand-yuan antiques.
And the expert Certificates of Authentication, she had those as well.
The certificate was signed by Song Qingyuan.
Besides being the country’s top linguist, he was also a renowned collector of antiquities.
Knowing this, although she didn’t care for his sharp tongue, Jiang Mingxi actively sold most of her Oracle Bone Script collection to him and asked him to write the certificates for her.
…Well, Jiang Mingxi hadn’t paid for the certificates. Since Song Qingyuan didn’t ask for money, Jiang Mingxi naturally didn’t mention it.
In any case, antiques authenticated by Song Qingyuan were unquestionably genuine, beyond doubt or reproach.
Yet, after this long parade of editors saw the antiques Jiang Mingxi earnestly presented, none could say a word.
“…These are your three thousand-yuan antiques?”
Jiang Mingxi answered confidently, “Not at all, three thousand yuan is actually an underestimate. If you go further back, it could be six hundred yuan more. After all, these are legendary Shang Dynasty artifacts, their historical value is incalculable!”
The editors looked down at the grayish-yellow, ancient oracle bone pieces laid on a red cloth, falling silent once again.
They were definitely antiques.
But how much they were worth? That was hard to say.
Currently, Oracle Bone Script collecting and research were still in their infancy domestically, with only about a dozen pieces known.
The very existence of the Shang Dynasty was still debated. Without archaeological sites unearthed, relying solely on the inscriptions on oracle bones made definitive conclusions impossible.
However, if anyone dared claim that the Shang Dynasty never existed and was merely a fabricated myth, most of the Sino Studies Circle would denounce that person as a traitorous scoundrel without hesitation.
The editors exchanged glances, ultimately publishing a deliberately ambiguous statement in the newspaper.
The statement said that after confirmation by the editorial department, with Mr. Song Qingyuan’s endorsement, the grand prize was indeed a genuine antique worth three thousand yuan, possessing significant historical and collectible value.
However, due to market fluctuations and unpredictable factors in the artifact market, a high resale price could not be guaranteed.
Therefore, customers were advised to be cautious.
After seeing the statement, the readers were completely reassured.
Originally, the enamel stoves were already priced fifty cents below market value.
If a priceless antique was thrown in as a bonus, it would have aroused suspicions of a scam.
The first batch of one hundred enamel stoves sold out surprisingly quickly, and customers lined up outside her ‘Tingzijian’.
When word got out that they were sold out, many disappointed customers voiced their frustration.
It was only when Jiang Mingxi issued tickets for a next batch, promising customers could still buy enamel stoves at a discount upon presenting the ticket, that they were finally pacified.
As Jiang Mingxi saw off the last customer, the setting sun slanted into the alley.
She didn’t stop to rest. Locking the door, she grabbed her business ledger and checkbook, hurrying off to the Telegram Office.
Inside the Telegram Office, the lighting was dim, and the staff yawned as they watched the young lady drenched in sweat hurriedly draft a telegram over the counter.
“Enamel stoves sold out, urgently dispatch five hundred more. Check and rebate fifteen silver dollars enclosed. Awaiting reply.”
She fully understood the rules of commerce— make money, but also let your partners share the benefits.
She would net about a hundred silver dollars on this batch and without hesitation sent out fifteen percent as a rebate.
Those fifteen silver dollars were an olive branch she extended, a token of goodwill for her business partners.
In Shanghai’s mercantile world, if you only sought to pocket profits alone, the road ahead would only narrow.
Only through mutual benefit could she secure priority shipments from the South and even win discounts.
This sincerity soon paid off handsomely.
That very night, while Jiang Mingxi was still calculating costs at her desk, a reply telegram arrived with incredible speed.
She had sent it all the way to Nanjing!
“Telegram received, goods dispatched! Five hundred fifty-six enamel stoves, shipped by boat, arriving at Shanghai docks tomorrow morning. Unit price remains one silver dollar; we won’t fail you.”
Five hundred fifty-six stoves!
Fifty-six more than the originally ordered five hundred!
Jiang Mingxi clutched the telegram and paced twice across the cramped ‘Tingzijian’, barely suppressing her excitement.
The supplier not only kept his promise by reducing the price two mao per unit but showed goodwill and respect by sending extra goods.
This deal was off to a great start.
The next morning, just as dawn broke, a thin mist hovered over the Huangpu River, with cargo ships’ deep whistles echoing across the water.
Jiang Mingxi had already hired a rickshaw waiting at the docks.
The dockworkers called out rhythmic shouts as they loaded crates labeled “Nanjing Changtai Factory” onto the shore.
All five hundred fifty-six enamel stoves were packed into seven or eight large wooden crates, piling the rickshaw like a small moving hill.
The rickshaw made three trips before finally hauling all the stoves back to Jiang Mingxi’s small office.
Then came the unloading.
The stairway was narrow and dark, only wide enough for one person, with neighbors’ coal piled in a corner near the turn.
Jiang Mingxi had to turn sideways and carefully maneuver the heavy crates past the peeling, mottled walls.
Each step on the old wooden stairs creaked under the strain, groaning as if it might collapse at any moment.
Her arms trembled uncontrollably, the muscles in her forearms tensed painfully, a soreness radiating from her fingertips all the way to her shoulder blades.
After five or six trips up and down, the back of her gray cloth long gown was soaked through with sweat, clinging tightly to her skin.
Her hair was damp and plastered to her head as if washed with water.
The rickshaw puller Jiang Mingxi hired was about forty years old, a genuine old Shanghai native known as Old Zhao.
He wore a faded blue cotton jacket, a yellowed sweat towel draped over his shoulder, and his dark face was etched with deep wrinkles.
At that moment, he leaned against the handlebars, pulling a pack of Chaozhou Knife Brand cigarettes from his pocket.
He took one out, lit it with a match with a sharp “snap,” and inhaled deeply.
Squinting, he watched the little boss Jiang climbing up and down, moving cargo.
This young boss wore a half-worn gray cloth gown, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing fair yet firm forearms.
Every time he bent over to lift a crate, stray strands of hair fell over his bright eyes.
He saw the tight set of his lips, the slight distortion of his handsome face from exertion, the sweat darkening the shoulders and armpits of his gown, and how he was dusted with wall grime as if he’d been rolling in the dirt.
“Boss Jiang,” Old Zhao finally couldn’t help but speak, “How can you carry all this by yourself? Didn’t you hire any help?”
He stubbed out his cigarette and patted his chest warmly.
“Look at your delicate skin and tender flesh. How can you do such hard work? Let me help you move these things. We can negotiate a fair price.”
Jiang Mingxi paused, straightened up, wiped sweat from her face with her sleeve, only to smear the dust in a pattern.
She caught her breath and smiled, replying in Shanghainese, “Just starting out. Small business. Save every copper coin you can, right?”
Old Zhao wasn’t disappointed at missing an extra profit. Instead, he showed a look of admiration.
“Oh, your words are smart!”
He slapped his thigh and gave a thumbs-up.
“We rickshaw drivers see so many little bosses like you. They make three yuan and spend five, putting on airs bigger than the foreign firms’ big shots. What’s the result? Not a month later, everything collapses!”
He spat to the side and continued, “You’re the smartest! Every coin split and spent wisely—that’s how business lasts long. Work hard now, and you’ll make a fortune later!”
He wasn’t lying or flattering.
Old Zhao’s sharp eyes were forged by the ten-mile foreign concession.
A boss like Jiang, hands-on, practical, renting a tiny ‘Tingzijian’, buying small batches of goods, keeping costs low— though it looked unglamorous, it was the smartest and most pragmatic way to do business.
“That’s the real way to run a business.”
Old Zhao’s eyes narrowed into slits as he declared with certainty, “I tell you, Boss Jiang, with your smarts, you’re bound to become a big boss sooner or later!”
Jiang Mingxi laughed at his words, bent down, and lifted a crate.
“All right, I’ll take your good wishes. When I really get rich, the old wine’s on me.”
Halfway through unloading, a sudden rush of footsteps echoed from afar.
They sounded like rickshaw drivers’ steps, at least seven or eight teams.
Her steps halted, immediately sensing something was off.
Most neighbors worked at nearby factories or docks; they wouldn’t be able to afford so many rickshaws.
Sure enough, in the blink of an eye, seven or eight rickshaws turned into the alley.
The men and women aboard were dressed finely, starkly out of place among the dusty surroundings.
The girls wore the latest Western-style dresses, the lace hems fluttering with the bump of the ride.
The boys sported sharply tailored suits, hair slicked and shining.
The young ladies looked around curiously, clicking their tongues in surprise.
“Shanghai still has such rundown places?”
“I’ve never seen a house this small. Tianjiao, where have you brought us?”
Tianjiao raised his chin arrogantly, condescendingly explaining to his companions, “I read in the paper that these are called Tingzijian, the worst kind of room in Shikumen.”
As he spoke, the rickshaw drivers stopped in front of Jiang Mingxi’s office.
“Boss, ladies and gentlemen, we’re here!”
“Here?”
“Really?”
“Really?”
Tianjiao’s face was filled with disbelief.
“Could Mingzhao International Company really be in a place like this?”
He looked suspiciously at the peeling walls and creaking wooden stairs.
“No mistake, it’s right here on the second floor,” the driver accurately recited the address Jiang Mingxi had published in the newspaper.
Jiang Mingxi raised her eyebrows.
Sure enough, a girl with fashionable curls hopped down from the rickshaw first, followed by the other young women, then the men.
Tianjiao was the last to dismount.
He wore a well-fitted white suit, shoes polished to a shine, a stark contrast to the uneven muddy alley.
He glanced disdainfully at a puddle, tiptoeing carefully to avoid dirtying his freshly shined leather shoes.
Just then, his gaze landed on Jiang Mingxi blocking the stairway.
His brows immediately furrowed; he looked as if he’d seen a rat crawling out of the gutter.
“Hey, I’m asking you, is Mingzhao International Company here?”
To facilitate moving the cargo, Jiang Mingxi had tucked the hem of her gown into her waistband, her entire body covered in dust and sweat stains.
Wet strands of hair clung to her forehead; her face was streaked with dirt and sweat, but her eyes remained bright and clear.
Unfazed, Jiang Mingxi asked calmly, “What business do you have here?”
Tianjiao was taken aback.
“Really here?” he muttered, pulling a five-yuan silver note from his exquisite leather wallet.
Without looking, he tossed it toward Jiang Mingxi.
The note spun in the air but was caught steadily between two of her fingers.
She glanced at the denomination — five yuan, enough to cover two months’ rent.
She folded the bill calmly and slipped it into her pocket.
Then she looked at the uninvited guests with an even tone, “I am the owner of Mingzhao International. What is it that you want from me?”
Tianjiao’s expression instantly froze.
His handsome face flashed through shock, doubt, and embarrassment before settling into a comical grimace — as if he’d swallowed a live fly and was too embarrassed to spit it out.