Logan Reed sneered, “Those eyes of yours are just for show. This is clearly a key. Prince Rui was a strong advocate for reform and was highly valued by the Empress Dowager, who allocated him a lot of silver. Not long after he was assassinated, he was suddenly reported for embezzlement. The Empress Dowager personally ordered a search of the prince’s residence, and the entire place was turned upside down. In the end, not much silver was found. Rumor has it that Prince Rui hid his fortune in a secret vault before his death.”

Blind Jack gaped, “You mean this thing could be the key to Prince Rui’s secret vault?” His beady eyes could no longer hide their greedy glint.

“Who knows?”

Blind Jack grabbed Logan Reed’s arm excitedly. “Brother, does that mean if we find Prince Rui’s secret vault, we’ll be set for life, never having to worry about food or drink again?”

Logan Reed fixed his deep gaze on Blind Jack’s flushed, excited, chubby face. “A greedy snake tries to swallow an elephant—you might expose yourself.”

Blind Jack swallowed hard. “I’m in disguise, no one will recognize me! Brother, we’re going to strike it rich…”

Logan Reed raised his index finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. Footsteps sounded outside, drawing closer. Someone knocked gently on the door: “Pastor Reed, your letter!”

Logan Reed didn’t speak, since Blind Jack was still in the room. Soon, a yellow kraft paper envelope was slipped under the door. After the postman left, Logan Reed went over to pick up the letter. He glanced at the return address—it was from Fengtian, Manchuria. He couldn’t help but feel puzzled; he didn’t seem to have any friends or relatives in Fengtian.

Simon Moore’s daily life was extremely regular. He got up early to walk along the Pujiang River with his beloved thrush, and at eight-thirty, as usual, he went to Chunxi Teahouse for morning tea. Though the old man looked stern, he was kind to everyone. Whether it was high officials or commoners, he greeted all with a smile. Yet in the French Concession, no one ever questioned his power, and no one dared challenge his authority. Even the lofty French consul addressed him respectfully as Mr. Moore, let alone the toughs and gangsters of the underworld.

At this hour, the teahouse always reserved the best riverside window seat for him. The zitan wood table was polished to a mirror shine, and there was only one carved armchair of the same wood, facing east to west. Outside the window to the left, the Pujiang River flowed endlessly. Samuel Moore hung his birdcage on a carved rosewood stand nearby, listening to the thrush’s melodious song, watching the boats of all sizes come and go on the river, sipping the finest Dongding oolong tea, tasting the chef’s carefully prepared dim sum—detached from the world, at ease and content.

At times like this, few dared disturb Samuel Moore’s peace.

In a lifetime, true peace is rare, especially for someone of the underworld. Living in the jianghu, always on edge, you see others’ freedom, but who can truly understand another’s pain? Simon Moore’s gaze fell on the colorful flags fluttering on the boats in the river’s center—beautiful to the eye, but painful to the heart. Sometimes, he wished the flags drifting before him were still the dragon banners of the Qing, now discarded by the times.

“Mr. Moore!” A sharp, cautious voice sounded in his ear. Simon Moore frowned; whoever it was, he disliked being disturbed at this hour.

Simon Moore said nothing, not even glancing at the person beside him. He drew out his long-stemmed pipe from his waist. The mouthpiece was made of top-grade Hetian mutton-fat jade, smooth and delicate as fat, with a patch of yellow skin right where it touched the lips. The smoke and fire had not marred the jade’s quality; instead, the yellow grew more vivid, the white more refined. The brass bowl was adorned with two entwined dragons, exquisitely carved by the famous Qing imperial craftsman Zhou Mengqi. The small nan bamboo stem, polished by years of handling, was now a glossy yellow-brown, with a purplish-red patina resembling red jade. Though it looked ordinary, it was unique. The two-foot-long bamboo stem, as thick as a thumb, was engraved with the entire Diamond Sutra, the work of Xun Baoshi, Suzhou’s master of micro-carving. Both men had passed away, making their works even more valuable. Even the brocade tobacco pouch was crafted by Suzhou’s top embroiderers.

Simon Moore calmly packed tobacco into the bowl. A chubby, middle-aged man in a melon cap sidled up, struck a match with a hiss, and expertly lit the pipe for Simon Moore, then bowed deeply, his face full of flattery and ingratiation.

Simon Moore took a deep drag, making the tobacco glow red. Thick white smoke poured from his mouth and nose, blurring his resolute features and making his deep-set eyes even harder to read.

The middle-aged man beside him finally couldn’t stand the strong smoke, turning his plump face away, pinching a handkerchief between his fingers to cover his mouth as he coughed softly, his shoulders shaking as if he were a wronged young lady.

Simon Moore’s brow relaxed as the smoke drifted, and he slowly exhaled a single word: “Speak!”

The chubby man’s eyes were reddened by the smoke. He dabbed at the corners with his handkerchief, quickly patted his chest with his left hand, and put on a pitiful expression. “Mr. Moore, you must stand up for your humble servant.”

Chapter 0003: Stirring Winds (Part 1)