Lin Yuan left the Land and Resources Bureau, his mind already three steps ahead. The subtle obstruction by Director Zhou, clearly acting on Boss Wei's unspoken directive, confirmed his suspicions: the Old Silk Mill wasn't just a potential business opportunity; it was a point of contention, a silent battleground in a larger game of control. He needed to understand the mill's past to navigate its future.
His destination was the old public well, a weathered stone structure near the mill's perimeter, a gathering point for the older residents of Fenyang. He found Grandma Wei there, as expected, drawing water with a practiced ease, her movements still surprisingly spry despite her age. She was a small, wiry woman, her face a roadmap of wrinkles etched by time and hardship, her eyes sharp and observant. She was known for her long memory and her willingness to speak her mind, a rare trait in a town where silence often bought safety.
"Grandma Wei," Lin Yuan began respectfully, his voice soft but clear, "I'm inquiring about the Old Silk Mill. I understand you've lived in this neighborhood for many years."
Grandma Wei paused, her gaze assessing him with a shrewdness that belied her age. "The mill? That old ghost? What business do you have with that cursed place, young man?" Her tone was guarded, her eyes scrutinizing him.
"I'm considering investing in its redevelopment," Lin Yuan explained, "transforming it into a new business hub. But I'm trying to understand its history, its past owners, the reasons for its decline." He offered her a small, respectful bow. "I heard you might remember those days."
Grandma Wei snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "Remember? I lived those days. My husband, Wei Liang, worked there for forty years, until it closed. The Gao family, they owned it then, just like now. Gao Weiguo, the current owner's father, he was a proud man, but foolish. He expanded too fast, took on too much debt. The old looms, they were beautiful, but inefficient. He refused to modernize, said it was 'tradition.' Tradition doesn't pay the bills, young man. And then came the accidents."
Lin Yuan's ears perked up. "Accidents?"
Grandma Wei's eyes clouded over, a shadow of pain flickering in their depths. "Two. Both fatal. One, a fire in the dye room, a worker trapped. The other, a loom malfunctioned, crushed a young weaver. My Wei Liang, he saw it all. He never spoke of it, but I saw it in his eyes. That mill... it was cursed, some said. Bad Feng Shui, bad luck. Gao Weiguo, he never recovered. He drank himself to death, they say. Left his son, Gao Qiang, with a mountain of debt and a ruined reputation."
"And Gao Qiang?" Lin Yuan pressed gently.
"Gao Qiang," Grandma Wei spat the name like a bitter pill. "A fool, like his father, but without the pride. He inherited the debt, but not the skill. He tried to revive the mill, but he lacked the vision. He sold off the machinery, piece by piece, to pay his creditors. He leased out the land, for storage, for scrap yards, anything to make a quick yuan. He's a shadow of his father, a weak man drowning in his own mistakes."
Lin Yuan absorbed this information, piecing together the narrative. The mill wasn't just a derelict building; it was a site of tragedy, of failed ambition, of a family's slow decline. This history, this "curse," might explain the local resistance to its redevelopment, the unspoken fear of repeating the past. And it provided a potential vulnerability in Gao Qiang, a weakness that Boss Wei, with his vast network of information, had undoubtedly exploited.
"And Boss Wei?" Lin Yuan asked carefully, watching Grandma Wei's reaction. "How does he factor into the mill's story?"
Grandma Wei's eyes narrowed, her gaze hardening. "Wei Zhen? That snake? He was a small-time loan shark back then, feeding off Gao Weiguo's desperation. He lent him money, at exorbitant rates, knowing he couldn't repay. He circled that mill like a vulture, waiting for it to die. He never owned it directly, but he controlled its fate, through debt, through influence. Even now, he pulls the strings. He wants that land, for his own purposes, whatever they may be. He doesn't want anyone else touching it."
Lin Yuan nodded slowly. This confirmed his suspicions. Boss Wei's interest in the mill wasn't just about profit; it was about control, about maintaining his grip on Fenyang's economic levers. The mill, with its strategic location near the railway line, was a key piece in his larger game.
"Thank you, Grandma Wei," Lin Yuan said, his voice sincere. "You've given me invaluable insight."
Grandma Wei watched him, her gaze still sharp. "Be careful, young man. You're playing with fire. Wei Zhen doesn't like anyone challenging him. He has ways... of making people disappear. The mill is cursed, not by ghosts, but by greed. Don't let it swallow you too."
As Lin Yuan walked away from the well, the weight of Grandma Wei's words settled upon him. The Old Silk Mill wasn't just a business opportunity; it was a crucible, a testing ground where he would face not just economic forces, but the entrenched power of a man who controlled Fenyang's past and sought to control its future. The shadow of the throne was longer, and darker, than he had initially imagined. But Lin Yuan, armed with his meticulous mind and a growing understanding of the town's hidden narratives, was ready to play the game, on his own terms.