Treasure Hunt

Post-breakfast, Professor Guo ushered Huo Xuan into his study. The lumbar treatment had dissolved formalities—the archaeologist now unveiled decades of hoarded treasures.

A camphorwood chest disgorged square frames swaddled in muslin. Each displayed ceramic shards meticulously arranged like sacred relics.

"These aren't just broken crockery," Huo Xuan blurted, fingertips hovering over a celadon fragment. "Each shard's composition differs completely."

"Northern Song's Five Great Kilns—Ge, Guan, Ru, Jun, Ding." The professor's finger danced across eras. "Yuan blue-and-white, Ming Yongle's 'sweet white' porcelain, Chenghua doucai, Qing cloisonné..."

"From Han Dynasty terracotta to 1950s propaganda china—four decades combing flea markets and demolition sites." Pride thickened his wheeze.

"A tactile timeline of ceramic evolution," Huo Xuan fawned, thumbs-up gleaming. "Only an archaeologist's obsession could amass this."

"Started during the Cultural Revolution." The old man's voice cracked. "Last shard acquired... spring of last year."

Though bored stiff, Huo Xuan mimicked scholarly scrutiny—turning fragments with white-gloved reverence.

His gaze snagged on a palm-sized Yuan blue-and-white shard. X-ray vision triggered—steppe winds howled in his ears, the acrid smoke of Mongol conquest stinging his nostrils.

Tyranny. Grandeur. Unbridled ambition. The shard's psychic residue flooded his synapses. "No wonder the Yuan Dynasty collapsed," he breathed, trembling.

"Eighty-six years of blood-soaked opulence," the professor nodded, decoding Huo Xuan's epiphany. "A regime devoured by its own excess."

Huo Xuan nodded, methodically examining each piece—Song celadons thrumming with literati restraint, Ming porcelains radiating imperial grandeur, Qing wares steeped in bureaucratic precision. Even within a single dynasty under identical imperial reigns, kilns separated by mere hundreds of miles emanated conflicting auras.

The artifacts' souls imprinted on his psyche—no carbon dating required, just visceral communion with bygone eras.

Huo Xuan had planned a cursory glance, but found himself immersed in the vast river of history. Each dynasty's rise and fall unfolded through ceramic shards—Song scholar-officials' refinement, Ming maritime ambitions, Qing's rigid hierarchies.

Three hours slipped by as he analyzed every fragment. Professor Guo initially lingered nearby, then retreated with a satisfied smile to pore over archaeological monographs.

The clock's chime snapped him to awareness. "Noon already?" He hurried from the study to find lunch steaming on the table.

Scratching his neck, Huo Xuan mumbled, "Lost track of time studying the shards—hope I didn't disrupt your work."

"Never judge a book by its cover!" The professor chuckled, closing his leather-bound volume. "Only true ceramics enthusiasts would spend hours decoding broken pottery."

Huo Xuan flushed—hadn't he dismissed these fragments as worthless initially? Only politeness kept him from fleeing earlier.

"Observe Huo's scholarly dedication!" The professor jabbed his chopsticks toward Guo Lan. "Unlike your brother—that dilettante antique dealer!"

"Brother would've invented a meeting within minutes," Guo Lan said, her gaze lingering on Huo Xuan. "And he claims expertise in antiquities!"

"Just an amateur's curiosity," Huo Xuan demurred, though his fingertips still tingled from tracing centuries-old glaze textures.

"Academic humility is rare nowadays." The professor beamed. "With your focus, you'll make groundbreaking discoveries."

Guo Lan rolled her eyes. "Enough lecturing—the braised pork's getting cold."

Huo Xuan devoured his third bowl of rice—a display of appetite that endeared him to the professor.

"My train departs tonight," Huo Xuan said post-meal. "Can't overstay my welcome."

"Leaving so soon?" Guo Lan blurted, then flushed at her own forwardness—they'd met mere hours ago.

Professor Guo patted Huo Xuan's shoulder. "If there's no urgent business, stay a few more days. This afternoon, accompany me to Ghost Valley Street—it's the best place for treasure hunting among street stalls."

Ghost Valley Street's reputation preceded itself—a sprawling antique market where vendors from across the nation peddled relics. Delaying his return home would allow Huo Xuan to process the day's assassination attempt.

Xu Bo. The name burned in his mind. Chen Fusheng's petty grudges over business deals couldn't escalate to murder—only the Xu family's young master had both motive and ruthlessness.

His fingers curled into fists. Xu's thugs had ambushed him twice now—this vendetta demanded blood repayment.

Forcing a relaxed smile, Huo Xuan nodded. "I'd be glad to learn from your expertise, Professor."

Guo Lan's sedan crawled through Ghost Valley Street's three sectors: the North District's neon-lit shops selling replica vases, the South's maze of tarp-covered stalls, and the East's gilded antique stores guarded by stone lions.

Professor Guo strode toward the flea market. "Hunting for another buried treasure, Dad?" Guo Lan teased, adjusting her sun hat.

The legend was whispered among collectors: thirty years prior, the professor had unearthed a grime-caked Tang Dynasty jade pendant from a 50-yuan stall. Decades of polishing revealed milky-white nephrite now nestled against his chest.

"With Huo's lucky, we might find a Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white today!" The professor chuckled, though both knew genuine finds were rarer than phoenix feathers.

Even as he spoke, his twinkling eyes betrayed the joke.

The South District thrived on collective delusion. Thousands scoured cracked teacups and rusted coins daily, each convinced they'd spot the one Ming vase disguised as a flowerpot.

Huo Xuan's gaze swept over stall after stall. A bronze mirror crusted with patina caught his eye—was that Han Dynasty craftsmanship under the grime?

The professor squatted before a bead seller, loupe scrutinizing prayer beads. Across the aisle, Guo Lan bit her lip over a jade bowl—its carved lotus patterns suggested Qing Dynasty work, if only the seller's price weren't so steep.

Since his last meditative breakthrough, Huo Xuan's X-ray vision now pierced through objects within two meters—no more back-breaking squinting over antiques.

Yet even with enhanced range, the flea market's sea of fakes left him empty-handed. He gestured to Professor Guo and stalked deeper into the bazaar alone.

"Scam alert!" He snorted at a haggling pair. The so-called Xuande censer was clearly iron dipped in copper—worth less than its weight in scrap metal.

His X-ray scans exposed forgery after forgery. The handful of genuine relics? Priced like they'd been stolen from the Palace Museum.

"Every damn stall's peddling scams." He shook his head, picking up speed as he shouldered through the crowd. "Without my X-ray vision, I'd be lugging home worthless junk right now." His boots clattered toward the scroll-and-ink quarter.

At the alley's bend, a rust-caked tripod censer halted him a 20cm diameter, three clawed feet crusted with dirt.

Even a tourist could spot its flaws: crude welds, uneven patina. Scrap value 10 yuan per kilogram at most.

But his X-ray vision penetrated deeper. Nestled inside there is a censer mirroring the fake Xuande piece's form. Energy radiated from its core—regal discipline fused with scholarly refinement.

The aura matched Professor Guo's Xuande blue-and-white porcelain shard—that golden age when Ming emperors balanced military conquests with imperial examinations.

His pulse spiked. A real Xuande censer? Auction catalogs flashed in his mind—eight-figure price tags for authentic pieces.