Chapter One: The Tomb Raider from the Countryside

"It's over, it's all over!" Zhang Can cursed in despair, feeling as if his heart had sunk to the deepest depths of hell.

Since entering the world of antiquities three years ago, Zhang Can had always been cautious, painstakingly earning small sums bit by bit, following the veterans of Antique Street and the old markets, learning from their experience. Over those three arduous years, he had managed to save two hundred thousand yuan of hard-earned money, and yet, in the blink of an eye, it had all vanished.

The story began three days earlier. Zhang Can was chatting and drinking tea at the shop of his old friend Su Senlin. Su Senlin, master appraiser at Old Stone Studio, was in his fifties and a notable figure in the Jin City antiquities trade, seasoned and astute. Zhang Can and Old Su were from the same hometown, and whenever Zhang Can picked up a small piece, he'd bring it to Old Su. It wasn't truly a lucky find; each item might earn him three or four hundred yuan, sometimes a thousand or two, and occasionally he’d even lose some. But Old Su would always help him minimize the loss.

Over the years, Zhang Can and Old Su had become close, and under Old Su's guidance, Zhang Can's skills improved. In this trade, no one dared claim to be the ultimate expert who never makes mistakes, but when it came to small items, Zhang Can rarely slipped up.

Yet, working in any field breeds the desire to rise above it, and Zhang Can was no exception. He dreamed of one day stumbling upon a major find, making a fortune, buying property in Jin City, marrying, raising children, and living a settled life. Such dreams, after all, are universal.

But now, that dream was shattered.

Three days ago, after drinking tea and chatting at Old Su's Old Stone Studio, Zhang Can was heading home. As he left the shop and reached the mouth of the alley, a rural-looking man, dressed plainly, nervously whispered to him, "Boss... do you... want something freshly unearthed?"

Zhang Can was momentarily stunned. He understood exactly what 'freshly unearthed' meant in their trade—it referred to items recently taken from tombs. Ninety-five percent of such items were fakes, perhaps one percent were genuine, and four percent were old pieces in circulation, but most had already reached their maximum value, leaving little room for profit on resale.

Thus, in this business, keen judgment was everything—nothing mattered more than one's eye for authenticity.

The government cracked down on the illegal trade of artifacts, but within the antiquities market, the creation of replicas and fakes was not restricted. Whether an item was real or fake depended entirely on one's ability to judge. From ancient times, transactions were settled in cash, and once goods left the counter, the seller bore no responsibility. If you bought a fake, no matter how much you lost, you could only swallow your grievances in silence. The law offered no protection; complaints were useless and, worse, would only make you a laughingstock.

Two words summed up the joys and sorrows of the trade: "Blind gamble, lucky find."

A blind gamble meant a loss—small losses hurt a little, but a big one could ruin you. One night, you might be wealthy; the next, you could find yourself an extraordinary debtor.

A lucky find meant profit—tens, hundreds, thousands, those were modest gains. But a true lucky find was every dealer's dream: paying a pittance for something worth hundreds or thousands of times more, an invaluable treasure. That was the big score, but like lottery tickets, lucky finds were rare and elusive. In Jin City's antiques market, countless people like Zhang Can drift about—veterans, newcomers, amateurs—pitfalls everywhere, and a single misstep could mean ruin.

Of course, there were opportunities, but opportunities didn't just appear; those lacking judgment couldn't seize them even if they tried.

Zhang Can, despite his youth, was no novice. Even Old Su praised him for his sharp intuition.

The rural man before him was in his thirties, his weathered features impossible to fake. His complexion was pale, almost ghastly, a sign of spending time in certain environments. Most striking were his hands: calloused at the fingertips and base of the thumb, a pattern unlike the even calluses formed from farm work. The calluses on his hands were peculiar.

Noticing these details, Zhang Can's heart skipped a beat: this man was a tomb raider.

He hesitated, then asked, "So... what do you have?"

The rural man glanced around and whispered, "Boss, it's not convenient to talk here. How about you follow me into the alley?"

Zhang Can hesitated again. This was a typical trick used by swindlers: lure you into an alley, knock you out, and rob you. It happened often.

"Boss, how about this?" The rural man saw Zhang Can's reluctance and quickly added, "You pick a place. I have a partner; I'll have him bring the item, and we'll come together to your place for inspection. How about that?"

Zhang Can sensed sincerity in his words. He thought for a moment, then waved his hand. "Forget it, it's too much trouble. I'll just follow you into the alley and take a look."

He had nothing valuable on him, only three or four hundred yuan in cash. Even if he was robbed, it wouldn't be a big deal. Besides, these petty thieves wouldn't dare commit murder; that's a capital crime—not worth the risk.

The alley was barely a meter wide. The rural man's partner was a boy, fourteen or fifteen, holding a woven fertilizer sack. Seeing the boy, Zhang Can felt more at ease.

The rural man took the sack from the boy and instructed him, "Wait outside the alley."

Once the boy had left, the rural man handed the sack to Zhang Can.

It weighed barely two or three kilograms. Zhang Can took a deep breath, then slowly opened the sack. Inside were strips of foam and soft material to prevent damage. He carefully removed the wrapping, and at first glance, Zhang Can shivered.

It was a red-glazed, narrow-necked vase with floral patterns—flared mouth, slender neck, rounded belly, ring-shaped base. The neck was thin, slightly constricted in the middle, widening into an oval-shaped belly below, the curves smooth and symmetrical, resembling an 'S' from either side. Its overall height was just over thirty centimeters, shaped almost like a heart.

"Yuhu Chun!"

He didn't say it aloud, but his heart was deeply shaken. If this was genuine, and its era and quality could be confirmed, its value would be clear. Judging by its lustrous, delicate glaze and smooth feel, if authentic, it would fetch at least a million yuan.

A million! Zhang Can was so nervous sweat broke out on his forehead. This was the kind of discovery he'd dreamed of—could it really have happened?

Yet he forced himself to stay calm, feigning indifference as he closed the sack and asked, "This vase, its color is too bright. It doesn't look old. How much do you want for it?"

"Doesn't look old?" The rural man was surprised, then hugged the sack to his chest and shook his head. "Since you say so, there's no point in talking price. This came out as a pair; my third uncle took the other south to find a buyer. He said someone offered three hundred thousand. My uncle didn't want to sell, but the situation was tense down there, so he went ahead and sold it. He's back now, which is why we're not going south. If you say it's not old, I'll find someone else."

"Wait..."

Zhang Can couldn't help but call out softly, then asked, "How much do you want?"

The rural man grinned. "Can't be less than my uncle got."

Three hundred thousand then. Zhang Can frowned. He wanted a bargain, but that seemed impossible. Still, his heart pounded—he'd never encountered anything so extraordinary in his three years at the antiques market. Previously, he'd handled items worth hundreds, thousands; the most expensive was just over twenty thousand. Never had he seen someone ask for three hundred thousand. And he'd never seen a Yuhu Chun vase before.

Thinking it over, Zhang Can tried to negotiate. "Brother, how about this: since the price is so high, let me take a photo and ask my friend if it's okay? Of course, if we move forward, we'll have a friend authenticate it. Small items are no big deal, but for something this valuable, everyone is cautious, right? If you're confident it's genuine, you shouldn't have anything to worry about."

The rural man nodded. "Of course. Whether the deal goes through or not is secondary—business is business, but goodwill comes first. I dug this up myself, so I trust it. Go ahead, take your photos."

Zhang Can immediately took out his phone, carefully removed the vase from the sack, and snapped several pictures from every angle, then sent them to Old Su.

Barely a minute later, Old Su called. Zhang Can turned away, covering the phone's mouthpiece, careful not to let the rural man overhear.

"Xiao Zhang, where did you take those photos? Did you see the item yourself?"

"Yes, I saw it. Old Su, just tell me—how much could this be worth?" Zhang Can kept his voice extremely low.

"Xiao Zhang, it's hard to say. It could be a Yuhu Chun vase from the Yuan or Ming dynasties. Without seeing it in person, I can't be sure. But the color in the photos looks promising. The highest price for a similar porcelain piece was a Ming Hongwu period red-glazed peony Yuhu Chun vase, sold at Christie's Hong Kong in '97 for twenty-two million two hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars!"

Zhang Can felt his mind reel.

Old Su's words sent his thoughts spiraling. Twenty-two million! How many times was that compared to three hundred thousand yuan? Even if not that high, what if it was only half—say ten million? Ten million minus three hundred thousand—that would still leave a profit of nine million seven hundred thousand!

What did nine million seven hundred thousand mean? Houses, cars, wife and children—everything he wanted, plus savings to spare. That was the meaning of nine million seven hundred thousand.