Vol.1 Ch5: The Sword of Goujian

“Welcome.” The shop owner looked up, his hands pausing mid-motion as he wiped the porcelain pillow.

A man in his 40s stepped inside. His features were sharply defined, with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his prominent nose. A few wrinkles marked his forehead, lending him a scholarly air. He leaned on a cane as he walked, suggesting some trouble with his leg.

“Director, long time no see.” Though surprised, the shop owner still wore his signature smile.

The visitor was the newly appointed curator of the city’s museum. The shop owner had seen plenty of interviews about him in the newspapers.

Under the dim shop lighting, the museum curator stared at the owner in shock. A long silence passed before he murmured in disbelief, “It has been over 20 years, yet you haven’t changed at all.”

The shop owner’s smile deepened.

The curator, now 45-year-old, had graduated from a prestigious university with a degree in history. He had worked at the local museum for over a decade before taking over as curator earlier this year. Ironically, as a child, he had little interest in ancient relics, finding them cold and lifeless. But in his teenage years, an encounter with a certain person and an event that changed his life forever left him hopelessly enamored with antiques.

But he never expected that, after so many years apart, the man’s appearance hadn’t changed at all. He looked just as young as he had more than two decades ago, as if time had stood still for him.

However, that couldn’t be possible, could it?

The curator’s initial surprise quickly faded, replaced by a self-deprecating chuckle. “I must have mistaken you for someone else. I once had a friend I haven’t seen in years. You look just like him from 20 years ago.”

The young shop owner maintained his polite smile. Noticing that the curator had overlooked his earlier remark, “long time no see,” he decided to play along. “Perhaps you are thinking of my father.”

The curator’s eyes lit up. “Where is he now?”

“My father’s traveling abroad,” the young owner replied with a calm, sincere expression that left no room for doubt. “I believe he’s in Egypt at the moment and won’t be returning anytime soon.”

“Ah, what a pity.” The curator adjusted his glasses with slight regret. “This shop must be new, then? I don’t recall hearing about it before.”

As the curator of the museum, he was naturally well-acquainted with every antique shop in the city, whether it’s big or small. Though nowadays, it was rare for these shops to carry anything of truly priceless value, he knew better than to assume absolutes. Earlier that evening, while on his way to visit a friend, he happened to pass through this commercial street and noticed the oddly named antique shop.

Ya She.

“Antiques cannot speak, yet each one carries stories spanning centuries, waiting to be heard…” It reminded him of a phrase that person used to say often, as if it were a mantra.

“It has been open for a while now,” the shop owner replied with a faint smile. The shop had been there for at least two or three years, but its peculiar name had left many unaware that it was even an antique store. Few ever pushed open the door, and even fewer became regular customers.

But he didn’t open this shop for the sake of profit. He believed that those destined to cross paths with these antiques would eventually find their way here.

What he hadn’t expected was for the curator to push open the door of Ya She that very night. The owner’s brow furrowed slightly at the unexpected visitor.

The curator glanced around, head held high. He frowned at the dim lighting and spoke in the tone of a senior lecturing a junior. “An antique shop staying open this late? Have you never heard the saying ‘never examine colors under artificial light’?”

It was an unspoken rule among antique dealers. It meant that once night fell, the doors were to be closed. Under artificial light, the true colors and details of antiques could be easily misjudged, leading to the risk of buying or selling counterfeits. That was why, traditionally, antique shops closed their doors after sundown.

It was also one of the reasons he had stepped inside without hesitation. Seeing such a young shop owner only deepened his skepticism.

In the end, he still believed that understanding antiques required years of accumulated experience. The young man before him appeared to be barely in his 20s, and no matter how he looked at him, he gave off an air of unreliability.

But back then, the person he had known had been just that age as well…

As he gazed at the familiar face under the lamplight, the curator’s mind wavered for a moment. He then quickly shook his head, as if to dispel the thought. 

He reminded himself that the person he had known was different. Someone truly extraordinary.

The shop owner remained silent, his smile unwavering. His antique shop wasn’t really about selling things, and whether it was open or closed depended entirely on his whims. 

Normally, he had never stayed in one place for too many years, and now, seeing someone from his past suddenly appear before him—aged, with only a faint trace of the person they once were—speaking to him as if he were a stranger, was a strangely novel experience for him.

The curator scrutinized the items in the shop with a critical eye, and almost instinctively, his eyes landed on the porcelain pillow the shop owner had been polishing.

“This is… Yue Ware Porcelain Pillow” His eyes lit up as he carefully picked it up.

The body of the pillow was a fine, dense gray, while the glaze was a translucent celadon, smooth and lustrous, as lustrous as jade and as clear as ice. Delicate leaf veins were etched into the surface, and its cool touch sent a shiver through his hands.

Based on the curator’s experience, this porcelain pillow dated back to the Tang Dynasty or the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period. From the color alone, it might even be the legendary “Secret Color Porcelain.”

The so-called “Secret Color Porcelain” had long been shrouded in mystery. Historical records from the Song Dynasty described it as porcelain exclusively crafted for the imperial court during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period by the Qian family’s Wuyue Kingdom in Hangzhou.

It was said that commoners were forbidden from using it. Its true color remained a secret, much like its name, leaving later generations to imagine its extraordinary beauty only through poetic descriptions. It was not until the 1980s, when a cache of Secret Color Porcelain was unearthed from the Famen Temple in Shaanxi, that the world finally saw its true form.

And now, in his hands, was an exquisite piece of Secret Color Porcelain.

His throat felt dry.

Though he wasn’t surprised that a national treasure-level antique like this would appear in such a shop. Knowing the kind of person its owner was, he wouldn’t be shocked even if there were more priceless items hidden here.

Because it was that person’s shop.

The shop owner watched with amusement as the curator’s expression shifted through countless emotions. He settled back into his seat, lifting the boiling water from the small red clay charcoal stove and pouring it into two cups of Longjing tea. He placed them quietly on the table, one in front of himself and the other before the curator.

By now, the museum curator had regained his composure. With a stern expression, he set the porcelain pillow back in place. He picked up the teacup, inhaling the rich aroma of the tea. Just as he managed to tear his gaze away from the porcelain pillow, he realized the cup in his hand was a Doucai bell cup.

He almost turned it over immediately to check the signature on the base, but the tea was too hot. Instead, he raised the cup shakily, tilting his head to examine it from below.

Sure enough! A genuine Doucai porcelain piece from the Chenghua period!

Oh my god! 

Was he dreaming? 

Otherwise, how could he be drinking from a cup that belonged in a museum display case?

His face flushed red as he struggled to steady the cup and place it back on the counter. Some tea spilled, but he barely noticed the heat on his skin. He didn’t dare look around anymore, instead lowering his head in deep thought.

“It’s just a cup,” the shop owner said, lifting his own tea to his lips, blowing on the foam lazily before taking a slow sip.

“No! It’s not just a cup!” The curator lost his temper in an instant, his brows furrowing as he glared at the owner. “Boy, what do you even know? The moment this cup was crafted, it captured the essence and spirit of its era! It carries the elegance and legacy of an entire age! It is alive!”

The curator had always been known for his good temper—at least in recent years. When he was younger, his temper had been far worse. It was only after years of studying antiques that he had gradually mellowed. Yet, within less than ten minutes of stepping into this antique shop tonight, he found himself losing control once more.

Like a powder keg, the slightest spark was enough to set him off.

“Yes, they are all alive.” The young shop owner showed no reaction to being scolded. In fact, he found the curator’s outburst rather nostalgic—it had been quite common back in the day. “Good. You understand that much. Very good.”

The curator stood frozen. At his age, few dared to speak to him in such a lecturing tone. Hearing it now, he could hardly believe his ears.

Especially coming from a boy this young.

The shop owner leisurely finished his tea, then overturned a basin onto the small charcoal stove, extinguishing the embers inside. “My apologies, but if you’d like to see the antiques, please come back another day. I’m closing for the night.”

The curator completely ignored the dismissal. His voice grave as he said, “Boy, these antiques don’t deserve to sit in a dark and dusty shop like this.”

The shop owner raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He carefully wiped the porcelain pillow, and placed it back in its brocade box.

“They belong in a museum, where the world can admire them! People should see the brilliance of our ancestors’ civilization!” The curator’s voice carried a fervent intensity. “You should donate them to the nation. That’s where they truly belong!”

The shop owner smiled but still remained silent. Carrying the brocade box, he disappeared into the back room.

The curator’s brows furrowed. His tone turned heavier, “If you refuse to donate them, then let’s at least determine their market value. I can apply for national and provincial cultural heritage funds, or… I even have some personal savings…”

His voice trailed off. Only now did he truly take in the shelves around him. Even with his aging eyesight, he had already spotted a Song Dynasty green-white glazed plate and what appeared to be a sacrificial red plate from the Xuande era of the Ming Dynasty.

His heart lurched.

He dared not look any further, afraid of what other shocks awaited him. Yet his eyes kept darting around uncontrollably.

Under the dim glow of the Changxin Palace Lamp, he even found himself breathing more softly, as if a single misplaced breath might shatter the priceless items around him.

By the time the shop owner returned, the porcelain pillow was safely stored away. Emerging from behind the screen, he gave a calm smile. “My apologies. I’m not interested. Please leave, Director.”

The curator erupted with fury. 

Did this young man have any idea what he was saying? 

Many of the antiques in this shop were of national significance! Trading in cultural relics was illegal. All he had to do was authenticate them and report the shop, and the owner could be arrested for trafficking in cultural artifacts!

He opened his mouth but ultimately swallowed his words in frustration.

“I will be back!” He struck his cane against the floor, then hobbled out the door.

The shop owner stood in the shadows, watching through the window as the curator limped away, one step deep, one step shallow. His gaze lingered for a long time.

“By the way, has an old man with a cane and gold-rimmed glasses been hanging around your shop these past few days?”

The doctor had recently become obsessed with the three-delicacy dumplings from the restaurant next door. Every night after work, he would buy two plates to go and bring them to Ya She. Having someone to share a meal with always made the food taste better.

The shop owner raised a brow and set down his chopsticks. “You’ve seen him? You haven’t run into him on the days you’ve been here, have you?” 

The curator had been showing up daily, repeating the same arguments he’d made that first night.

The doctor gave him a strange look. “That’s because he stopped me outside your shop. He asked me in great detail if I had bought anything here, and even asked about your store in general.”

The shop owner narrowed his eyes slightly, elegantly wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

The doctor, oblivious to the shift in his mood, popped a dumpling into his mouth and mumbled through his food, “That old man’s really weird, and his questions were even weirder. Where on earth did you meet such a strange guy?”

The shop owner, lost in other thoughts, answered absentmindedly, “Oh, I knew him from my tomb-raiding days.”

The doctor nearly choked, unsure whether the owner was joking. Hurriedly, he gulped down some tea. Then, as if suddenly recalling something, he hesitated before asking, “Then… that porcelain pillow you lent me last time…”

“Of course it was unearthed too,” the shop owner replied with a smile. “Where else do you think it came from?”

Clatter!

The doctor’s chopsticks fell onto the table. He made no move to pick them up.

Unearthed?

That meant… that porcelain pillow was meant for a corpse to rest on…

He fell into stunned silence, staring at his half-finished plate of dumplings. He had completely lost his appetite all of a sudden.

The curator clutched a brocade box and nearly jogged all the way back to the museum.

Seeing him in such a state, the staff exchanged knowing smiles, easily guessing that he must have acquired yet another rare artifact.

Without even stopping by his office, the curator headed straight for the artifact appraisal room. For the past few days, he had been frequenting the teahouse across from Ya She. Since that young shopkeeper refused to sell him anything, he had no choice but to approach from the customer’s angle.

At first, he had hired several people to pose as buyers, but the shopkeeper was oddly stubborn, refusing to sell no matter what. 

Left with no other option, the curator chose to wait patiently. Days passed without Ya She making a single sale—not surprising, as antique shops often went years without business, but a single transaction could sustain them for just as long. Resigned to a prolonged battle, he was prepared for the long haul.

However, today, his patience finally paid off. He spotted a young student emerging from Ya She, cradling a brocade box of moderate size. It took considerable persuasion—even revealing his identity as the museum curator—he managed to buy the item from the student.

What surprised him the most was that the student claimed to have paid only 50 yuan for the contents of the box. Even as the curator handed over the money, he found it difficult to believe. But not wanting to waste this golden opportunity, he didn’t even open the box to inspect its contents on the spot. Instead, he hurried back to the museum with the box in hand.

It was almost closing time, and the staff in the appraisal room had already returned to their offices, preparing to leave for the day. The curator carefully washed his hands, held his breath, and lifted the lid.

A blinding cold light greeted his eyes, and when the curator saw what lay inside, he nearly forgot to breathe.

Resting atop luxurious yellow silk was a bronze sword.

It shimmered with an intense cyan glow, emanating an unmistakable chill. Measuring just over 30 cm long, with a dark brown hue and a thick patina. There was little rust, and the surface was smooth and polished, faintly revealing a diamond-shaped pattern. 

The edge, honed to a razor’s sharpness, showed delicate grinding marks. The sword guard featured intricate beast-face carvings, with lapis lazuli inlaid on one side and turquoise on the other. Near the guard, eight inlaid gold characters in bird-worm script read: “King Goujian of Yue made this sword for his personal use.”

The curator’s mind reeled. He had never imagined that the brocade box contained none other than the legendary Sword of Goujian!

Years ago, a similar sword had been unearthed in Hubei, stunning the world with its immaculate preservation. Even after millennia, it remained so sharp that it could cut through 16 layers of fine paper with a mere flick of the wrist.

He had once observed that renowned sword up close. The craftsmanship, the design—everything about the blade before him was eerily identical. If not for the slight difference in size, he might have mistaken it for a replica.

But he knew better.

According to historical records like “Spring and Autumn Annals of Wu” and “Glory of Yue”, it was stated that when King Goujian of Yue sought dominance over the Central Plains, he commissioned the legendary swordsmith Ou Yezi of Longquan to forge five extraordinary blades. These swords—Zhanlu, Chunjun, Shengxie, Yuchang, and Juque—were said to be so sharp they could cleave iron as though slicing through mud. 

The phrase “three long, two short” originally described their composition—three long swords and two short ones—but later became a metaphor in native Chinese, signifying unexpected misfortune.

Given that five swords had been forged, who could say that only the one unearthed in Hubei still existed?

The curator felt his blood surge with excitement. Whether this sword was genuine or not, the truth would soon be revealed through careful analysis.

X-ray Imaging, Metallographic Analysis, X-ray Fluorescence, X-ray Diffraction—he conducted each test with the utmost care. The more he examined the precise data, the more astonished he became. No matter how he analyzed it, the results consistently proved that this sword was indeed forged over 2,000 years ago!

How was that possible?

Could he trust the precision of the instruments before him, or should he believe that a national treasure of this caliber had been sold for a mere 50 yuan?

This had to be some kind of joke.

The curator picked up the Sword of Goujian, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns on its surface. A moment of carelessness, and the razor-sharp edge nicked his fingertip. A bead of blood slid down the blade, its crimson hue striking against the bronze, creating an oddly mesmerizing sight that was impossible to look away from.

Despite the injury, he couldn’t bear to put the sword down. This bronze sword hadn’t tasted human blood in who knew how many years, and the scene before him was undeniably eerie.

Then, suddenly, the student’s words echoed in his mind, “When the boss gave this to me, the only thing he said was—don’t let it come into contact with human blood.”

The curator had initially scoffed at such superstition. Now, however, a flicker of unease crept into his thoughts. Then came a surge of anger.

The care and preservation of bronze swords were incredibly complex, and yet the shop owner had only mentioned this one thing!

Alone in the appraisal room, the curator gazed at the sword for a long time. When he finally glanced at the clock, it was already past 9:00 PM. No matter how reluctant he was, he had no choice but to return the sword to its brocade box.

A temporary storage room was located just next door.

Handling the artifact with the utmost care, he placed the box inside a secure safe, already planning his next steps. Tomorrow, he would invite a team of experts for further authentication. Once everything was confirmed, he would announce the discovery to the media.

It would undoubtedly cause a sensation, and there would be plenty of skepticism.

No one doubted the authenticity of The Sword of Goujian unearthed in Hubei because it was an indisputable archaeological find. But this sword had no excavation record and no official provenance; he would need to carefully craft its origin story.

One thing was certain, the source must never be revealed.

Although the owner’s son was currently running the shop while the owner himself was in Egypt, provoking him could lead to the shop’s closure. If that happened, who knew how long it would take for the countless treasures hidden within those walls to see the light of day again.

After locking the appraisal room, the curator, who should have headed straight home, found himself drawn to the museum’s exhibition halls.

It was already 9:00 PM. The museum had closed at 5:00 PM, and all staff had left by 5:30 PM. Only the security personnel remained.

Yet even the night guards no longer patrolled each floor with flashlights as they once did. The museum’s state-of-the-art surveillance system monitored every corner, its high-tech cameras recording everything with unwavering precision. The guards merely needed to sit in the control room, keeping watch over the live feeds.

The museum itself had been outfitted with the most advanced security measures in the country. Each tempered glass display case was equipped with motion-sensor lights. Normally, the cases were dimly lit, but as soon as someone approached, the lights would automatically brighten.

The museum curator walked along the exhibition route, his thoughts drifting as he moved. With each step, the glass display cases around him brightened in succession, casting a soft glow on the ancient relics within. As he passed, the lights dimmed once more, leaving the halls shrouded in silence.

The vast museum lay in utter stillness, the only sound the rhythmic tap of his cane against the marble floor.

Few would find discomfort in such solitude, especially at this hour, but to him, this was a moment of quiet reverence.

Though the museum housed countless artifacts, he knew each exhibit intimately, as if they were old acquaintances. He gazed at the artifacts within the glass cases with a fondness akin to a parent looking at their children. 

By the time he reached the second-floor ceramics exhibition hall, his mind had already composed the perfect narrative for the sword’s unveiling. 

His thoughts, however, soon strayed elsewhere, turning toward the antiques still languishing in Ya She. 

If he could acquire them one by one, where would he place them? 

Even that Song Dynasty green-white glazed porcelain plate had already found its spot in his imagination.

His ambitions stretched far beyond personal desire. From the moment he became fascinated with antiques, he had been voraciously collecting these cultural treasures that carried the essence of past lives. He wanted the world to see, to understand, to cherish them as he did.

That was why the sight of a damaged artifact never failed to wound him.

Every fragment lost was a chapter of history that could never be rewritten.

He halted before a grand Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar in the center of the ceramics hall. The vessel was enormous, large enough to fit a child inside. The fact that it had survived intact through the centuries was nothing short of a miracle. Though a visible chip marred the rim, it did little to diminish its value. 

After all, only about four hundred Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white pieces remained in the world, and a jar of this size was exceptionally rare.

It was this very jar that had brought him and that person together all those years ago.

Its beauty was so profound that even now recalling the moment he had found it within that tomb, he felt no regret over the injury he had sustained protecting it. Back then, in the ancient tomb, he had triggered a trap while trying to save the jar, leaving his right leg permanently impaired.

Almost without thinking, his hand reached out, fingertips longing to trace the delicate white jade glazed beneath the soft glow of the lights. Yet before he could touch it, his palm met the cold barrier of glass.

Reality settled over him. He had forgotten that this jar no longer belonged to him. It had long since been encased behind protective glass, displayed not in the intimacy of his own collection but in the museum.

A flicker of disappointment passed through him, but he quickly quelled it.

Though the antiques were beyond his reach, they were now preserved and maintained under the best conditions. Unlike Ya She, where they were carelessly stored and casually used—a true waste of precious artifacts.

The curator believed what he was doing right now was the right thing.

His lips curved into a faint smile, catching a glimpse of his wrinkled reflection in the glass. He couldn’t help but think that, years from now, these antiques would still be here, admired by countless visitors, while he would have long turned to dust.

Perhaps that was as it should be.

He lingered a moment longer before finally withdrawing his hand from the glass.

A sharp sting snapped him from his thoughts. A sharp pain shot through his finger, and he realized that the cut from the Sword of Goujian had never stopped bleeding. His left hand was now smeared with blood, and a bloody handprint stained the glass, looking eerily ominous in the dim light.

The curator quickly propped his cane against the wall and pulled out a handkerchief. Ignoring the wound on his left hand, he carefully wiped at the bloody handprint on the glass case. As he did, he chuckled to himself, imagining if he left it until morning, the museum staff would surely be scared out of their wits. That ridiculous list of the museum’s “Seven Museum Mysteries” would likely need to be updated to “Eight Museum Mysteries.”

Amused by his own thoughts, he continued wiping. But to his surprise, no matter how hard he scrubbed, the bloodstain refused to come off. Frowning, he adjusted his glasses and leaned in for a closer look. What he saw made his eyes widen in shock.

The bloody handprint was inside the glass.

Fresh crimson still glistened, sluggishly seeping downward along the inner surface under the glow of the display lights.

How was that possible?

A chill crawled up the curator’s spine as he stumbled back. The motion caused the display’s automatic lighting to dim, yet the handprint remained vividly visible. 

This was no illusion.

Screech—

Just as he was trying to process what he’d seen, a sharp, grating sound came from downstairs. It was faint, but in the vast, silent museum, it was unmistakable.

It sounded like metal scraping against the floor.

The curator’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest. He fumbled for his phone, only to find that there was no signal.

The museum’s reception was always unpredictable. Some claimed it was due to the electromagnetic fields emitted by the ancient relics, while others blamed the security system’s interference.

But of all times, why did it have to fail now? 

The curator cursed under his breath.

The strange sound from the first floor started again. This time, it was drawn out, growing louder and closer, as if someone were dragging a sword slowly across the floor.

The curator pressed the emergency call button on the wall, but nothing happened.

What was going on? 

He knew that emergency buttons were installed throughout the museum, and pressing one should trigger an alarm across the entire building. But since the museum’s opening, no one had ever actually tested them. 

Could it have broken from disrepair?

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have panicked so easily. But the bloodied handprint inexplicably appearing inside the glass case had already rattled him. Now, with that eerie sound from downstairs, his nerves were stretched to their limit.

The sound… It resembled the dragging of a bronze sword!

Could it be… the very Sword of Goujian he had just locked away in its brocade box?

But he had locked it in the safe, and only he knew the combination. How could a sword possibly unlock the safe and emerge on its own?

Yet he dared not go and confirm it. That sound held a sinister intent.

Something was terribly wrong. Everything about this night was wrong. At a time like this, the security guard in the monitoring room should have come out to investigate. But the museum remained silent, with not a soul in sight.

The priority now was to get to the monitoring room and check the surveillance footage.

The curator reached for his cane, but his hand grasped at nothing. At that moment, the strange sound had already climbed the central staircase and was making its way to the second floor—one deliberate step at a time.

Clang. 

Clang.

There was no time to fumble around in the dark for his cane. Stumbling forward, he steadied himself against the wall and made his way out of the exhibition hall. It should have taken him less than a minute to reach the elevator, but as he moved through the darkness, the motion-sensor lights flickered on and off in succession.

After what felt like an eternity, he realized he hadn’t found the elevator button. Instead, he had entered another exhibition hall.

Thinking he had rushed past his destination and entered the jade exhibition hall. But as he turned to look for the elevator, his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the artifacts in the hall, and he froze.

The hall before him was still the ceramics exhibition hall.

At the center of the room, beneath the dim glow of the display lights, the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar stood exactly as before, the bloody handprint still clearly visible.

The curator opened his mouth, but his parched throat failed to produce a single sound.

Screech—

The sound had reached the second floor. It paused, as if judging his location, then began moving steadily toward him.

The curator stood still for a moment, then gritted his teeth and continued forward. 

“It’s all an illusion!” he told himself.

Yet as he passed the porcelain jar, he spotted his cane lying abandoned on the floor. He had dropped it earlier. But now, he didn’t dare pick it up.

Screech—

The sound behind him seemed to have grown closer.

Cold sweat seeped down his back. Though the museum was sealed shut, an unnatural draft whispered through the halls, sending a chill deep into his bones. Despite his impaired leg, he moved faster than ever.

This time, he kept his hand against the wall, determined to reach the elevator. But instead of feeling the cold metal doors, he stumbled into yet another exhibition hall.

The Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar stood before him once more, bathed in that same ghostly glow.

Screech—

The curator’s breath caught in his throat. Then, like a man possessed, he began walking frantically again.

How was this possible?

Even if the museum was circular, there were four exhibition halls on this floor. There was no way he kept entering the same ceramics hall every time!

Screech—

That unrelenting sound followed him like a death knell, filling him with terror.

With nowhere to hide, he dragged his right leg forward with all his strength. Then, before he even realized it, he was standing in front of the porcelain jar once again.

His mind went blank.

Screech—

This time, the sound came from just behind him.

The curator reflexively turned around, but there was only darkness. He wanted to move, to take even a single step, but his body refused to obey. Frozen in place, the only part of him that could move was his eyes. He wanted to close them, to shut out whatever horror lurked in the shadows, but his eyes betrayed him, forced open wide.

The artifacts displayed within the glass cases, illuminated by their dim and spectral glow, now looked more like offerings on an altar.

A wave of terror, unlike anything he had ever felt, surged through him. He was clearly trapped in a “ghost wall” illusion—an invisible force trapping a person in an endless loop. 

But why here?

Was this still the museum?

It felt more like a tomb.

Screech—

The sound seemed to trigger the motion-sensor lights near the entrance of the exhibition hall.

One by one, the lights flickered on, then off again, as if someone—or something—were walking through. Yet, no figure was to be seen.

Then, he gasped.

On the smooth marble floor before him, a bronze sword emerged from the darkness.

It stood upright, as if held by an invisible hand, its razor-sharp tip dragging against the ground as it moved steadily toward him. Fresh blood dripped from the blade, leaving a trail of crimson on the marble floor.

At that moment, the student’s words echoed in his mind, “When the boss gave this to me, the only thing he said was—don’t let it come into contact with human blood.”

Suddenly, the sword flared with an icy brilliance. A powerful force surged outward, crashing into the curator like an invisible wave. The sheer intensity of it bore down on him, forcing him to his knees.

The curator’s face paled. He knew exactly what that sound meant.

It was the sound of glass shattering.

The museum’s display cases were made of the most advanced materials, capable of withstanding bullets. Yet, as if struck by an unseen force, every single one shattered in an instant. However, due to their high durability, the glass didn’t fall apart completely. Instead, it turned into a frosted, snowflake-like pattern, obscuring the view inside.

The curator stared in horror at the now-opaque glass cases, then panicked. If even the reinforced glass had shattered like this, what had happened to the porcelain inside?

Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to lift his trembling hand and reached toward the glass case of the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar.

Like a mirage breaking, the glass shattered at his touch. Thousands of fragments cascaded onto the marble floor, creating a hauntingly beautiful symphony of sound.

In this symphony of cascading glass, the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar stood quietly, its smooth, rounded surface gleaming under the dim exhibition lights.

The curator sucked in a sharp breath before exhaling in relief. Despite the carnage of glass around it, the porcelain had remained unscathed.

Mesmerized by the jar’s radiant glow under the light, he reached out to touch it. As his fingers made contact with the familiar surface, he closed his eyes, momentarily forgetting his dire situation.

Screech—

The sound came again, jolting the curator back to reality. When he opened his eyes, he realized his hand wasn’t touching the porcelain jar. Instead, he was gripping the hilt of the Sword of Goujian.

For a moment, he felt disoriented, then noticed his body felt lighter, as if he were floating.

He looked down in shock and saw his physical body still standing there, next to the blue-and-white porcelain jar, facing the eerie bronze sword.

Was it soul projection?

What was he doing?

The curator realized he had lost all control over his body. 

What was happening? 

His thoughts were sluggish, his mind was too cloudy to comprehend anything. He watched in horror as his own body picked up the Sword of Goujian, and without a moment’s hesitation, pressed it against his own throat!

The motion was slow but unwavering.

From his elevated perspective, the sheer unreality of it made him think he was dreaming. Yet deep in his heart, he knew with an undeniable clarity that this was real.

Desperation seized over as he struggled with all his might to re-enter his body. After several attempts, the sharp pain from the wound on his left hand had finally returned, filling him with a flicker of hope. 

He had succeeded!

But the moment his eyes snapped open, the gleaming edge of the blade was already upon him! His right hand, still beyond his control, was about to slash his own throat.

Just as despair nearly swallowed him whole, a pale, slender hand emerged from the darkness. With effortless grace, the hand caught the thin blade of the sword between its index and middle fingers.

The curator finally regained control of his body, collapsing to the floor in a cold sweat, gasping for breath.

“I knew something was wrong.” 

The voice, devoid of emotion, drifted from the shadows.

The curator wiped the sweat from his forehead. Although the Sword of Goujian had already been taken from his grasp, he had no desire to take it back.

What a joke. 

Experiencing the sensation of nearly killing himself was something he never wanted to experience again.

He steadied his breathing before finally looking up at the rescuer. Gratitude for the life-saving intervention flickered in his mind, but more than that, he wanted to ask how this person had entered a museum that had long since been sealed for the night.

But the moment he raised his head, his breath hitched.

The figure stood there with his head lowered, carefully examining the sword. In the dim light of the exhibition hall, the curator could only make out half of their face.

“You… it’s you… Weren’t you in Egypt?” the curator stammered. His voice was so hoarse that he barely recognized it as his own.

The man lifted his gaze slightly but didn’t answer. Instead, he continued scrutinizing the Sword of Goujian, as if deeply concerned about whether it had suffered any damage.

By now, the curator had regained his composure. It was only then that he noticed the young man holding the sword in front of him was surprisingly young—far too young to be the person he had initially thought.

It was the owner of Ya She.

The curator let out a quiet sigh of relief and tried to get to his feet, but his legs were still weak from the shock, leaving him unable to rise. He made no attempt to ask for help, refusing to show any further weakness to this young man.

Sitting was fine; it gave him time to recover. 

Though the encounter had been harrowing, his years of dealing with antiques had taught him that some things simply defied scientific explanation. He had long accepted that he might never fully understand them. 

Now that the young man had fallen silent, the curator knew better than to press for answers. Since the shop owner showed no intention of speaking, he simply crossed his legs and closed his eyes, intending to compose himself. 

He had recently learned some breathing techniques from a Taoist priest, originally intended for cultivating his health and temperament in old age. He never expected to use them first to calm his nerves.

“This Sword of Goujian was originally meant for personal protection.” The curator had only just closed his eyes when the young owner of Ya She suddenly spoke.

Surprised by the unexpected explanation, he opened his eyes again and looked up. The young owner was turning the enigmatic sword over in his hands, inspecting it with great care. The occasional glint of the blade’s edge reflected onto his face, accentuating the air of quiet menace about him.

“In truth, this sword that was meant for self-defense, rarely finds its purpose.” The young man’s gaze met the curator’s. His eyes, initially cold, softened as they fell on the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar beside him, memories from years ago flooding his mind.

The curator nodded. 

In the Spring and Autumn period, a ruler’s sword was often more symbolic than practical—a representation of power, a command over the land, or a symbol of status when bestowed upon subordinates. If a king’s personal sword was ever needed, it usually meant his guards had failed, or…

“Could it be that this was the very sword King Goujian used to take his own life?” the curator couldn’t help but interject, thinking of the recent near-suicide. But he quickly shook his head. “No, Goujian didn’t die by suicide.”

The young man’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Of course not. But Wen Zhong did.”

The curator froze, his mind instantly recalling the historical records.

Wen Zhong was a renowned strategist of the late Spring and Autumn period. One of King Goujian’s most trusted advisors, he and Fan Li were instrumental in leading Yue to victory over the King Fuchai of Wu. But after the fall of Wu, Wen Zhong grew complacent, believing his contributions were unmatched. 

Fan Li, foreseeing the danger, sent him a letter as a warning. “When the birds are gone, the good bow is put away; when the cunning hares are dead, the hunting dogs are cooked. The King of Yue is a man with a long neck and a bird’s beak; he can share adversity but not prosperity. Why do you not leave?”

Wen Zhong ignored the advice and was soon ordered by Goujian to commit suicide with a sword.

Ordered to commit suicide with a sword… ordered to commit suicide with a sword!

The curator blurted out, “Could this be that very sword?”

The young man narrowed his eyes slightly, his expression unreadable. Instead of answering directly, he said, “You’ve said it yourself—every antique has its own life. That’s not wrong. But I’m not hoarding these antiques. It’s just that every piece in Ya She has a soul.”

The curator braced himself against the wall and slowly got to his feet, listening in silence.

“Didn’t you also say that antiques have life?” the young man repeated, his tone slightly sharper.

The curator forced a wry smile. When he had said those words, he hadn’t meant it so literally.

The owner continued calmly, “Of course, I know we mean different things. Antiques are objects, but those that have endured for centuries carry more than just history. Each one is imbued with the craftsmanship of its maker and the emotions of those who owned it.” 

He continued, “Some remain inanimate, but many hold on to memories, attachments, or even desires. Like this sword. Its sole purpose is to protect its master in every lifetime. Anyone wounded by it is destined to die a tragic death. In a way, it’s a curse.”

The curator opened his mouth but found himself at a loss for words. 

Could it be that the young student was the current master of the Sword of Goujian? 

But how had the shop owner recognized him?

On what basis had the connection been made?

The owner was well aware of the curator’s doubts, but he felt no need to provide an explanation. He shifted the topic, saying, “I understand that for lifeless antiques, a museum is often their final resting place. But for those with unfulfilled obsessions or lingering wishes, simply placing them behind glass can be dangerous. No one can predict the consequences, especially when two conflicting artifacts are displayed in unsuitable positions. Remember, some things require more than just a protective case—they need careful guardianship. That’s why I am taking this sword back.”

The curator lowered his head in defeat. Whether or not the owner’s words were true, he knew that after tonight’s events, any attempt to acquire items from Yasu would require much deeper consideration.

The owner sighed lightly and said no more. The antiques in his shop were all like this—imbued with lingering obsessions.

For example, the ancient Han Dynasty mirror had lain quietly in its box for 2,000 years, waiting for its owner to reunite with his beloved. Though it eventually shattered, it had fulfilled its purpose by bringing them together. 

As for the bracelet once worn by the Fragrant Concubine, its wish remained unfulfilled. 

And then there was that candle, which had burned for centuries, silently shedding its tears of wax.

Of course, once these antiques had completed their wishes and still remained intact, he naturally donated them to museums. In fact, over the years, he had anonymously donated many pieces.

But to him, none of this required explanation. He had always acted according to his own will, and speaking so much tonight was already a rare exception, done out of respect for their past connection.

As the owner turned to leave, the curator suddenly felt a surge of unease and hurriedly called out, “You may take the sword, but what about the future? Will this sword ever…”

He wanted to ask whether the sword would ever come for his life again, but the question was too absurd. Even after all his years of experience, after seeing so much of the world, he couldn’t bring himself to voice it.

In his moment of hesitation, the owner was already walking away. As he retreated into the shadows, the embroidered red dragon on the back of his garment caught the curator’s eye. The sight of it made him freeze in place.

Years ago, that person had borne the same deep crimson dragon on his robes.

The curator’s mind buzzed. Without knowing why, he suddenly recalled the moment when he had first pushed open the doors of Ya She. It seemed the man had smiled and said something.

What had he said? 

Why couldn’t he remember?

The red dragon slithered into the darkness, its coiled form exuding a lifelike presence. From the shadows came a soft chuckle, “Don’t worry. The Sword of Goujian has its scabbard.”

The curator didn’t know that once the sword was returned to its scabbard, it would sleep for centuries.

All he knew was that he had finally remembered.

That day, when he had pushed open the heavy carved wooden doors, the man had paused for a moment, then smiled and said, “Long time no see.”

The curator stood in the darkness for a long, long time before finally finding the strength to move. He retrieved his cane from the corner.

But as he lifted his head again, he noticed that the exhibition hall was intact—no shattered glass case, no bloodstained handprint on the display for the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar, no trace of blood on the marble floor. Even the ornate brocade box that had once held the Sword of Goujian was missing from the security vault in the appraisal room.

Refusing to accept what he was seeing, he hurried to the surveillance room. There, he found the night guards inexplicably fast asleep. He didn’t rush to wake them, instead he chose to review the security footage alone.

To his shock, none of what he had experienced was recorded.

No bloody handprints, no Sword of Goujian, not even a mysterious owner appearing from nowhere.

All that the footage captured was a lone man, raving like a madman, performing a silent pantomime in the dead of night.

But the curator knew that everything that had happened was real.

Because the wound on his left hand, still untreated, continued to slowly bleed.