The Company

Chapter 6: Dumb Shop · King of Yue's Sword

"Welcome." The Boss looked up, pausing his polishing of the Porcelain Pillow when he saw who had entered.

The newcomer was a middle-aged man in his forties with sharply defined features, wearing gold-rimmed glasses perched on his high nose bridge. A few wrinkles etched across his forehead by time added to his scholarly demeanor. He leaned on a walking stick, apparently having some difficulty with his legs.

"Curator, long time no see." Though slightly surprised, the Boss maintained his trademark smile.

This visitor was the newly appointed museum curator of the city - the Boss had seen numerous interview reports about him in the newspapers.

Under the shop's dim lighting, the Curator stared at the Boss in shock. After a long silence, he murmured incredulously, "Over twenty years have passed, yet you haven't changed at all..."

The Boss's smile deepened.

The Curator, now 45, had graduated from a prestigious university's history department. After working at the local museum for over a decade, he had finally succeeded the previous curator early this year to become the new museum director. Truth be told, the Curator had no interest in these cold antiquities during his childhood. But one year in his teens, he encountered a very special person and experienced an incident that changed his entire life, making him irrevocably fall in love with antiques.

Yet he never expected that after all these years, that person's appearance would remain completely unchanged, still as youthful as over two decades ago.

But that was impossible, wasn't it?

Once his initial surprise faded, the Curator chuckled self-deprecatingly, "I must have mistaken you for someone else. I have an old friend whom you strongly resembled over twenty years ago."

The young Boss maintained his professional smile. Noticing that the Curator hadn't registered his earlier "long time no see" remark, he simply acted as if he'd never said it. Continuing along the Curator's line of thought, he said, "The person the Curator mentioned might be my father."

The Curator's eyes lit up. "Where might your esteemed father be now?"

"My father is currently traveling abroad. Recently he might have gone to Egypt, and probably won't return for some time." The young Boss smiled sincerely, his honest expression leaving no room for doubt.

"What a pity." The Curator adjusted his glasses regretfully. "This shop is newly opened, isn't it? I haven't heard of it before."

As the museum curator, he naturally kept abreast of all antique shops in the city, large and small. Although genuine priceless antiques rarely appeared in such shops these days, nothing was absolute. Tonight, while visiting a friend's house and passing through this commercial street, he had noticed this strangely named antique shop.

—Dumb Shop.

Antiques couldn't speak, yet they carried stories spanning centuries, with no one to listen... Quite similar to what that person used to say.

"It's been open for some time." The Boss smiled. He had operated this shop for at least two to three years, but due to its peculiar name, few realized it was an antique shop. Those who pushed open the door were already scarce, let alone regular customers.

But he hadn't opened this antique shop to make money anyway. Those destined to connect with antiques would eventually appear.He hadn't expected the Curator to push open the door of Dumb Shop tonight, causing the Boss to slightly furrow his brow. The Curator lifted his head and glanced around, dissatisfied with the dim lighting, adopting a tone of an elder lecturing a junior: "How can an antique shop remain open at night? Don't you know the rule 'no appraising under lamplight'?"

"No appraising under lamplight" was an unwritten rule in the antique trade. It meant antique shops should close after dark. Examining antiques under artificial light, which differed from natural sunlight, made it easy to mistake fakes for genuine pieces, whether buying or selling.

This was one reason he hadn't hesitated to enter when he saw the shop open. And upon finding such a young shopkeeper, his frown deepened.

Ultimately, he believed that understanding antiques required years of accumulated experience. The young man before him appeared barely twenty – utterly unreliable in his eyes.

Yet, years ago, the person he'd known had been about that age too...

Staring at the familiar face under the lamplight, the Curator felt momentarily dazed before shaking his head sharply.

He told himself: That person was different. Extraordinary.

The Boss continued smiling serenely. His antique shop wasn't really about selling goods anyway – opening and closing depended entirely on his whims. Though he never stayed in one place for many years, seeing someone from his past suddenly appear before him, aged beyond recognition with only faint traces of their former self, now speaking to him as a stranger – this was a novel experience.

The Curator scrutinized the shop's wares with extreme fastidiousness, his eyes naturally falling first upon the porcelain pillow the Boss was polishing on the counter.

"This is... a Yue ware celadon pillow," the Curator's eyes lit up as he bent down to carefully pick it up.

The body was gray clay, fine-textured and compact. The glaze was celadon, crystalline and lustrous like jade or ice. Leaf-vein patterns adorned its surface, and it felt cool to the touch. Based on the Curator's expertise, this pillow dated back to at least the Tang to Five Dynasties period. Judging by its color, it might even be the legendary "secret-color porcelain"!

So-called "secret-color porcelain" had long been documented only in Song Dynasty texts, described as ware exclusively commissioned by the Qian Kingdom of Wuyue in Hangzhou during the Five Dynasties period for imperial use, forbidden to commoners. Its glaze color remained as secret as its name suggested, with later generations only glimpsing its extraordinary elegance through poetry. Not until the 1980s, when a batch of secret-color porcelain bowls were excavated from Famen Temple Pagoda in Shaanxi's Fufeng County, did the world finally learn what true secret-color porcelain looked like.

And now he held in his hands a supreme example of Yue ware celadon.

The Curator felt his throat go dry.

He found nothing strange about such nationally-significant antiques appearing in this shop. Knowing that person as he did, even more precious treasures in this establishment wouldn't surprise him.

Because this was that person's shop.

Amused by the Curator's rapidly shifting expressions, the Boss sat back down. He lifted the boiling water from the red clay mini carbon stove and brewed two bowls of Dragon Well tea, quietly placing them before each of them.The Curator had now calmed down, his face stern as he set down the Porcelain Pillow. He picked up the teacup, inhaled the rich aroma of the tea, and with great effort shifted his gaze away from the porcelain pillow—only to realize that the cup in his hand was a Doucai Bell Cup! The Curator nearly lost all restraint, almost flipping the cup over to check the mark on its base. But the tea was too hot, so he tremblingly raised the cup higher, tilting his head to examine it.

Indeed! It was Doucai porcelain from the Chenghua era!

Heavens! Was he dreaming? How else could he be drinking tea from a cup that should only be lying in a museum display case for admiration?

The Curator’s face flushed red as he struggled to steady the cup and placed it back on the counter. Some tea had spilled, but he didn’t even feel the heat on his hand. He didn’t dare look around, simply lowering his head in deep thought.

“It’s just a cup,” the Boss said, picking up his own teacup, blowing gently on the tea foam with contentment, and taking a leisurely sip.

“No! It’s not just a cup!” the Curator suddenly erupted in anger, his brows furrowed as he glared and scolded, “Young man! What do you understand? The moment this cup was formed, it encapsulated the life and spirit of its era! It carries the elegance and vitality of that time! It has a life of its own!”

The Curator had always been very even-tempered—at least in recent years. In his youth, he had been quite hot-headed. It was only after immersing himself in the study of antiques that his temper gradually settled. Yet, within less than ten minutes of stepping into this antique shop tonight, he found himself unable to control his anger again.

Like a powder keg, the slightest spark had set him off.

“Yes, they all have lives of their own,” the young Boss replied, seemingly unbothered by being scolded so harshly. In fact, he rather missed the Curator’s fiery temper—he had witnessed it many times in the past. “Good, it’s good that you can grasp that.”

The Curator froze on the spot. At his age, few people spoke to him in such a lecturing tone. Hearing it so unexpectedly, he could hardly believe his ears.

Especially coming from such a young fellow.

The Boss leisurely finished the tea in his cup, then used a basin to cover the small charcoal stove, extinguishing the embers inside. “I’m sorry, but if you wish to view antiques, please come another day. I’m closing the shop now.”

Ignoring the Boss’s hint to leave, the Curator said sternly, “Young man, the antiques in your shop don’t deserve to gather dust in this dim place.”

The Boss raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He stood up, wiped the celadon porcelain pillow on the counter, and carefully placed it back into the Brocade Box. “They should be in a museum, displayed for the world to see! So people can appreciate the splendor of our ancestors’ civilization!” the Curator urged in a highly persuasive tone. “You should donate them all to the state. That is the ultimate destiny for such antiques!”

The Boss smiled faintly but still did not respond. Holding the Brocade Box, he turned and walked into the inner room.The Curator frowned, his tone growing three degrees sharper. "Since you refuse to donate it, let's calculate its market value. I'll apply for national and provincial cultural relic funds, or I have some personal savings..." His voice suddenly trailed off as he finally noticed the various antiques displayed on the shop's shelves. With just a glance—despite his poor eyesight—he could already make out the Song Qingbai Glaze Plate and what appeared to be a Ming Dynasty Xuande-era Sacrificial Red Plate.

The Curator suddenly felt his heart wasn't doing too well. He didn't dare look further, afraid of more shocks, yet his eyes kept wandering involuntarily.

Under the dim light of the Changxin Palace Lantern, the Curator found himself holding his breath, terrified that even a slightly stronger exhale might shatter the fragile antiques surrounding him.

The Boss had just finished arranging the Porcelain Pillow and emerged quietly from behind the screen, wearing a faint smile. "Sorry, I'm not interested. Please leave, Curator."

The Curator instantly flared up! Did this young man not understand? Many of the antiques here could qualify as national-level cultural relics! Trading such artifacts was strictly prohibited—all he needed was to authenticate them and file a report to have him arrested for cultural relic trafficking! The Curator opened his mouth but swallowed his furious words without uttering a sound.

"I'll be back!" The Curator stomped his cane hard and limped out the door.

The Boss stood in the shadows, watching through a crack in the window as the Curator stumbled away with uneven steps, his gaze lingering for a long time.

"By the way, has there been a cane-wielding, gold-rimmed-glasses-wearing uncle loitering around your shop these past few days?" The Doctor had recently become obsessed with triple-delight dumplings from the restaurant next door. Every night after work, he'd buy two portions to go and bring them directly to Dumb Shop to eat. Having company always made meals more enjoyable than eating alone.

The Boss raised an eyebrow and set down his chopsticks, looking genuinely surprised. "You've seen him? You haven't run into him during your visits lately, have you?" The Curator had been making daily appearances, repeating the same arguments from that first day.

The Doctor gave him a strange look. "That's because he stopped me outside the antique shop and questioned me in detail about whether I'd bought anything here, and about this shop."

The Boss narrowed his eyes and elegantly wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

Unaware of the Boss's darkening mood, the Doctor mumbled through a mouthful of dumplings, "That uncle's really weird, and his questions were strange too. Where did you even meet such an odd character?"

Distracted by other thoughts, the Boss answered absently, "Oh, we met back when I used to tomb raid."

The Doctor nearly choked, unable to tell if the Boss was joking. He hurriedly took a sip of tea, then suddenly remembered something and stammered, "Then... that Porcelain Pillow you lent me last time..."

"Of course it was excavated. How else do you think it got here?" The Boss smiled faintly.

Clatter! The Doctor's chopsticks fell onto the table, but he made no move to pick them up.

Ex...excavated? That... that meant... the pillow was originally meant for the dead... The Doctor fell silent, staring at the remaining half-plate of dumplings, his appetite completely gone.The curator, clutching a brocade box, practically jogged all the way back to the museum.

The museum staff exchanged knowing smiles, guessing their curator had likely acquired another rare antique.

Without even returning to his office, the curator headed straight for the artifact appraisal room. For days, he had been stationed at the teahouse opposite Dumb Shop. Since the young Boss refused to sell him anything, his only option was to approach from the customers' perspective.

Initially, he had hired people to pose as customers at Dumb Shop, but the Boss proved exceptionally peculiar—he wouldn't sell anything to anyone. Left with no alternatives, the curator resorted to waiting like a farmer hoping a rabbit would dash into a tree trunk. After several days of surveillance, Dumb Shop hadn't made a single sale—which wasn't surprising, as antique shops often operated on the principle of "three years without business, but one deal sustains three years." He had prepared for a protracted battle.

Today, however, his persistence finally paid off. He spotted a young student emerging from Dumb Shop carrying a medium-sized brocade box. After extensive persuasion and even revealing his identity as the museum curator, he managed to purchase the item from the student.

What astonished him most was the student's claim that the contents of the box had cost only fifty yuan. While handing over the payment, the curator could hardly believe it. Not wanting to waste this golden opportunity, he didn't even open the box on the spot but hurried back to the museum with it clutched tightly.

It was nearly closing time, and the appraisal staff had already returned to their offices to prepare to leave. The curator meticulously washed his hands, held his breath, and lifted the lid of the brocade box.

A dazzling cold gleam met his eyes, and when he clearly saw the contents, he nearly forgot to breathe.

Lying serenely on luxurious yellow silk was a bronze sword.

The sword emitted a blinding blue-green radiance, its chill palpable. The blade, about thirty centimeters long, was dark brown with a thick, smooth patina and minimal rust. Its surface was glossy, faintly revealing diamond-shaped patterns. The edge showed fine grinding marks and was exceptionally sharp. The guard featured beast-face motifs, adorned with lapis lazuli on one side and turquoise on the other. Near the hilt, eight inlaid gold bird-script characters read: "For the personal use of Goujian, King of Yue."

The curator never imagined that the brocade box would contain the Bronze Sword of Goujian, King of Yue! Years earlier, Hubei had unearthed a world-renowned Yue king sword, which, upon discovery, could slice through sixteen layers of paper with minimal force—its sharpness undiminished by time.

The curator had once viewed that Yue king sword up close. In style and appearance, it closely resembled the one before him. Were it not for the difference in size, he might have mistaken this for a replica.

But he knew better: when Goujian, King of Yue, marched north to the Central Plains and assembled the feudal lords, he briefly dominated as a hegemon. According to Records of the States of Wu and Yue and Yue Jue Shu, Goujian commissioned the master swordsmith Ou Yezi from Longquan to forge five precious swords. Their names were Zhanlu, Chunjun, Shengxie, Yuchang, and Juque—all legendary blades capable of slicing through iron like mud. Since three were long swords and two were short, they became known as the "three long and two short," a phrase that later evolved into an idiom for unexpected disaster.

Given that five swords were forged, who could claim only the one unearthed in Hubei survived?The Curator felt as if all the blood in his body was boiling. Whether it was real or fake, as long as he remained steadfast, the truth would soon come to light.

X-ray images, metallographic analysis, fluorescence energy spectrometer diffraction... The Curator carefully conducted various tests. The more he looked at the precise data from the analyses, the more astonished he became—because no matter how he analyzed it, the results consistently proved that this sword was indeed manufactured over two thousand years ago!

How could this be possible?

The Curator couldn't believe the results from the sophisticated instruments in front of him, nor could he accept that such a top-tier national treasure had been sold by that Boss for a mere fifty yuan!

This... What kind of joke was this?

The Curator picked up the Yue King Sword and reached out to caress its exquisite patterns. In a moment of carelessness, his finger was cut by the sharp blade. A drop of blood slowly slid down the bluish-glinting edge, creating an indescribable beauty that was hard to look away from.

Although injured, the Curator still couldn't bear to put down the precious sword. This bronze sword hadn't tasted human blood for who knows how many years, and the scene appeared eerily unsettling.

At that moment, he suddenly recalled the words of that student from earlier: "The only thing the Boss said when he gave me this was, 'Don't let it touch human blood.'"

The Curator initially scoffed at this but then suddenly grew very angry.

The preservation and maintenance of bronze swords are incredibly complex, and that Boss had only given this one warning!

After admiring the sword alone in the appraisal room for a long time, the Curator noticed the wall clock had already struck nine. Reluctant as he was, he had to return the Yue King Sword to its brocade box. Next to the appraisal room was a temporary artifact storage room.

The Curator carefully placed the brocade box into the safe while mentally planning to invite several experts for further appraisal tomorrow. Only after everything was confirmed would he announce the news to the media.

It would undoubtedly cause a huge sensation and certainly attract multiple voices of doubt. No one doubted the authenticity of the Yue King Sword from Hubei because it was a genuine excavated artifact. But as for the origin of this sword... he needed to carefully consider how to explain it.

The Curator knew that person's antique shop must never be exposed. Although it was currently being managed by his son while he himself was far away in Egypt, if angered, he might simply close the shop and leave. Then, who knows when those rare antiques filling the shop would ever see the light of day again. After locking the appraisal room door, the Curator, who should have gone straight home, couldn't resist changing direction and heading toward the museum's exhibition halls.

It was already nine in the evening. The museum had closed at five, and all staff had left by 5:30. Only security personnel remained in the museum. Even the night guards no longer patrolled floor by floor with flashlights as they used to, because high-tech cameras installed throughout the museum faithfully recorded everything. The guards only needed to sit in the monitoring room and keep an eye on the surveillance feeds.

This museum employed the most advanced domestic technology. Each tempered glass display case containing artifacts was equipped with automatic sensor lights. Normally, the cases were dimly lit, but whenever someone approached a display case, the lights would automatically brighten.The Curator walked slowly along the exhibition route, lost in thought. As he moved, the glass display cases beside him lit up one by one, only to dim again as he passed.

In the pitch-black, empty museum, a deathly silence prevailed. The only sound was the rhythmic tapping of his cane against the marble floor.

Anyone else would likely dread being alone in a museum at night, but for the Curator, this was his most cherished moment.

The museum was vast, yet the Curator knew every exhibition hall and every artifact like the back of his hand. He gazed affectionately at the relics inside the glass display cases, as if looking at his own children. By the time he ascended from the first floor to the porcelain exhibition hall on the second floor, he had already formulated how to publicly announce the origins of the Yue King's sword. His thoughts then shifted entirely to the antiques in the Dumb Shop, pondering how to bring every single one of them to the museum. He even began considering where to place that Song Dynasty Bluish-White Glazed Porcelain Plate.

The Curator's aspirations were grand. From the day he became enamored with antiques, he had voraciously collected these artifacts that embodied the cultural life of past generations. He loved them himself and wanted others to love them too.

Thus, whenever he saw damaged antiques, his heart ached intensely.

Nowadays, if one of these antiques shattered, it was gone forever.

The Curator paused before a large Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar in the center of the porcelain exhibition hall. The jar was so sizable it could easily accommodate a five- or six-year-old child. Its preservation in such a complete state was remarkable, and though there was a noticeable chip on the rim, it did not diminish its immense value. It was worth noting that only about four hundred Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain pieces remained in existence, and a jar of this magnitude was particularly rare.

This jar was the very one he had acquired when he first met that person... So exquisite was it that even though he had triggered a trap in the tomb while protecting the jar, leaving his right leg permanently impaired, he held not a single regret.

Lost in thought, the Curator instinctively reached out to touch the jade-like glaze shimmering under the lights, but his left hand met a layer of glass first.

He snapped back to reality, realizing he had forgotten once again that the jar was no longer displayed in his home but was encased in glass within the museum.

A wave of melancholy washed over him, but he quickly composed himself. Though these antiques could no longer be handled directly in the museum, they received the finest protection and restoration. Unlike the Dumb Shop, where they were irresponsibly piled up and casually used—a sheer waste of precious artifacts.

Therefore, what he was doing was undoubtedly the right path.

The Curator smiled, catching a glimpse of his wrinkled reflection in the glass case. He couldn't help but think that years from now, these antiques would still be on display for all to admire, while he would have long turned to dust...

Yet, that seemed perfectly acceptable.

After a long moment of reverie, the Curator withdrew his hand from the glass. A sharp pain shot through his finger, and he noticed that the wound from the Yue King's sword had never stopped bleeding. His left hand was now smeared with blood, leaving a gruesome, bloody handprint on the glass that looked particularly eerie in the night.

Hastily leaning his cane against the wall, the Curator pulled out a handkerchief. Instead of tending to the wound on his left hand, he meticulously wiped the bloodstained print from the glass. As he cleaned, he chuckled to himself, thinking that if he left the handprint untouched until morning, it would likely terrify the museum staff. Their so-called "Seven Mysteries of the Museum" would probably become eight.

In good spirits, the Curator continued wiping, but to his surprise, the bloody handprint refused to fade. Frowning, he adjusted his glasses and leaned in for a closer look. When he finally saw clearly, his eyes widened in shock.Because that bloody handprint had actually appeared on the inside of the glass case! The blood wasn't even dry yet, glowing eerily under the lights inside the display case as it slowly trickled down the glass.

How could this be possible!

The Curator stumbled backward in fright. The lights in the glass display dimmed as he moved away, yet the bloody handprint remained clearly visible—this was definitely not his imagination.

"Screech—"

Just as he was recovering from the shock, a sharp sound suddenly came from downstairs. Though faint, it was distinctly audible in the vast, silent museum.

It sounded like a sharp object being dragged across the floor.

The Curator's heart nearly leaped out of his chest. He frantically pulled out his phone, only to find no signal.

The mobile signal in the museum was always intermittent—some said it was due to electromagnetic effects from the ancient artifacts themselves, while others blamed the museum's security equipment.

But of all times, there was no signal now. The Curator cursed under his breath.

The strange sound from the first floor started up again. This time, it was drawn out, approaching from a distance, as if... as if someone were slowly dragging a sword across the floor.

The Curator reached out and pressed the emergency call button on the wall, but there was no response.

What's going on? The Curator knew these buttons were installed throughout the museum—pressing one should trigger alarms across the entire building. But the emergency button had never been used since the museum's establishment. Had it broken from disrepair over the years?

The Curator shouldn't have been this panicked, but the bloody handprint inexplicably appearing inside the glass case had already shaken him to the core. Combined with the strange sound from downstairs, he could no longer maintain normal judgment. The sound resembled that of a bronze sword! Could it be... could it be the Sword of King Goujian of Yue that he had just placed in the brocade box?

But he had clearly stored it in the safe—the safe's combination was known only to him. And how could a sword possibly open the safe and walk out on its own? Yet he didn't dare rush over to investigate; the sound itself felt malicious.

Something was wrong—everything felt off! Under normal circumstances, the security guards from the monitoring room should have appeared by now, but the museum remained deathly quiet, with no one in sight.

The priority should be to check the surveillance screens in the monitoring room.

The Curator reached for his cane but found nothing. Meanwhile, the strange sound was already climbing the stairs to the second floor, step by step, through the central hall.

"Clang, clang..."

There was no time to fumble for the cane in the dark. Staggering, the Curator leaned against the wall and made his way out. It should take less than a minute to reach the elevator from this exhibition hall, but as he hurried through the darkness, motion-sensor lights flickered on and off around him. After what felt like a long run, he realized he hadn't found the elevator button—instead, he had entered another exhibition hall.

Thinking he had moved too quickly and reached the next jade exhibition hall, the Curator was about to turn back to find the elevator when a glimpse of the artifacts in the hall from the corner of his eye sent a jolt through him.

The hall before him was still the porcelain exhibition hall! At its center, the bloody handprint on the glass case of the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar was unmistakably visible.

The Curator's mouth fell open, but his parched throat produced no sound.

"Screech—"The sound had smoothly reached the second floor, pausing only briefly as if judging his location before accurately heading toward him.

The Curator froze for a moment, then gritted his teeth and continued forward. It’s all an illusion! he told himself.

But when he passed the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar and saw the cane he had dropped earlier lying on the floor, he didn’t dare step forward to pick it up.

"Scrape—"

The sound behind him seemed to have drawn a little closer.

Cold sweat seeped from the Curator’s back. A sudden, eerie wind swept through the sealed museum, sending chills down his spine. His legs, usually unsteady, now moved faster than ever.

This time, the Curator felt his way along the wall but didn’t find the elevator door he expected. Instead, he stumbled into another exhibition hall.

The Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar stood silently under a faint glow.

"Scrape—"

The Curator was stunned, then began walking forward like a madman. How could this be? Even if the museum were circular, with four exhibition halls on this floor, it was impossible for him to enter the porcelain hall every time!

"Scrape—"

The relentless sound behind him felt like a death curse, terrifying the Curator. With nowhere to hide, he desperately dragged his right leg forward. Soon enough, he found himself standing before the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar once more.

The Curator’s mind went blank.

"Scrape—"

This time, the sound came from just behind him. The Curator reflexively turned around, but there was only darkness. He tried to take a step but found no strength in his body. Frozen in place, only his eyes could still move. He wanted to shut them, but they defied his will, staying wide open.

The artifacts on the glass display stands, bathed in a faint glow, looked more like offerings on an altar.

A sudden dread seized the Curator’s heart—a terror he had never felt before. He was clearly trapped in a "ghost wall," but why here? Was this still a museum? It felt more like a tomb.

"Scrape—"

As if triggered, the glass display stands near the hall’s entrance lit up one by one, then dimmed again. It was as if someone—or something—had walked in. Yet the Curator saw nothing.

Then he gasped—a bronze sword emerged from the darkness on the marble floor, its cold gleam piercing his eyes.

The Curator panted heavily, his gaze fixed on the sword. It stood upright as if held by an invisible hand, its tip dragging slowly across the floor as it moved toward him. Fresh blood dripped continuously from the slender, sharp blade, leaving a deep crimson trail on the marble.

The young student’s words suddenly echoed in the Curator’s mind: "When the Boss sold this to me, the only thing he said was, 'It must never touch human blood.'"

Abruptly, the sword’s glow intensified. A fierce energy slammed into the Curator, pressing him down until he nearly knelt. At the same time, a crisp cracking sound echoed around him.

The Curator’s face paled—he knew exactly what that sound meant.

—It was the sound of shattering glass displays.The museum's glass was made of the most advanced materials, capable of potentially withstanding bullets, yet at this moment, it seemed to have been struck simultaneously by some heavy object, shattering instantly. However, due to its excellent flexibility, all the glass cases turned into a frosted, snowflake-like texture without collapsing. Yet, being shattered to such an extent made it even harder to see inside the cases.

The Curator first looked around in confusion at the now-opaque glass cases, then turned pale with shock. If even the high-strength glass had ended up like this, what about the porcelain inside?

Gritting his teeth, the Curator struggled to raise his hand and reached out toward the glass case of the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar beside him.

Like an illusion being shattered, the glass case disintegrated at the Curator's touch, countless fragments clamoring and dancing as they scattered across the marble floor, producing an exquisitely beautiful sound of impact.

In this symphony celebrating freedom, the pristine, rounded form of the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar was quietly exposed to the air once more.

The Curator gasped sharply, then let out a long, relieved sigh. Despite the glass case's tragic shattering, the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar inside remained completely unharmed.

As he gazed at the alluring glow of the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar under the lights, he couldn't resist reaching out to touch it. Feeling the familiar texture at his fingertips once again, the Curator forgot his surroundings entirely, closing his eyes with a smile.

"Zzzzt—"

That sound echoed again. The Curator's eyes snapped open, only to discover that his hand wasn't touching the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar but rather the hilt of the Yue King's Sword!

The Curator felt disoriented for a moment, then sensed his body becoming much lighter, as if he were floating upward.

He looked down in astonishment, only to find his physical body still standing there perfectly intact. Beside it was the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar, and in front of it was that eerie Yue King's Sword.

Was this a soul separation?

What was he doing? The Curator realized he no longer had the power to control his own body. What was happening? His muddled mind could no longer form coherent thoughts, because he clearly saw his own body pick up the Yue King's Sword, turn the blade, and without a moment's hesitation, draw it across its own neck!

The movement was slow but resolute.

All of this was witnessed by the Curator from above, the surreal feeling making him think he was dreaming. Yet deep in his heart, he clearly knew... this was all real!

Frantically, he tried to rush back into his body. After several attempts, the stinging pain from the wound on his left hand returned first, filling him with joy—he had actually succeeded.

But when he opened his eyes, all he saw was the cold glint of the sharp blade! His right hand wasn't fully under his control yet, and before his eyes, the sharp sword edge was about to slice through his throat—

Just as the Curator was nearly overcome with despair, a slender, pale hand emerged from the darkness, deftly pinching the thin blade of the Yue King's Sword between its index and middle fingers.

At that moment, the Curator finally regained control of his body, collapsing to the ground drenched in sweat, panting heavily.

"I knew something was wrong." An unreadable voice, neither pleased nor angry, drifted calmly from the darkness.

The Curator wiped the sweat from his forehead. The Yue King's Sword in his hand had been taken by the newcomer, but he didn't have the slightest desire to retrieve it.Joking aside, he had no desire to experience killing himself a second time.

The Curator steadied his breathing before looking up at the newcomer. While he wanted to thank the person for saving his life, he was more curious about how they had entered the museum after it had been closed for the night. But when he lifted his head, he froze completely.

The newcomer was bowing their head, carefully examining the sword in their hands. Under the dim, faint lighting 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. As soon as he spoke, he realized his voice was hoarse beyond recognition.

The newcomer slightly raised their eyelids but didn’t answer the question. Instead, they inspected the Yue King Sword even more meticulously, as if deeply concerned about any potential damage to the blade.

By now, the Curator had fully regained his composure and realized that the man standing before him, holding the Yue King Sword, was surprisingly young—far too young to be the person he had thought it was.

So it was the Boss from Dumb Shop.

The Curator breathed a sigh of relief and tried to stand up again, only to find his legs still weak from the fright, leaving him momentarily unable to rise. He didn’t ask for help, unwilling to show weakness in front of this young man.

Sitting was fine; it would give him more time to rest. Though the situation had been extremely perilous, having dealt with antiques for many years, he knew there were things even science couldn’t explain. He didn’t expect to understand everything in this lifetime. So when the other remained silent, he tactfully refrained from pressing further. Seeing that the Boss showed no intention of speaking, the Curator simply sat cross-legged, planning to close his eyes and rest. He had recently learned a few breathing exercises from a Taoist priest, originally intending to cultivate his mind and body in his old age. He never expected they would first come in handy to calm his nerves.

"This Yue King Sword was originally used by Goujian for self-defense," the young Boss suddenly spoke up, just as the Curator closed his eyes.

Startled, the Curator opened his eyes and looked up at him. The young Boss was fiddling with the eerie Yue King Sword, turning it over and examining it closely. The occasional glint of light reflecting off the blade illuminated his face, adding to the air of solemnity around him.

"In truth, a king’s sword for self-defense seldom sees actual use," the Boss said, glancing at the Curator. His gaze, initially icy, softened as it fell upon the Yuan Dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar beside him, stirring memories from years past.

The Curator nodded. During the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, the swords of kings and nobles often held more symbolic meaning—representing authority to command the world or status to bestow upon subordinates. If a king’s self-defense sword ever had to be used, it would mean either his guards had failed him, or...

"Could this sword have been used by the Yue King to commit suicide?" the Curator couldn’t help but interject, thinking back to the near-suicidal incident moments earlier. But he immediately shook his head. "No, Goujian didn’t die by suicide."

A faint smile curled at the corner of the Boss’s lips. "Goujian certainly didn’t, but Wen Zhong did."

The Curator was taken aback, and historical facts immediately sprang to mind.Wen Zhong, a renowned strategist of the late Spring and Autumn period. As a trusted advisor to King Goujian of Yue, he and Fan Li contributed greatly to Goujian's eventual defeat of King Fuchai of Wu. After the fall of Wu, believing his achievements to be extraordinary, Wen Zhong received a secret letter from Fan Li warning: "When the flying birds are gone, the good bow is stored away; when the cunning hares are dead, the hunting dog is cooked. The King of Yue has a long neck and beak like a bird—he can share hardships but not prosperity. Why don't you leave?" Wen Zhong failed to heed this 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 exclaimed, "Could this be that very sword?"

The Boss narrowed his eyes mysteriously, not directly answering the question. "You've said it yourself—every antique has its own life, and that's true. Actually, I'm not holding onto these antiques arbitrarily. It's just that every artifact in the Dumb Shop possesses a soul."

The Curator stood up leaning against the wall, listening silently.

"Haven't you also said that antiques have life?" The Boss raised his eyebrows slightly, his tone intensifying.

The Curator smiled wryly. When he'd said those words, he never imagined these things could truly be alive!

The Boss said calmly, "Of course, I know we mean different things by that. Though antiques are merely objects, having existed for hundreds or thousands of years, each piece embodies the craftsman's dedication and the user's emotions. Some may lack consciousness, but many have developed obsessions or wishes—like this Yue King Sword. Its desire is to protect its master in every lifetime. Anyone wounded by it is fated to die tragically. In a way, it's a curse."

The Curator opened his mouth but found no words. Could that young student be the current master of the Yue King Sword? But how did he recognize it? What confirmed it?

The Boss understood the Curator's doubts but saw no need to explain further. Changing the subject, he said, "I also know that for antiques without consciousness, museums are generally their final resting place. But for those with unfulfilled obsessions or wishes, simply placing them in museums can be very dangerous. No one knows what consequences might arise, especially when two conflicting artifacts are positioned inappropriately. Remember, some things need not just glass cases for protection but also caring hands. So, I'm taking this sword back."

The Curator felt dejected. Whether the Boss's words were true or not, he knew that after tonight's events, any future attempts to acquire items from the Dumb Shop would require much deeper consideration.

The Boss sighed softly and said no more. The antiques in his shop were all of this kind—imbued with obsessions. For instance, that Han Dynasty mirror lay silently in its box for two thousand years, all so its owner could meet his beloved. Though it eventually shattered, it fulfilled its wish by reuniting the lovers. As for Xiang Fei's bracelet, its wish remains unfulfilled to this day. And that incense candle, burning for centuries, still quietly sheds its wax tears...

Naturally, when these antiques fulfill their wishes and remain intact, he donates them to museums. In fact, over the years, he has anonymously donated many such pieces.However, the Boss felt no need to explain any of this to anyone. He had always acted on impulse, and the fact that he had spoken so much with this person tonight was solely out of regard for their past relationship—already an exceedingly rare occurrence.

Seeing the Boss turn to leave, the Curator suddenly felt uneasy and hurriedly asked, "You can take this sword, but what about the future? Will this sword still..." He wanted to ask if it would still come for his life, but the question was too absurd. Despite having lived so long and witnessed so much, the Curator still couldn't bring himself to voice it.

In his hesitation, the Boss had already turned to leave. The crimson dragon coiled on the back of his clothing suddenly caught the Curator's eye, startling him into a daze.

That person from many years ago had also borne this same deep red dragon.

The Curator's mind buzzed. For some reason, he suddenly remembered that day when he pushed open the door of the Dumb Shop, and that person seemed to have said something with a smile.

What exactly had been said? Why couldn't he remember?

The red dragon gradually faded into the darkness, claws bared and mane flying, as if alive. Then, a light laugh came from the darkness: "Don't worry, this Yue King's sword has a scabbard."

The Curator naturally didn't know that if this Yue King's sword were returned to its scabbard, it would sleep for several hundred more years.

All he knew was that he had remembered.

That day, after he pushed open the heavy carved door, that person had paused for a moment before smiling and saying to him: "Long time no see..."

The Curator stood in the darkness for a long, long time before finally finding the strength to move his body and retrieve his cane from the corner.

When he looked up again, he found no shattered glass case in the exhibition hall, no bloody handprint on the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar's display case, no bloodstains on the marble floor, and not even the brocade box containing the Yue King's sword in the identification room's safe.

Still unwilling to accept this, the Curator entered the monitoring room only to find the security guard on duty unusually fast asleep. Instead of waking them immediately, he pulled up that night's surveillance footage alone, only to discover that none of the events he had experienced had been recorded.

No bloody handprint, no Yue King's sword, and certainly no mysteriously appearing Boss.

In the completely silent footage, only he appeared, acting out a mime like a madman.

But the Curator knew that all of it had truly happened.

Because on his left hand, the untreated wound was still slowly seeping blood...

(End of Chapter)