Ya She

Chapter 6 The Silent Shop - The Sword of King Yue

"Welcome." The owner looked up, and when he saw the person who walked in, he stopped wiping the porcelain pillow.

The man who entered was a man in his forties, with a well-defined face and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his high-bridged nose. The years had etched wrinkles on his forehead, adding to his refined and scholarly air. He leaned on a cane, indicating that he had some difficulty walking.

"Manager, it's been a long time." Although somewhat surprised, the boss still wore his signature smile.

The man who came in is the newly appointed director of the city's museum. The owner had seen many interviews and reports about him in the newspaper.

The curator stared at the owner in shock under the dim light of the shop. After a long, long time, he murmured in disbelief, "More than twenty years have passed, and you haven't changed a bit..."

The boss's smile deepened.

The curator is 45 years old and a graduate of a prestigious university with a degree in history. He worked at the local museum for over ten years before finally succeeding the old curator as the new curator at the beginning of this year. Actually, the curator had no interest in these cold, hard antiquities when he was a child, but in his teens, he met a very special person and experienced a life-changing event, which led him to develop an incurable love for antiques.

But to his surprise, when they met again after many years, the man's appearance had not changed at all; he was still as young as he had been more than twenty years ago.

But that's impossible, isn't it?
After the initial surprise subsided, the curator chuckled self-deprecatingly and said, "I might have mistaken you for someone else. I have a friend I haven't seen in a long time. He looked a lot like you more than 20 years ago."

The young boss, still sporting his formulaic smile, noticed that the curator hadn't noticed his earlier "long time no see," and simply assumed he hadn't said it. He then continued, following the curator's lead, "The person the curator was referring to might be my father."

The curator's eyes lit up. "Where is your father?"

"My father is currently traveling abroad, he recently went to Egypt, and he probably won't be back for a while," the young boss said with a smile, his honesty leaving no room for doubt.

"Oh, that's a real shame." The curator pushed up his glasses with regret. "Is this a newly opened shop? I've never heard of it before."

As the museum curator, he naturally knew all the antique shops in the city, big and small. Although these days, it's rare to find truly priceless antiques in these shops, there's always a limit. Tonight, while visiting a friend, he stumbled upon this oddly named antique shop as he walked along this commercial street.

——The Silent Shop.

Antiques cannot speak; they all carry stories from thousands of years, but no one listens… This is quite like the phrase that person always says.

"It's been open for a while now," the owner chuckled. He'd been running the shop for at least two or three years, but because of its unusual name, many people hadn't realized it was an antique shop. Very few people actually walked in, let alone the regular customers who always came back.

However, he didn't open the antique shop here to make money; people who are destined for antiques will appear sooner or later.

The owner was surprised that the curator would open the door to the Silent Shop tonight, which made him frown slightly. The curator looked around with his head held high, dissatisfied with the dim lighting, and said in a tone of a senior lecturing a junior, "How can an antique shop be open at night? Don't you know what 'one cannot judge a book by its cover' means?"

"Don't judge antiques under lamplight" is an unwritten rule in the antique shop industry. This means that antique shops close after dark. Examining antiques under artificial light, which is not natural light, makes it easy to be fooled into buying or selling fakes.

This is one of the reasons why he pushed open the door to the antique shop without hesitation, and he frowned even more after seeing that the owner was so young.

Ultimately, he still felt that antiques couldn't be truly understood without years of accumulated knowledge. The young man in front of him looked to be no more than twenty years old, and he seemed unreliable no matter how you looked at him.

However, the person he knew back then was about this age...

Looking at the familiar face under the lamp, the curator was momentarily dazed and then shook his head.

He told himself: That person is different, he is unique.

The shop owner remained quietly smiling. His antique shop wasn't really about selling things; he could open and close it entirely at his own discretion. However, he rarely stayed in one place for many years. Seeing someone he hadn't seen in years suddenly appear before him, their face aged, only vaguely recognizable as they were back then, yet speaking to him like a stranger, was still a novel experience for him.

The curator surveyed the items in the shop with an extremely discerning eye, and naturally, the first thing he noticed was the porcelain pillow that the owner was wiping on the counter.

“This is… a celadon pillow from the Yue kiln,” the curator said, his eyes lighting up as he bent down and carefully picked it up.

The body is gray, fine and dense. The glaze is celadon, crystal clear and lustrous, like jade and ice. It has leaf vein patterns on it, and feels cool to the touch. Based on the curator's experience, this porcelain pillow dates back to at least the Tang Dynasty to the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period, and judging from the color, it may even be the legendary "secret-color porcelain"!
The term "secret-color porcelain" was previously used in reference to Song Dynasty documents, which stated that this type of porcelain was exclusively made for the imperial court by the Qian family of the Wuyue Kingdom in Hangzhou during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period, and that commoners were forbidden from using it. As for its glaze color, like its name, it was kept secret, and later generations could only appreciate its extraordinary beauty through poetry and literature. It wasn't until the 1980s, with the discovery of a batch of secret-color porcelain bowls and dishes at the Famen Temple Pagoda in Fufeng, Shaanxi, that the world learned what true secret-color porcelain really was.

What he held in his hands at that moment was an exquisite Yue ware celadon.

The curator felt a dryness in his throat.

He didn't find it strange that such nationally significant antiques appeared in this antique shop. Knowing that person as he did, it wouldn't be surprising if the shop had even more valuable antiques.

Because it's that person's shop.

The owner watched the curator's ever-changing expressions with amusement, then sat down again. He took the boiled water from the small red charcoal stove, brewed two bowls of Longjing tea, and quietly placed them in front of each other.

The curator had calmed down by now, and with a somber expression, he put the porcelain pillow down. He picked up the teacup, inhaled the rich aroma of the tea, and finally managed to shift his gaze from the porcelain pillow, only to discover that the cup in his hand was actually a doucai bell-shaped cup! The curator almost recklessly flipped the cup over to see the inscription on the back. But the tea was too hot, so he could only shakily raise the cup and look up.

Sure enough! It's a doucai porcelain from the Chenghua period!

Good heavens! Is he dreaming? Otherwise, how could he possibly be drinking tea from a cup that's only meant to be displayed in a museum glass case?

The curator's face flushed red as he barely managed to steady the cup and place it back on the counter. Some tea spilled, but he didn't realize it was too hot to handle. He didn't even dare to look around; he was just deep in thought.

"It's just a cup." The shopkeeper picked up the teacup in front of him, blew on the tea foam with a leisurely air, and took a small sip.

"No! It's more than just a cup!" The curator suddenly flew into a rage, glaring at him and shouting, "Boy! What do you know? This cup, the moment it was formed, embodied the life and spirit of that era! It carries the splendor and life of a time! It has a life of its own!"

The curator has always had a very good temper, at least over the years. In his youth, he was quite irritable. It was only after immersing himself in the study of antiques that this temper gradually subsided. But tonight, less than ten minutes after stepping into this antique shop, he suddenly lost control of his temper.

It was like a powder keg; even the smallest spark ignited it.

“Yes, they are all living things.” The young boss seemed unconcerned about being pointed at and scolded. In fact, he quite missed the curator’s volatile temper and had witnessed his usual outbursts of anger back in the day. “Very good, you understand that. Very good.”

The curator froze on the spot. At his age, he rarely heard anyone speak to him in such a lecturing tone. So, hearing it so suddenly, he could hardly believe his ears.

Especially coming from such a young guy.

The owner leisurely finished his tea, then inverted a basin over the small charcoal stove to extinguish the embers. "I'm sorry, if you want to see antiques, please come another day. I'm closing up shop today."

The curator completely ignored the owner's attempt to see the customer out and said seriously, "Young man, these antiques in your shop don't deserve to gather dust in this dark place."

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but remained silent. He stood up, wiped the celadon pillow on the counter, and carefully placed it back into the brocade box. "They should be in a museum, for the world to admire! Let them know how magnificent our ancestors' civilization was!" the shopkeeper urged in a highly persuasive tone. "You should donate them all to the country; that's the final destination for these antiques!"

The shopkeeper smiled but didn't say anything. He then took the brocade box and went into the inner room.

The curator frowned, his tone becoming more serious. "Since you're unwilling to donate, let's convert it to market value, and I'll apply for national and provincial cultural relic funds, or I might have some savings myself..." His voice suddenly lowered as he noticed the various antiques displayed on the shelves. With just a glance, and despite his less-than-stellar eyesight, he spotted a Song Dynasty celadon plate and a sacrificial red plate that appeared to be from the Xuande period of the Ming Dynasty.

The curator suddenly felt a bit unwell in his heart and dared not look any longer, afraid of being frightened again, but his eyes couldn't help but dart around.

Under the dim light of the Changxin Palace lanterns, the curator even softened his breathing, as if afraid that a slightly stronger breath might break the fragile antiques.

The owner had already placed the porcelain pillow down. He emerged gracefully from behind the screen, a smile on his face, and said, "I'm sorry, I'm not interested. Please leave, curator."

The curator was furious! Did this young man even know that many of the antiques here were national-level cultural relics? Cultural relics are prohibited from being bought, sold, or circulated. If he were to have them appraised and then report it, he could be arrested for the crime of buying and selling cultural relics! The curator opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and he angrily swallowed back the rest of his words.

"I'll come again!" The curator stomped his cane hard and, with difficulty walking, pushed open the door and left.

The boss stood in the shadows, peering through the crack in the window at the curator's unsteady footsteps, his gaze lingering for a long time.

"By the way, have you noticed a middle-aged man with a cane and gold-rimmed glasses loitering around your shop these past few days?" The doctor had recently become obsessed with the three-delicacy dumplings from the restaurant next door. Every evening after get off work, he would buy two plates of dumplings to take away and bring them directly to the Dumb House to eat. Having someone to eat with always made the meal more enjoyable than eating alone.

The boss raised an eyebrow, put down his chopsticks, and asked with great surprise, "You've seen him? You haven't run into him these past few days, have you?" The curator's daily reports these past few days have been nothing more than the same few sentences from that day.

The doctor gave him a strange look and said, "That's because he stopped me outside the antique shop and asked me in detail if I had bought anything here, and about the shop."

The boss squinted and elegantly wiped his mouth with a napkin.

The doctor, oblivious to the boss's worsening mood, continued, his mouth full of dumplings, "That uncle was very strange. The questions he asked were odd too. Where did you meet such a strange uncle?"

The boss, preoccupied with other questions, casually replied, "Oh, we met when we were tomb raiding."

The doctor nearly choked, unsure if the owner was joking. He quickly poured himself a cup of tea, took a sip, and then suddenly remembered something, stammering, "Then...then that porcelain pillow you lent me last time..."

"Of course it was unearthed, otherwise how do you think it came to be?" the shopkeeper said with a smile.

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

Unearthed? That means... that porcelain pillow was originally for the dead to sleep on... The doctor remained silent, looking at the remaining half plate of dumplings, completely losing his appetite.

The curator carried a brocade box and almost ran back to the museum.

The museum staff couldn't help but smile knowingly, guessing that the curator had probably acquired some rare and unusual artifacts again.

The curator didn't even go back to his office; he went straight to the artifact appraisal room. He'd been sitting in the teahouse across from the Silent Shop these past few days. Since the young owner wouldn't sell him anything, he decided to approach it from the customer's perspective.

At first, he hired many people to pose as customers and buy things at the Silent Shop, but the owner was very strange and refused to sell anything. Left with no other option, he had to wait and see. He waited for several days, but the Silent Shop didn't sell anything—which wasn't surprising, as antique shops usually don't open for three years, then make enough to last for three years; he had already planned for a long-term standoff.

However, today, as expected, he saw a young student bring out a brocade box of moderate size from the mute's shop. He had to use a lot of persuasion, and even revealed his identity as the museum curator, to buy the box back from him.

What surprised him most was that the student said the contents of the brocade box only cost him fifty yuan. The curator was somewhat incredulous when he paid. But not wanting to waste such a good opportunity, he didn't even open the brocade box to see what was inside; he simply took it back to the museum.

It was almost time to leave work, and the staff in the appraisal room had long since gone back to their offices to go home. The curator carefully washed his hands, held his breath, and opened the lid of the brocade box.

A blinding glint of cold light entered his eyes, and when the curator saw what was inside the box, he almost forgot to breathe.

A bronze sword lay quietly on the beautiful yellow silk cloth.

The sword emitted a dazzling blue light, exuding a chilling aura. The blade was approximately thirty centimeters long, dark brown in color, with a thick patina and minimal rust. The blade was smooth and shiny, with faintly visible diamond-shaped patterns. The edge was finely ground and incredibly sharp. The hilt was decorated with animal face patterns, one side inlaid with lapis lazuli, the other with turquoise. Near the hilt were eight inlaid gold bird-script characters: "Sword made by King Goujian of Yue."

The curator never expected that the contents of the brocade box would be a bronze sword of King Goujian of Yue! Several years ago, a world-famous sword of King Goujian of Yue was unearthed in Hubei. When it was unearthed, it could cut through 16 layers of white paper with a little force, and it was as sharp as ever.

The curator had also seen the Yue King's sword up close, and its style and appearance were very similar to the one in front of him. If it weren't for the difference in size, he would have almost thought it was a replica.

But he knew that when King Goujian of Yue marched north into the Central Plains, he convened the feudal lords of the land and was hailed as a hegemon for a time. According to the *Wu Yue Chunqiu* and the *Yue Jue Shu*, King Goujian of Yue specially commissioned Ou Yezi, a swordsmith from Longquan, to forge five precious swords. The seven swords were named Zhanlu, Chun Jun, Sheng Xie, Yu Chang, and Ju Que, all rare swords capable of cutting through iron like mud. Because three of the five swords were long swords and two were short swords, they were known as "three long and two short," and this idiom later became a synonym for unexpected disaster.

Since five swords were forged back then, who can say that only the sword unearthed in Hubei survives?

The curator felt his blood boiling. Whether it was true or false, he only needed to be certain, and the truth would come out.

X-ray images, metallographic analysis, fluorescence spectroscopy diffraction... The curator carefully conducted various tests. The more precise the data he looked at, the more alarmed he became—because no matter how he analyzed it, it proved that the sword was indeed made more than two thousand years ago!

How can this be?

Does the curator believe the results of the sophisticated instruments in front of him, rather than the fact that the owner sold this first-class national cultural relic for only fifty yuan?
Is this...what a joke?
The curator picked up the Yue King's sword and reached out to stroke its exquisite patterns. Without warning, his finger was cut by the sharp blade, and a bead of blood slowly slid down the bluish-green blade, creating a scene of inexplicable beauty that captivated the eye.

Although the curator was injured, he was still reluctant to put down the precious sword. This bronze sword had not drunk human blood for countless years, and in this moment, it looked inexplicably eerie.

At that moment, he suddenly remembered what the student had said: "When the boss gave me this thing, the only thing he said was, 'Don't let it get stained with human blood.'"

The curator initially scoffed, but then suddenly became very angry.

The preservation and maintenance of bronze swords is incredibly complex, yet the shop owner only gave that one piece of advice!
After admiring the sword alone in the appraisal room for a long time, and seeing that the clock on the wall had already pointed to nine o'clock, the curator, even though reluctant, had to put the Yue King's sword back into 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 that he would invite several experts to appraise it again tomorrow, and then announce the news to the media after everything was confirmed.

It will definitely cause a huge sensation, and there will certainly be many voices of doubt. No one doubts the authenticity of the Yue King's sword in Hubei, because it is a genuine unearthed cultural relic. But this sword he obtained... he needs to think carefully about how to explain the origin of this sword.

The curator knew that the man's antique shop absolutely could not be exposed, even though his son was currently running it while he himself was far away in Egypt. If he angered him, the man might simply close the shop and leave, and then who knew when those rare antiques would ever be seen again. The curator closed the door to the appraisal room, and instead of heading straight home, he couldn't resist turning and heading towards the museum's exhibition hall.

It was already 9 p.m., and the museum closed at 5 p.m. All the staff had gone home by 5:30 p.m., leaving only the security guards inside. Even the night guards no longer patrolled every floor with flashlights as they used to, because high-tech cameras installed in every corner of the museum faithfully recorded everything. The guards only needed to sit in the monitoring room and constantly monitor the footage.

The museum uses the most advanced technology in China. Each of the tempered glass display cases for the artifacts is equipped with automatic sensor lights. The glass display cases are originally dimly lit, but they will automatically light up as soon as someone approaches the display case.

The curator walked slowly along the tour route, lost in thought. As he walked, one glass display case after another lit up, and then one by one went dark as he left.

In the pitch-black, empty museum, in deathly silence, the curator could only hear the tapping of his cane on the marble floor.

Most people would probably dislike being alone in a museum at night, but for the curator, it's his most enjoyable moment.

The museum was vast, yet the curator knew every exhibit in every hall intimately. He gazed at each artifact in its glass display case with loving eyes, as if looking at his own children. By the time he reached the porcelain exhibition hall on the second floor, he had already decided how to announce the origin of the Yue King's sword. His mind was now focused on the antiques in the Silent Shop, figuring out how to bring them all to the museum, and he even began to consider where to place the Song Dynasty celadon plate.

The curator has grand ambitions. From the day he became fascinated with antiques, he has been eagerly collecting these artifacts that embody the cultural life of our ancestors. He enjoys them himself and wants others to enjoy them as well.

Therefore, I feel heartbroken whenever I see damaged antiques.

These antiques are truly gone now; if one breaks, it's gone forever.

The curator stopped in front of a Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar in the center of the porcelain exhibition hall. The jar was very large, large enough to fit a five- or six-year-old child. It was remarkable that it had been preserved intact. Although there was a noticeable chip at the mouth of the jar, it did not diminish its high value. It should be noted that only about four hundred pieces of Yuan blue-and-white porcelain exist in the world today, and such a large jar is even rarer.

This porcelain jar was the one he obtained when he met that person back then... It was so beautiful that even though he had fallen into a trap in the ancient tomb while trying to protect it, and his right leg had become disabled ever since, he had no regrets.

Thinking of this, the curator couldn't help but reach out to touch the porcelain glaze that looked like white jade under the light, but his left hand touched a layer of glass first.

He came to his senses and realized that he had forgotten again that the porcelain jar was no longer in his home, but was now enclosed in a glass case and displayed in a museum.

The curator felt a pang of disappointment, but quickly composed himself. These antiques, though not directly handled in the museum, received the best possible protection and maintenance. Unlike the Ya She (a museum), which irresponsibly piled them up and used them carelessly – a true waste.

Therefore, what he did was the right thing.

The curator laughed, seeing the wrinkles on his face reflected in the glass case. He couldn't help but think that years later, these antiques would still be displayed properly in a museum for everyone to admire, while he would have long since turned into a pile of bones...

But this seems like a good idea too.

The curator stood there in a daze for a long time before withdrawing his hand from the glass case. A sharp pain shot through his fingers, and he realized that the wound on his hand, inflicted by the Yue King's sword, was still bleeding. His left hand was covered in blood, and a bloody handprint was left on the glass case, looking quite eerie in the night.

The curator quickly leaned his cane against the wall, took out a handkerchief, but ignored the wound on his left hand, instead carefully wiping the bloody handprint on the glass cover. As he wiped, he chuckled to himself, thinking that if he didn't remove the handprint by tomorrow morning, it would probably terrify the museum staff. Their supposed seven strange museum tales would likely turn into eight.

The curator was in a good mood when he unexpectedly discovered that the bloody handprint on the glass case couldn't be wiped off no matter how hard he tried. He frowned, adjusted his glasses, and leaned closer to examine it. When he saw it clearly, his eyes widened in shock. The bloody handprint was actually inside the glass case! The blood hadn't even dried yet, and under the light from inside the case, it was eerily and slowly flowing down the glass.

how can that be!

The curator was so frightened that he took a step back. The lights on the glass display case dimmed as he left, but the bloody handprint was still clearly visible. This was definitely not his hallucination.

"Hey--"

Just as he was still in shock, a piercing sound suddenly came from downstairs. Although the sound was very faint, it was clearly audible in the empty and silent museum.

It sounded like a sharp object scraping the ground.

The curator was so frightened that his heart almost jumped out of his chest. He hurriedly took out his phone, only to find that there was no signal.

Cell phone signals in museums are often intermittent. Some say it's due to the electromagnetic effects of the artifacts themselves, while others say it's caused by the museum's own security equipment.

But there was no signal at that moment, and the curator cursed under his breath.

The strange sound from the first floor started again. This time, however, the sound was drawn out, coming closer and closer, like... like someone dragging a sword, slowly walking on the ground.

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

What's going on? The curator knows this button is located throughout the museum, and pressing it should trigger an alarm throughout the entire museum, but this emergency button has never been used since the museum was built. Could it be broken due to disrepair?
The curator shouldn't have been so panicked, but the bloody handprint that had mysteriously imprinted itself on the glass case had already thrown him into a panic. Coupled with the strange noise downstairs, the curator finally lost his composure. The sound...it sounded like a bronze sword! Could it be...could it be the Yue King's sword he had just placed in the brocade box?
But he had clearly put it in the safe, and only he knew the combination. How could a sword possibly open the safe and come out on its own? However, he didn't dare rush over to see what was going on; the voice sounded malicious.

Something's not right, something's definitely not right! At this hour, the security guards in the monitoring room should have come out long ago, but the museum is still quiet, and there's not a soul in sight.

The most urgent thing to do is to go to the monitoring room and check the monitor screens.

The curator reached for his cane, but found nothing. Just then, the strange sound began to echo up the stairs of the central hall to the second floor.

"Bang, bang..."

The curator, not having time to fumble for his cane in the dark, stumbled out, leaning against the wall for support. It shouldn't have taken a minute to walk from this exhibition hall to the elevator, but after walking for a while in the dark, motion-sensor lights kept turning on and off. After running for so long, the curator realized he couldn't find the elevator button; instead, he had ended up in another exhibition hall.

The curator thought he had walked too fast and reached the next jade exhibition hall, but just as he was about to turn back to find the elevator, he was suddenly shocked when he caught a glimpse of the artifacts in the exhibition hall.

The exhibition hall in front of him was actually a porcelain exhibition hall! In the center of the exhibition hall, on the glass cover of the Yuan blue and white porcelain jar, bloody handprints were clearly visible.

The curator opened his mouth, but his parched throat could not produce any sound.

"Hey--"

The voice had already made it to the second floor, paused briefly as if judging his location, and then came accurately toward him.

The curator paused for a moment, then gritted his teeth and continued walking forward. "It's all an illusion!" he told himself.

But when he walked past the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar, he saw the walking stick on the ground that he hadn't had time to pick up, but he didn't dare to go over and pick it up.

"Hey--"

The voice behind them seemed to have gotten a little closer.

The curator broke out in a cold sweat. A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the normally closed museum, making him feel a chill run down his spine. His already difficult legs moved even faster.

This time, the curator felt his way forward along the wall, but instead of finding the elevator door he expected, he rushed into another exhibition hall.

The Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar stood there quietly in the dim light.

"Hey--"

The curator was stunned, then continued walking forward like a madman. How could this be? Even if the museum was circular, there were four exhibition halls on this floor; he couldn't possibly enter the porcelain hall every time!

"Hey--"

The lingering voice behind him was like a death knell, terrifying the curator. With nowhere to hide, he could only drag his right leg forward with all his might. Then, soon after, he found himself once again before the Yuan dynasty blue-and-white porcelain jar.

The curator's mind went blank.

"Hey--"

This time, the voice came from not far behind him. The curator reflexively turned around, only to find complete darkness behind him. He tried to take a step, but he had no strength at all, and could only stand frozen in place, his entire body except for his eyes. He really wanted to close his eyes, but they defied his will and remained wide open.

The artifacts on the surrounding glass display cases, under the dim light, looked more like offerings placed on an altar.

The curator's heart skipped a beat, a feeling of dread he had never experienced before washing over him. He was clearly encountering a "ghost wall," but why was he experiencing it here? Was this a museum? It was more like a tomb.

"Hey--"

The sound seemed to be detected by the glass display cases at the entrance of the exhibition hall, which suddenly lit up. Then, one by one, they lit up and went dark again. It was as if someone had actually walked in. But the curator saw nothing.

Then he gasped—on the marble floor, a bronze sword emerged from the darkness, its cold light blinding.

The curator gasped for breath, his eyes fixed on the sword. It stood there as if held by someone, its tip dragging on the ground, slowly approaching him. Blood flowed continuously from the thin, sharp blade, leaving a deep red trail on the marble floor.

The curator suddenly recalled the young student's words: "The only thing the boss said when he sold me this thing was that it must not be stained with human blood."

Suddenly, the sword gleamed with a cold light, and the curator felt a surge of energy rushing towards him, pressing him down so hard he almost knelt on the ground. At the same time, a crisp sound came from all around.

The curator's expression changed drastically; he knew, of course, what that voice meant.

—That's the sound of the glass cover shattering.

The museum's glass, made of state-of-the-art materials that even bullets might not be able to penetrate, shattered instantly as if struck by a massive object. However, due to its excellent resilience, all the glass cases turned into a frosted, snowflake-like finish and did not fall. But because they were shattered in this way, it became even more difficult to see what was inside the glass cases.

The curator was initially bewildered as he looked around at the now completely white glass enclosure, then his expression turned to horror. Even the high-strength glass had turned like this; what about the porcelain inside?
The curator gritted his teeth, laboriously raised his hand, and touched the glass cover of the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar next to him.

Like an illusion being shattered, the glass dome instantly crumbled at the curator's fingertips, and thousands of shards clamored and danced as they scattered across the marble floor, producing an extremely beautiful clattering sound.

In this symphony celebrating freedom, the pristine white and rounded body of the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar is quietly exposed to the air once again.

The curator gasped, then breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the glass cover being shattered beyond recognition, the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar inside remained completely undamaged.

He gazed at the Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar, its alluring glow gleaming under the light, and couldn't resist reaching out to touch it. As he once again felt that familiar touch on his fingertips, the curator forgot his surroundings and closed his eyes with a smile.

"Hey--"

The voice rang out again, and the curator suddenly opened his eyes, only to find that his hand was not touching a Yuan blue and white porcelain jar, but the hilt of the Yue King's sword!

The curator was momentarily dazed, then realized that his body felt much lighter, and he was floating.

He looked down in astonishment, only to find that his body was still standing there perfectly fine. Beside him was a Yuan blue-and-white porcelain jar, and in front of him was that strange Yue King's sword.

Could it be an out-of-body experience?
What was he doing? The curator realized he no longer had the power to control his body. What was going on? He thought about it in a daze, his chaotic mind unable to think of anything anymore, because he clearly saw his body pick up the Yue King's sword, turn the blade around, and without stopping for a moment, slash it towards his own neck!

The movements were slow, but very determined.

The curator actually saw all of this from a high place. The sense of unreality made him think he was dreaming, but deep down he knew that it was all real!
He desperately tried to rush back into his body, and after several attempts, the stinging sensation from the wound on his left hand returned first, which delighted him—he had actually succeeded.

But the moment he opened his eyes, he saw a gleaming, cold blade! His right hand wasn't fully under his control yet, and it seemed the sharp blade was about to slit his throat—

Just when the curator was about to despair, a slender, white hand reached out from the darkness and deftly pinched the thin blade of the Yue King's sword between its index and middle fingers.

The curator finally regained control of his body at this moment, collapsing to the ground covered in sweat and panting heavily.

"I knew it, something went wrong." A voice, devoid of emotion, drifted faintly from the darkness.

The curator wiped the sweat from his brow. The Yue King's sword in his hand had been snatched away by the newcomer, but he had no intention of taking it back.

What a joke! He doesn't want to experience killing himself again.

The curator took a deep breath before looking up at the person who had come to him. Although he wanted to thank the man for saving his life, he was more interested in asking how he had gotten into the museum, which was already closed for the night. But when he looked up, he was completely stunned.

The visitor was looking down at the sword intently, and in the dim light of the exhibition hall, the curator could only see half of the person's face.

"You...it's you...you...weren't you in Egypt?" the curator stammered, only realizing how hoarse his voice was when he finally spoke.

The newcomer slightly lifted his eyelids, but did not answer his question. Instead, he looked even more closely at the Yue King's sword in his hand, as if he was extremely worried about whether the sword had been damaged.

The curator had completely calmed down by then, and only then did he realize that the man standing in front of him holding the Yue King's sword was surprisingly young and could not possibly be the person he knew.

It turns out to be the owner of the Silent Shop.

The curator breathed a sigh of relief and tried to stand up again, but found that his legs were too weak from fear to stand up. The curator didn't ask for help; he didn't want to show weakness in front of this young man.

"Sit down, you can rest a bit more." Although this incident was exceptionally dangerous, he had been dealing with antiques for many years and knew that some things couldn't be explained even by science, and he didn't expect to understand them all in his lifetime. So when the other party fell silent, he tactfully didn't press the matter. Seeing that the owner had no intention of speaking, the curator simply sat cross-legged, intending to close his eyes and rest. He had recently learned a few qi-cultivating techniques from a Taoist priest, originally intending to cultivate his health and well-being as he got older, but unexpectedly, the first thing he used was to calm his nerves.

"This sword of King Goujian was originally used by Goujian for self-defense." The curator had just closed his eyes when he suddenly heard the young owner speak up.

The curator, surprised that he would speak first, opened his eyes in astonishment and looked up at him. He saw the young owner fiddling with the strange Yue King's sword, examining it closely. The occasional glint of light reflecting from the blade illuminated his face, adding to his menacing aura.

"Actually, the sword that King Yue used for self-defense didn't really have many opportunities to be used." The shopkeeper looked up at the curator. His eyes were originally very cold, but when he glanced at the Yuan blue and white porcelain jar next to him, memories from many years ago flooded his mind, and his gaze softened.

The curator nodded. During the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, the swords of kings and nobles were, to some extent, symbolic. For example, they might symbolize hegemony, the power to command the world; or they might symbolize status, bestowed upon subordinates. If a king's sword, meant for self-defense, needed to be used, it meant either his guards were inadequate, or…

"Could this sword be the one King Goujian used when he committed suicide?" the curator couldn't help but ask. Considering the near-suicide attempt just now, he couldn't help but think of it. However, he immediately shook his head and said, "No, Goujian didn't commit suicide."

The boss smiled slightly and said, "Goujian is not, of course, but Wen Zhong is."

The curator was taken aback, and the information in his head immediately started popping out.

Wen Zhong was a renowned strategist of the late Spring and Autumn Period. He was a advisor to King Goujian of Yue, and together with Fan Li, made significant contributions to Goujian's eventual victory over King Fuchai of Wu. After the conquest of Wu, feeling inadequate, Fan Li secretly sent a letter to Wen Zhong, saying, "When the birds are all gone, the good bow is put away; when the cunning rabbit is dead, the hunting dog is cooked. King Goujian has a long neck and a bird's beak; he can share hardship, but not prosperity. Why don't you leave?" Wen Zhong did not heed this advice and was soon forced to commit suicide by Goujian.

"A sword for suicide...a sword for suicide!" The curator blurted out, "Could this be the sword from back then?"

The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes mysteriously, not directly answering his question. "You said it yourself, every antique has its own life, and that's true. Actually, it's not that I'm holding onto these antiques, it's just that each of the antiques in the Silent Shop has a soul."

The curator stood up, leaning against the wall, and listened silently.

"Didn't you also say that antiques are alive?" The shop owner raised his eyebrows and slightly raised his voice.

The curator smiled wryly. When he said that, he never imagined that this thing could actually be alive!

The shopkeeper said calmly, "Of course, I know we mean completely different things. Antiques may just be objects, but they have existed for hundreds or even thousands of years. Each piece embodies the craftsman's hard work and the user's emotions. Some of them may not have thoughts of their own, but many have developed obsessions or desires, like this Yue King's sword. Its wish is to protect its master in every lifetime. Anyone who is stabbed by it will surely die a tragic death. In a way, it's a curse."

The curator opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. Could it be that the young student was the current owner of the Yue King's Sword? But how did he recognize him? What was his basis for confirmation?

The shop owner understood the curator's question, but he felt there was no need to explain further. He changed the subject, saying, "I also know that for antiques without their own thoughts, museums are generally their final resting place. However, simply placing antiques without fulfilling their obsessions or wishes in a museum is very dangerous. No one knows what the consequences will be, especially when two conflicting objects are placed in unsuitable locations. Remember, some things need more than just glass cases; they need the care of our hands. So, I'm taking this sword back."

The curator was dejected. Regardless of whether the boss was telling the truth or not, he knew that after tonight's incident, he would have to think twice before trying to get anything from the Silent House in the future.

The shop owner sighed softly and said nothing more. The antiques in his shop were all imbued with this kind of obsession. For example, the ancient mirror from the Han Dynasty had silently lain in its box for two thousand years, hoping its owner could meet the woman he loved. Although it eventually shattered, it still allowed the lovers to meet and fulfill their wish. As for the Fragrant Concubine's bracelet, it knew its wish had not yet been fulfilled. And the incense candle that had burned for hundreds of years still quietly shed its wax…

Of course, if these antiques retain their original form when their purpose is fulfilled, he will naturally donate them to a museum. In fact, he has already anonymously donated many pieces over the years.

The boss felt he didn't need to explain these things to anyone; he always acted on impulse. The fact that he had spoken so much with this person tonight was only out of consideration for their past relationship, which was already extremely rare.

Seeing the owner turn to leave, the curator suddenly felt uneasy and hurriedly asked, "You can take this sword, but what about later? Will this sword come back to take his life again?" He wanted to ask if it would come back to take his life, but the question was too absurd. Even though the curator had lived for so many years and seen so much of the world, he still couldn't bring himself to ask it.

As he hesitated, the boss had already turned to leave when the red dragon coiled on the back of his clothes suddenly appeared in the curator's line of sight, startling him.

That person from many years ago also had this deep red dragon on his body.

The curator's head buzzed, and for some reason, he suddenly remembered that when he pushed open the door of the Silent House that day, the person seemed to have said something with a smile.

What exactly did he say? Why can't he remember?
The red dragon gradually disappeared into the darkness, its claws and fangs bared, as if it were alive. At that moment, a soft laugh came from the darkness: "Don't worry, this Yue King's sword has a scabbard."

The curator, of course, had no idea that if the Yue King's sword were returned to its sheath, it would slumber for hundreds of years.

All he knew was that he remembered.

That day, after he pushed open the heavy, carved door, the man paused for a moment, then smiled and said to her, "Long time no see..."

The curator stood in the darkness for a long, long time before finally having the strength to move his body and find the cane in the corner.

When he looked up again, he found that there was no broken glass cover in the exhibition hall, no bloody handprint on the glass cover of the Yuan blue and white porcelain jar, no bloodstains on the marble floor, and even the brocade box containing the Yue King's sword in the safe in the appraisal room was gone.

The curator, still unwilling to give up, went into the monitoring room, only to find the security guards on duty unusually sound asleep. He didn't rush to wake them, but instead pulled up the surveillance footage from that night, only to discover that none of his experiences had been recorded.

There were no bloody handprints, no Yue King's sword, and no boss who appeared out of nowhere.

In the completely silent scene, he is the only one acting out a silent film, seemingly insane.

But the curator knew that all of this had actually happened.

Because of his left hand, the untreated wound was still slowly oozing blood...

(End of this chapter)