Chapter 2: Pick a Few More

A burst of laughter came from the nearby bronze ware stall. Lin Sicheng turned his head.

A man and a woman, both in their thirties, with ordinary but refined appearances—clearly intellectuals. The man was examining a bronze mirror, while the woman, lips pressed together in amusement, watched them with a smile in her eyes. “Sorry about that!”

“It’s alright.” Lin Sicheng gave a brief smile and shot a glare at Gu Ming. “Stop being so weird!”

Gu Ming snorted, choosing not to reply.

Lin Sicheng pointed, “Boss, how much for that book?”

“Which one, ‘Annals of Yan and Huang’?”

“That’s right!”

“Three thousand!”

Hearing that, Lin Sicheng immediately understood: though the stall owner was indeed the boss, he had no idea what he was selling.

He’d stumbled onto a small treasure.

Testing the waters, he asked, “Does your book have gold inlaid in it?”

The stall owner rolled his eyes. “Blame that fool for calling all my stuff junk!”

Lin Sicheng couldn’t help but laugh. Grown as he was, the man was still getting worked up over a child’s words.

“Hand it over so I can take a look!”

Upon hearing the title, the man at the bronze stall looked up and glanced at the magazine the stall owner passed over.

A blue cover, tinged with gray—clearly aged. Four large characters at the top: Annals of Yan and Huang. Beneath them, seven or eight headline titles:

The Tenth Year of the Republic: The Best Era.

The Self-Strengthening Movement: The Dawn of Industrial Prosperity.

…

The man was startled—was it truly the ‘Annals of Yan and Huang’?

At first glance, the headlines seemed dubious, hearsay, sensational, perhaps even fabricated… It looked even more like cheap pulp than actual street literature.

He checked the publication info: “Chinese Yan and Huang Culture Research Society.” Never heard of it—smacked of a fly-by-night association.

He flipped through the articles: repetitive, vague, hesitant, filled with subtle conjecture. Inferior even to the eight-cent story magazines.

Yet very few people knew the truth: this magazine was founded in 1989 by a certain committee. While not classified, it was bona fide internal reference material. If your rank wasn’t high enough, you simply couldn’t read it.

So, most people who came across it wouldn’t recognize its value—just another obscure magazine.

Take Gu Ming, for example. He flipped through it offhandedly and exclaimed, “Who printed this thing?”

“The central authorities!”

Thinking Lin Sicheng was joking, Gu Ming chuckled coldly.

The newsstand owner laughed along. “They’d print this?”

Lin Sicheng, hearing this, grew more confident. He waved the magazine. “Name your price properly!”

“Three hundred!”

“Thirty!”

The boss replied briskly, “Deal!”

Gu Ming grumbled, “You idiot, dropping from three thousand to thirty—how good can it be? Thirty bucks could buy two bowls of stewed pork noodles and half a pound of marinated meat!”

“All you ever think about is eating. Would you eat shit too?”

“If you eat it, I’ll eat it!”

The two bantered like a comedy duo. The woman couldn’t stop laughing and glanced over. “Wang Qizhi, what kind of book is that?”

The man lowered his voice. “Internal reference!”

“What?”

Shan Wangshu was stunned: that kid wasn’t making it up? It was actually published by a central ministry?

But how could internal reference material end up on a street stall?

“Is the print run large?”

“On the contrary, extremely low. At first, it was only sent to provincial-level units. Later, limited to central institutions…”

“Then how does that kid recognize it?”

Wang Qizhi paused: Good question.

That “central authorities” certainly wasn’t a bluff.

Besides, if he just wanted a magazine to read, even three bucks would be too much. The fact that he’d pay thirty meant he knew its real worth.

Could it be that he had a high-ranking official in the family?

He looked more closely: handsome, fair-skinned, well-dressed, but didn’t have the air of a princeling.

Too calm, not an ounce of entitlement about him.

The woman nudged him. “How much could it fetch?”

The man thought for a moment, spreading his fingers.

“Five hundred?”

“A thousand!”

The woman’s eyes widened—three months’ salary? And that kid paid only thirty.

“Why didn’t you spot it earlier?”

He replied matter-of-factly, “I came to buy bronze, not books.”

The woman puffed out her cheeks.

…

Money changed hands, and the two parties brushed past each other.

At the man’s feet were several items: a bronze mirror, a bronze sword, arrowheads, and ancient coins. But all were obvious fakes.

The man knew they were reproductions and was haggling with the stall owner.

Meanwhile, the woman watched Lin Sicheng with curiosity.

“What’s she looking at?” Lin Sicheng asked.

“She’s probably wondering: how can a sharp-looking lad like you hang around with a blockhead?” Gu Ming puzzled over it for a few seconds before realizing who the “lad” and “blockhead” referred to, and promptly threw a punch.

Lin Sicheng dodged and, after a pause, squatted down again.

Gu Ming craned his neck to peek and secretly curled his lip: At least waste paper had some value—was this all just junk?

But he said nothing more, deciding that once the six hundred was paid back, that would be the end of it. As long as Lin Sicheng could go home, that was enough.

Lin Sicheng glanced around: nothing but roof tiles, but to be fair, all seemed genuine.

Most were glazed tiles from the Ming and Qing dynasties, some iron tiles from after the Song, and even a few “Chang Le” tiles from the Eastern Han and “Four Images” tiles from the Three Kingdoms.

Unfortunately, most were damaged.

He looked at the young stall owner and sighed, “Quite the collection—why isn’t there even a single whole piece?”

“My father passed away. We had to divide the inheritance quickly, so the good ones were sold off first.”

Just as he thought.

“What are the prices?”

“Depends on the era. The most expensive are Han tiles with inscriptions, next are those with patterns, then glazed tiles; plain, unglazed ones are cheapest. Buy enough, and the plain tiles are free.”

Lin Sicheng nodded and casually picked out a few pieces.

The man and woman had finished paying, but didn’t leave right away.

Seeing the man eyeing Lin Sicheng, the woman knew he wanted that magazine. She pursed her lips, then glanced at the broken tiles at Lin Sicheng’s feet.

“Hmm, why’s he picking out so many plain tiles?”

The man was puzzled as well.

As the name suggests, tile ends are meant to block rain. The tile is shaped like a “U,” and the round disc at the front is the “end.”

Whether inscribed or patterned, the value lies in the “end,” so only those have collectible value. A plain shard is worth virtually nothing.

Yet Lin Sicheng was doing the opposite—choosing seven or eight plain tiles for every two “ends.”

Looking at the inscriptions, they all seemed to be Han dynasty tiles. Glancing at the curvature and form of the shards, the man suddenly realized, “He’s going to assemble a teapot?”

“What?”

“There’s a type of Yixing teapot called a Han tile teapot—made by piecing together Han tiles. The ‘ends’ are used for the base and lid, so you need fewer of them. The tiles make up the body, so you need more.”

“Are they valuable?”

“Depends on the craftsmanship. A well-made one can fetch tens of thousands.”

“He can do that?”

“Don’t know if he can, but he’s clearly studied it.” The man sighed. “He really knows his stuff: look at the curvature of the tiles—perfect for making a teapot.”

The woman clicked her tongue. “How old is he?”

As they whispered to each other, Lin Sicheng had already picked out more than a dozen pieces. He spent a total of three hundred, and the owner threw in a cardboard box.

Quickly packing up, Lin Sicheng handed the box to Gu Ming. As he stood up, his eyes flashed in surprise.

Well now, had he found another treasure?

Seeing him squat down again, Gu Ming was bewildered. “What is it now?”

“I’m picking out a few more!”