When a drop of air conditioner condensation landed on the back of Chen Mo's neck, he was using a magnifying glass to examine the third "Song Dynasty official kiln" piece.
"Unearthed just last week?" He glanced at the smiling client, his thumb brushing against the reddish-brown fire marks at the bottom of the porcelain bowl. "Your antique-making skills are quite unique. You didn't even clean off the scorch marks from the microwave heating."
The client's sheepish attempt to stuff a red envelope into Chen Mo's pocket was interrupted by the door being pushed open. Manager Wang Defa squeezed into the appraisal room with his beer belly, and the faux leather sofa immediately let out an overburdened groan.
"Little Chen, President Zhao is a VIP of ours." Wang Defa flicked his cigarette ash, his dark circles glistening under the energy-saving light. "That Northern Wei Buddha statue you rejected last month cost the company six hundred thousand in commissions."
Chen Mo unbuttoned the second button of his shirt, the electric fan beneath the appraisal table stirring his yellowed collar. His unpaid salary for the last three months was still being held by the finance department, and when the landlord threw his suitcase into the hallway last week, the latch happened to hit this Armani shirt—a limited edition from Paris Fashion Week three years ago, now pinned at the frayed cuff with a paperclip.
"The gilding process on that Northern Wei Buddha statue had excessive mercury content. The X-ray fluorescence spectrometer doesn't lie." He pushed the red envelope away, the edge of the magnifying glass reflecting the client's twitching mouth. "Or should we call the police right now and invite cultural relics bureau experts for a second appraisal?"
Wang Defa's gold tooth flickered in the smoke. Chen Mo knew what the other man was calculating: the appraisal room's surveillance cameras had "coincidentally malfunctioned" last week, and the stack of cash in the client's bag right now was enough to buy ten of his accidental work injuries.
"Don't take it to heart, President Zhao. Young people don't know the rules." The manager suddenly stood up, his fat fingers sweeping across the display rack. "Little Chen, take a look at this. If you can explain its origins, your commission will be the usual thirty percent cut."
The Bronze Box on the black velvet tray was no larger than a palm, its Taotie patterns glowing with an eerie greenish-blue in the mold-musty room. The moment Chen Mo's fingertips touched the icy copper patina, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end—this object lacked the earthy stench of newly excavated cultural relics; instead, it exuded a bloody, iron-like reek.
"A Western Han gilded silver cloud-pattern cosmetic box, right?" The client crossed his legs smugly. "The tomb owner was a favorite concubine of King Liu Wu of Chu. Look at the gilding on the hinges here..."
Chen Mo's pupils contracted sharply. Under the magnifying glass, in the seams that should have been casting marks, hair-thin red lines were slowly writhing. He suddenly raised his head and found that the droplets of water condensing on the surface of the Bronze Box were flowing backward along the Taotie patterns.
"Where did this box come from?" His voice trembled slightly.
"An old man who looked like a migrant worker came to pawn it last week." Wang Defa blew out a smoke ring. "He said it was dug up during his hometown's demolition, and he let it go for three hundred yuan."
Chen Mo's temples throbbed violently. Ten years ago during his internship at Sotheby's, he had worked with his mentor on lacquerware from the Mawangdui tombs, and even those artifacts that had survived two thousand years didn't feel like the Bronze Box before him... as if it were breathing.
"Let's call the police." He suddenly took half a step back. "This isn't a cultural relic. It's something that has just been stained with blood."
The appraisal room fell into dead silence. The client's smile froze on his face, and the cigarette butt in Wang Defa's hand dropped onto the Persian carpet, burning a charred hole.
"Little Chen, this joke isn't funny." The manager's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Professor Liu from the municipal museum just looked at it yesterday..."
Chen Mo's hands shook as he grabbed the ultraviolet light. The moment the cold light shone on the surface of the Bronze Box, those dark red lines suddenly surged, pulsing like countless blood vessels beneath the copper patina. The eyes of the Taotie pattern began to ooze a viscous liquid, blooming into dark red stains on the velvet cushion.
The alarm suddenly emitted a sharp explosion of sound, only to turn into a distorted wail the next second. Chen Mo saw his own shadow twisting wildly on the wall, and the air conditioner vents no longer blew out cold air, but a scarlet mist reeking of iron and blood.
"Run!" He turned to pull the door handle, only to find that the brass handle had fused into one with the door frame. The client slumped in the corner, twitching as large amounts of banknotes spilled from between his fingers, while Wang Defa used his bulky body to slam frantically against the bulletproof glass window.
The Bronze Box stood upright on the display stand, eight well-articulated bone claws piercing through the copper walls. Chen Mo's back hit the safe, his hand brushing against the cold Swiss Army knife in his pocket—the only "weapon" the landlord hadn't snatched away when throwing out his luggage.
"An opportunity gained in exchange for twenty years of mortal lifespan, why must you resist, little friend?" A hoarse voice surged from all directions. The instant the bone claws clamped around his throat, Chen Mo clearly saw the client's unfocused pupils, which mirrored his own figure entangled in blood-red runes.
Gilded seal script suddenly burst across his retinas, and a mechanical female voice roared inside his skull:
"Heavenly Derivation System activated."
"Novice Quest: Slay the Foundation Establishment Stage demonic cultivator (Time remaining: 00:59)."
When the excruciating pain struck from his shoulder blades, Chen Mo actually smiled. The instant the bone claws pierced his body, the Swiss Army knife also plunged into a crack in the Bronze Box. As the crimson blood mist swallowed the entire room, the last things he heard were Wang Defa's blood-curdling screams and the system's ice-cold prompt:
"Obtained natal magical treasure: Xuanming Mirror (damaged)."