Chapter 2: The First Pot of Gold

Ten yuan. The balance on the screen flickered, bright as a matchstick about to burn out, casting sharp shadows across Lin Yuan’s palm lines. He stepped out of the moldy warehouse, the morning mist clinging to his ankles like a damp shroud, biting at his skin with bone-deep chill. The system notification chimed, crisp and clear, cutting through the fog: "Host, proceed to Antiquities Street. Exchange skill to complete the Preliminary Trial."

Lin Yuan clenched his fist, knuckles turning white. To the heir of a once-powerful empire, ten yuan was an insult. But in this moment, it was a ticket into a new world. He took a deep breath. The air smelled of aged wood and settled dust. Ahead lay Antiquities Street—once a place he wouldn't have deigned to look at, now the only ground he had to stand on to survive.

Stalls lined both sides of the street, hawking wares with the chaotic, shrewd energy of the marketplace. Lin Yuan’s gaze swept the scene until a red arrow popped up on the system interface, pointing to a nondescript shop at the corner. He moved forward, each footfall pressing against the cold, hard pavement. Yet inside his chest, a fire was reigniting.

He stopped in front of a small shop named Craftsmanship. Through the glass window, under the dim yellow light, a yellowed thread-bound book sat quietly in the corner of the counter. The shop clerk was hunched over, sorting through odds and ends, not lifting his head. Lin Yuan pushed the door open. The wind chime above jingled softly.

He walked straight to the counter, pulled a crumpled ten-yuan note from his pocket, and placed it on the cover of a book titled *Fundamentals of Ancient Restoration*. The clerk looked up, eyes narrowing with a hint of disdain. "Kid, this book’s old and worn, sure. But it’s part of a tradition. Ten bucks? You tryin’ to get a laugh?"

Lin Yuan’s voice was calm, devoid of ripples. "System directive: Exchange National Fortune Points for a skill carrier. Please deliver the goods." The clerk froze, then let out a snort of derision, assuming he’d found some clueless punk who had no idea what he was talking about.

Lin Yuan didn’t bother explaining further. He just pointed at the book. "I want this. Ten yuan, take it or leave it." The clerk raised an eyebrow, tapping his fingers on the counter. "The restoration techniques in this book are so precise even the old masters sing their praises. You pay ten, and I’ll throw in a basic tool kit. How’s that?"

Lin Yuan nodded. "Deal." He picked up the book and a simple tool box sitting next to it, then turned to leave. The clerk called out from behind him, "Wait! Don’t forget that broken bowl. It’s junk anyway. Just gets in the way in the corner."

Lin Yuan paused, glancing back at the blue-and-white porcelain bowl with its jagged, chipped rim. A flicker moved through his mind. The system prompt lit up instantly: "Low-value collectible detected. Recommendation: Acquire for practical drills."

Walking out of the shop, the noise of Antiquities Street rushed back into his ears. Lin Yuan didn’t rush. He stood in the middle of the street and opened the thin booklet. The text in his head wasn’t cold lead type anymore. It transformed into streams of golden light, injecting directly into his cerebral cortex.

Details on glaze-joint angles, the ratio for patching clay, even how to remove the reflective sheen of modern adhesives—everything fused together in seconds. His fingertips itched, as if he were holding an invisible chisel, carving shapes into the void.

This sense of mastery brought him a clear-headedness he hadn’t felt in ages. The fatigue in his body faded, replaced by a sharp, intuitive awareness. He looked up, his gaze sweeping the stalls with the predatory focus of a hawk.

Across the way, a celadon jade pendant on a street stall caught his attention. The vendor was a burly man with a thick, mean face, spitting out words as he pitched it to a middle-aged woman. "Ma’am, look at this color! Qing Dynasty material from an old mine. The patina is thick and rich. This is a family heirloom! Market price starts at a hundred grand, but for you? I’ll knock it down to eighty!"

The woman touched the jade pendant, hesitating. Lin Yuan narrowed his eyes. System data flashed through his brain in an instant: Material Analysis—synthetic resin mixed with quartz sand; Craft Analysis—machine polishing marks clearly visible, bubbles distributed uniformly.

"Ma’am, if you truly believe that junk is authentic, I’ll offer five million to buy it from you." Lin Yuan stepped forward. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clearly through the surrounding din.

The vendor’s face changed color. He opened his mouth to curse, but Lin Yuan cut in first, his tone flat and steady. "Look at the broken edges. Natural沁 color should be warm and contained inside. This color floats on the surface—you could scrape it off with your fingernail. And look at the sheen. It’s that cheap, plasticy gloss you get with resin. Real jade has an oily feel. This is fake."

The woman looked at Lin Yuan, puzzled, then低头 to examine the jade pendant closely, her brow furrowing.

The vendor panicked, snatching the jade pendant back and clutching it to his chest. "Who the hell are you? Do you even know what you’re talking about? This is certified!" Lin Yuan sneered coldly. He pulled a small vial from the tool box and dabbed a drop of alcohol on the edge of the pendant. "Certification is fake. Smell that? Pungent. That’s the smell of modern industrial synthetic materials.

And look at the polishing marks here. See how the curvature is perfectly consistent? That’s what CNC machines do. No human hand can work that uniformly."

A crowd began to gather, their whispers bubbling like boiling water.

The vendor’s face turned pale. His eyes darted around, but he tried to hold his ground. "You... you’re just jealous! This industry is deep waters. What do you know, you brat? This pendant is an heirloom! If you damage it, you’re paying for it!"

Someone in the crowd spoke up, "The kid makes a good point. The sheen really does look off."

"Same here. I caught that smell earlier too. It’s weird." Seeing he was losing the argument, the vendor grabbed the jade pendant and tried to slip away, but a few onlookers blocked his path. The scene erupted into chaos. People were pulling out phones to take pictures, others shouting in condemnation. The once-bustling stall fell into a tense, awkward silence, broken only by the sudden quiet.

Lin Yuan didn’t join in the ensuing argument. His gaze had already moved past the chaotic crowd, locking onto the glass case of a run-down shop at the corner of the street. Inside sat a blue-and-white porcelain bowl. A large chunk was missing from the rim, cracks extending down to the bottom, the whole thing dull and lifeless. The owner, a hunched old man, was watching the bowl with helpless resignation.

Something stirred in Lin Yuan’s heart. He walked briskly back to the Craftsmanship shop. Seeing Lin Yuan, the old man let out a bitter laugh. "Little brother, that bowl’s cracked beyond use. You’re looking for a bargain?"

Lin Yuan pulled out the ten-yuan note again. "Boss, I want that bowl."

"That broken piece of junk?" The old man blinked, then waved his hand. "If you want it, take it. It’s taking up space. I was about to throw it in the trash. Saves me the trouble of cleaning up."

Lin Yuan took the porcelain bowl. His fingers traced the rough crack, gauging the integrity of the clay body inside. The system notification chimed: "Defective porcelain detected. Repair potential assessment: S-Rank. Execute repair?"

Lin Yuan mentally confirmed. He found a wind-sheltered patch of empty ground, crouched down, and unpacked the tool kit. The morning sun filtered through the gaps in the leaves, illuminating his focused profile.

The onlookers hadn’t dispersed; instead, they had moved closer. Someone muttered, "Is this guy crazy? Repairing antiques on the ground?"

"Look at his form. He’s got something to him." Lin Yuan ignored the chatter. His fingers held the porcelain shards steadily, mixing the special adhesive. His movements were blindingly fast, yet unnervingly precise. Every fragment found its place in his palm. The sun shifted an inch, falling on his sleeve and on the porcelain bowl that was slowly coming back to life.

The crowd’s attention was glued to his fluid motions. The noise of the environment faded, leaving only the soft, delicate sound of pieces fitting together.

"Those techniques..." a passerby with glasses murmured. "So steady. Not a shred of hesitation." A fine layer of sweat broke out on Lin Yuan’s forehead. A critical bottleneck appeared: a hairline crack at the bottom of the bowl required extreme precision to fill. He closed his eyes, summoning every sense he had, and let the perfect simulation model from the system float through his mind.

When he opened his eyes, his gaze was sharp as a blade. With a fine-tip filler pen, he dipped a tiny amount of patching clay and gently applied it to the gap. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The wind, the voices—all of it vanished. There was only him and the bowl, suspended in space.

When the final stroke was complete, Lin Yuan stood up and blew the excess dust off the surface. In the morning light, the bowl exuded a warm, jade-like luster. The break was nearly invisible, as if it had never been damaged. The crowd drew a collective, sharp breath, followed by an eruption of awe.

"Whoa, you really can't tell!" "This skill? At least a Master level, right?"

"Earlier we called him a madman. Now it looks like an immortal descended to earth!" Applause began, sparse at first, but filled with genuine shock. Lin Yuan held the bowl in his hands, feeling its complete weight. The corner of his mouth ticked up.

"Kid, I’ll give you a hundred thousand for that bowl. Will you sell?" A shrill voice cut in. A fashionable woman squeezed to the front, her eyes gleaming with greed. Lin Yuan shook his head, his movement elegant and resolute. "Not for sale. For some things, the price isn’t the point. Integrity is its life."

The woman wouldn’t take no for an answer. She bid five hundred thousand, then even a million. Lin Yuan’s expression remained impassive, his eyes as still as water, those numbers drifting past him like dust in the wind. He looked at the shocked and envious eyes around him, but inside, he was clear. Money could buy much, but it couldn’t buy the dignity behind this craft or the glory of National Fortune backing.

Then, at the edge of the crowd, a figure took a silent step forward. He wore a tailored suit, immaculate and expensive, playing with a fine fountain pen between long, pale fingers. His gaze was deep. He didn’t look shocked like the others; instead, there was a sharp, probing scrutiny.

The onlookers noticed the newcomer and parted, sensing a different kind of pressure—calm but oppressive. The collector stopped three meters from Lin Yuan, the pen spinning lightly in his fingers with a crisp click.

"Interesting." The collector spoke, his voice low and magnetic. He looked Lin Yuan straight in the eyes, as if trying to see through his soul. "Who is your master? To have such a gift that turns the rotten into magic."

The surrounding noise dropped instantly. Everyone looked at this unlikely pair. Lin Yuan lifted his head, a flash of sharpness in his eyes. He didn’t bow to the man’s status, nor did he lash out in anger. He just smiled faintly, a meaningful curve at the corner of his mouth. "Self-taught."

"Self-taught?" The collector raised an eyebrow. He stopped spinning the pen, pinching it between his fingers, a half-smile on his face. "There is no such thing as a self-taught mastery in the world, especially a restoration art that carries the spirit of the ancients. Have you... taken some shortcuts?"

Lin Yuan didn’t answer. He simply raised the repaired bowl slowly, showing off the perfect glaze to the sun. Their gazes met in the air, and the atmosphere seemed to freeze. In the collector’s eyes, the confusion slowly gave way to a complex, hard-to-name emotion. It wasn’t just curiosity; it was the thrill of a hunter spotting its prey.

The suspense hung in the air, set in place, waiting for the next storm.