Chapter 2: The Black Cat's Instinct

Manager Liu’s mildewed words still echoed in Chen Su’s ears, like a thorn embedded in his eardrum that refused to budge. Despite the irritation, Chen Su’s fingers were already pressed against a rust-covered copper buckle.

The texture was coarse—the kind of roughness ground down by years of humidity and decay. Deep within his pupils, a faint blue light surged like a tide, driven by an almost instinctive urge to explore.

Around him, the other workers were still whispering about the commotion. The cacophony of voices mixed with the clanging of metal to create a chaotic symphony. Only Chen Su knew that the real prey wasn't the glinting copper scrap, but a pile of nondescript, grey porcelain shards tucked away in the corner.

Suddenly, A Mao darted out from behind a cardboard box. The cat's black fur shimmered with an eerie luster under the fading sunset, looking like a fluid shadow. Instead of rubbing against Chen Su’s leg to act spoiled as usual, the cat charged straight for the shards, nostrils twitching frantically as if it had caught a scent that defied common logic.

Fast as a flash, Chen Su beat A Mao to the punch, plucking a mud-caked, jagged piece of a grey bowl from the pile. A Mao lunged instantly, clamping onto the shard with a death grip. The cat's limbs locked on like iron pliers; no matter how much Chen Su pulled, the little creature wouldn't budge. A low growl vibrated in its throat, as if it were guarding a priceless treasure. That sheer stubbornness gave Chen Su pause.

The roof of the station leaked, the rhythmic drip-drop against the corrugated iron sounding unnervingly clear in the quiet afternoon, like a hammer striking a heart. Lao Zhao approached with two burly security guards in tow, his leather shoes crunching harshly on the gravel. Every step radiated an unquestionable sense of oppression.

His expression was grim, deep suspicion etched into the wrinkles around his eyes, his gaze locked onto the shard in Chen Su’s arms. Lao Zhao came to a halt, his towering frame casting a long shadow that swallowed Chen Su whole, an aura so heavy it felt suffocating.

The two guards blocked the exits on either side. The air froze instantly. The once-noisy Scrap Station seemed to have been put on mute; every eye was focused on that unremarkable grey fragment in Chen Su’s hand. Even the sound of breathing became cautious.

Lao Zhao extended a rough, knobby hand and pointed toward Chen Su’s pocket. "Empty your pockets. Hands open. Don't think you can hide it from me."

His voice was cold and hard, devoid of warmth, as if squeezed through gritted teeth. Chen Su didn't panic. Instead, he casually patted his clothes and showed his empty hands, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He gave Lao Zhao a flirtatious, mocking glance, his eyes practically saying: *You can't even tell what this is, and you want to frisk me?*

This provocative stance made the muscles in Lao Zhao’s face twitch. The anger in his eyes intensified, and his grim expression shifted into a flash of fury.

The surrounding workers began to whisper. Some shook their heads, some watched with curiosity, and a few even held up their phones to record the rare spectacle. Chen Su just watched silently, waiting for the next move, his exit strategy already calculated. Done talking, Lao Zhao suddenly reached out to grab Chen Su’s collar, attempting a forced search.

Chen Su slipped to the side with the agility of a lynx, his fingertips grazing Lao Zhao’s wrist just enough to deflect the force. In that split second, it felt as if sparks flew; the tension was a powder keg ready to blow.

Lao Zhao’s face turned livid. He pointed at Chen Su and roared, "You think you can start a rebellion here? Laying hands on your foreman? You must be tired of living!" Chen Su stepped back twice—appearing flustered, but remaining perfectly composed, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

He intentionally played the part of the frightened subordinate, stumbling back and knocking over an empty iron bucket. The loud *clang* drew everyone's attention, setting the perfect stage for what came next. The bucket rolled away with a dull thud, successfully diverting some of Lao Zhao’s focus.

In the midst of the chaos, A Mao—who had been clinging to the porcelain—suddenly went wild. The cat let go of Chen Su and snapped its jaws shut on the grey shard, sharp teeth sinking into the coarse edge. The cat bit down so hard it nearly chipped its own nail, letting out a piercing, shrill shriek.

It didn't sound like a meow; it sounded like an ancient alarm echoing through the silent Scrap Station, startling every worker into looking up with wide, shocked eyes.

Seeing this, Lao Zhao’s face grew even uglier. He pointed at the cat and the shard, raising his voice. "Unbelievable! Even the animals are going crazy over a broken bowl. Chen Su, you're abusing animals! This isn't over!"

The crowd gasped, their eyes darting between the cat, the shard, and Chen Su. Curiosity and confusion intertwined as the whispers surged back like a tide.

Chen Su crouched down, his movements gentle yet firm, and forced A Mao’s jaws open to retrieve the shard. The moment his fingertip touched the rough edge, his pupils flared with a deep blue light, as if a profound starry sky had exploded within his eyes.

The layers of the Patina Value flowed through his vision: from the fine blue clay used in the material, to the gentle sublimation of the kiln fire, and finally to the rough marks of acid erosion on the surface. It was all there, layer by layer, crystal clear. The Patina Value flickered in the corner of his retina, the numbers skyrocketing—a weight born of centuries of sedimentation, a mellow charm wrapped in time.

Chen Su was ecstatic inside, but his face remained a mask of indifference. He lightly rubbed the edge, feeling a jade-like warmth that spanned a millennium. It was as if he were touching the pulse of history; the sensation was cool, yet it possessed a strange, living vitality.

Lao Zhao looked at the shard, now chipped and battered from the cat's biting, and felt his blood boil. He spat on the ground and barked in Chen Su’s face, "Fifty bucks? You think this is a garbage hunt? I'm calling the cops and docking your attendance bonus. Let's see how long you last then!"

Chen Su stood up and brushed the dust off his hands, his expression so calm it was almost chilling. He didn't argue. Instead, he pulled a crumpled cloth bag from his pocket and opened it to reveal a few sweat-stained bills.

Under the stunned gaze of the crowd, he pulled out exactly fifty yuan and slapped them onto the gravel at Lao Zhao’s feet. The gesture was stylish and decisive, as if he were announcing a grand victory. The bills arched through the air before landing on the filthy stones, looking jarringly bright.

Lao Zhao sneered, completely incredulous. He had wanted to humiliate Chen Su, but the fifty yuan did solve his immediate problem and saved him the hassle of actually calling the police. He picked up the money and gave Chen Su a look of pure disgust. "At least you know your place. This piece of trash is yours. Don't let me see it in this station again."

Chen Su nodded slightly. He bent over to pick up the fifty yuan—which he had intentionally dropped or misplaced—and without a word, carefully tucked the fragment into a piece of old newspaper that A Mao had rubbed against. At that moment, A Mao calmed down and gently nudged his chest, its black fur soft and warm, as if telling him that this decision was the right one.

The crowd began to disperse, though the chatter lingered like a wind that wouldn't die down.

The gossip among the workers buzzed like flies. Some guessed Chen Su had lost his mind, paying fifty bucks for a dog-chewed bowl; others thought he was just acting out of spite to annoy Lao Zhao. Chen Su ignored the noise. He kept his head down, his steps light, while his mind calculated the next move.

He knew this fragment was no ordinary piece of junk. Beneath the acid-eroded surface lay a secret that had been deliberately concealed. Lao Zhao’s anger hadn't vanished; that resentful gaze was like an invisible knife hanging over his head.

A slight smile played on Chen Su’s lips. He brushed the old newspaper in his coat, feeling the temperature of the porcelain. The warmth seemed to pulse, responding to his anticipation, reminding him that the game had only just begun.

Late at night, the city's roar was shut out by the window, leaving only the occasional sound of a distant car to break the silence. Chen Su sat in his cramped rental room, the moonlight spilling across his cluttered desk like water. Suddenly, Su Qingci called. The ringtone was crisp and urgent, shattering the quiet.

He answered. A cool, rational voice came through the line, though it carried a hint of hidden anticipation. Though her tone was restrained, Chen Su could detect a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in Su Qingci’s voice—a mix of curiosity toward the unknown and trust in his abilities.

This call wasn't just an invitation; it was a key, opening the door to the depths of Antique City and signaling the start of a new storm.

Su Qingci’s voice remained icy, like a spring reflecting snow. "Chen Su, I heard you picked up a treasure? I find it hard to believe you'd break the rules for a pile of trash."

Her tone carried her usual sharp tongue, but there was a hidden layer of concern. Chen Su chuckled softly and lowered his voice. "Just a broken bowl. Even the cat thinks it's dirty. I bought it for fifty bucks."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, followed by a very faint intake of breath—Su Qingci’s undisguised surprise. She paused for a few seconds, her voice softening slightly, though it remained commanding. "Tomorrow afternoon, 'Qingci Pavilion' in Antique City. I'll be waiting for you on the second floor. Bring the bowl. Don't disappoint me."

After hanging up, Chen Su gazed at the deep night sky. The stars were brilliant, as if countless secrets were flickering above. He touched the fragment wrapped in the old newspaper, feeling a slight warmth. Su Qingci’s invitation meant the game was leveling up.

The shadow of Tang Baichuan seemed to be quietly spreading in some hidden corner, and A Mao’s shriek was perhaps only the tip of the iceberg. He stood up and pushed open the window. A cold breeze rushed in, clearing the stuffiness of the room and awakening his dormant ambition. Tomorrow would be an extraordinary day.

Chen Su picked up the magnifying glass from the table and examined the Ru Ware fragment once more under the moonlight. The edge was rough and ravaged by acid, but beneath that greyish skin, a faint, celestial blue glow shimmered, like a sealed dream. The Patina Value layers emerged again, and this time, the details were even clearer.

He saw the fingerprints of the potter, the trajectory of the flames, and even the mark of a hand in a white glove that had once gripped the piece tightly. Who did that hand belong to? The answer was about to be revealed. A cold glint flashed in Chen Su’s eyes as his lips curled upward. This chase for time and truth had officially entered the white-hot stage.