Chapter 1: Broken Sword First Trial

Rain-soaked Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Cold damp crawled up his trousers. Puddles on cobblestones mirrored the sickly streetlamps, shattered by passing taxis. Matthias clutched his last coin, its edges worn smooth, yet biting into his knuckles. He tightened his collar—the faded old coat, washed to a pale ghost, cuffs frayed, still kept immaculate. The underground market's low vaulted ceiling buzzed, neon tubes hissing, the dim yellow light slicing through floating dust, mingling with the smell of old paper, verdigris, and cheap perfume. He stared at the broken sword on the stall—the rusted, jagged break silent in the shadows, like an unhealed scar. The leather-wrapped hilt was worn through to the dull brass beneath, glinting weakly in the light.

Elena was polishing a silver brooch with a velvet cloth, her movements graceful, absent-minded, her touch perfectly measured, as if the brooch were a trifling pastime for a long afternoon. Her gaze slid over Matthias; a mocking smile curled her lips. In her eyes, this destitute scholar was just another ant scrabbling through the black market, one of many in Paris. Poverty had stripped his dignity and sullied the cold, pristine quality of the silver. She didn't pause her work. The velvet slid over the silver, reflecting her emotionless eyes.

“Herr, that scrap of rusty iron won't fetch a few francs,” Elena said, her voice light as a feather. “You can't even afford the change for this brooch. Don't waste my time. This isn't a charity.”

Matthias said nothing. His gaze stayed on the broken sword. He slapped the coin on the glass counter with a sharp crack that rang through the empty market. The stallkeeper, an old man in round glasses, squinted, counted the coin, rubbed it with his thumb, looked Matthias over, hesitated, then handed over the broken sword. The instant his fingertips touched the blade, Matthias's breath caught for a second. The cold metal seemed to carry a sleeping warmth that seeped through his skin into his blood.

The broken sword grazed the edge of a fake Rococo mirror frame beside it. A blinding golden flash burst across his retina. Memory fragments surged like a tide—cold, sharp, tearing open the sealed senses of his mind. He saw a dim restoration room, a desk lamp, someone using a fine needle to pry open the old backing of a mirror frame, injecting a transparent glue. The motions were as clear as if happening before his eyes. He stumbled back, knocking over a stack of old newspapers behind him; they scattered with a loud rustle. Mocking laughter rippled around him. A few drunkards pointed and snickered, watching like a circus act; one even whistled. Matthias ignored them. His pupils contracted. He stared at the gap in the mirror frame's backing, his breathing steadying.

“That frame,” Matthias said, hoarse but firm, “is a fake. And it was repaired in 1995.”

Elena's polishing hand froze, the velvet cloth suspended in mid-air. She looked up, her earlier contempt hardening into absurd disbelief, then dissolving into a light laugh. “Ridiculous,” she said, her voice carrying a biting chill. “You can't afford rent, yet you dare show off in front of top-tier forgeries? Even the old experts at the Louvre can't spot a flaw. Who do you think you are, a homeless scholar?”

“The repair glue contains a special resin,” Matthias said, ignoring her mockery. He pointed at the fine cracks on the frame's backing, his fingertip stopping an inch from the glass, not touching it. “Under UV light, it fluoresces pale blue. That material was common in the mid-90s. And the knife marks don't match Rococo handiwork. Those are from modern power tools.”

The air turned cold. Elena narrowed her eyes, her gaze sweeping over Matthias's hand like a blade, as if re-evaluating the man before her. Slowly, she pulled a gold coin from her pocket, pinched it by the edge, spun it twice on the counter, then tossed it down. Her voice was soft—unnervingly so. “Take it, Monsieur. It's alms. Consider it a final kindness for your delusion.”

Matthias watched the spinning coin. He didn't take it. The coin spun a few more times, wobbled, and fell flat with a faint metallic clink. His eyes were calm, deep, like still water. “I don't need alms, Miss Elena. I need a fair appraisal contract.”

“A contract?” Elena raised an eyebrow, as if hearing a good joke. “Signing a contract with a bankrupt scholar? What do you hope to get with that scrap of paper?”

“To trade for the value of my existence.” Matthias's voice was quiet, but every word rang clear, dropping into the noisy market like a stone into still water.

At that moment, hurried footsteps broke the standoff. Marcus's assistant, Philippe, rushed in—immaculate suit, crooked tie, clearly having run all the way. He gasped for breath, sweat beading at his temples. He lowered his voice to Elena. “Madame, the Milan auction house commission has arrived. The family heirloom that was swapped—the bank demands immediate action.”

Elena’s gaze sharpened in an instant. She looked at Matthias with an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips, her fingertips tapping lightly against the counter. “Since you’re so confident, go authenticate that artifact. Consider it your chance, Monsieur.”

“And if I fail?” Matthias asked, not the slightest hint of fear in his voice.

“Then you’ll be permanently barred from Europe’s art world.” Elena raised one finger and drew a semicircle in the air. “Not just by me. Everyone in the industry will blacklist you. Your collecting career will end that very moment.”

Matthias fell silent for a moment, his gaze passing over Elena toward the dim street in the distance. Rain dripped from the eaves, gathering into a thin stream before the threshold. “That artifact has also been misdated. You mistook an eighteenth-century family heirloom for a nineteenth-century industrial product. That is a logical contradiction in itself.”

Elena’s hand froze. She studied the man before her anew, realizing that this was not the ravings of a madman, but a historical insight that pierced beyond appearances. Arrogance crept back into her brows, this time mingled with a trace of barely perceptible wariness. Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of her brooch.

“You’re mistaken,” she said coldly. “Not only will the order be canceled—you’ll regret your choice in Berlin’s winter.”

Matthias said no more. He pulled the crumpled paper and pen from inside his coat. The sheet had gone soft from the rain. He spread it across the counter, the pen gliding over the paper as he signed his name. The broken sword trembled faintly against his chest, its golden light fading beneath his lapel—a sign that some deeper rule was quietly being rewritten. He put away the pen, folded the paper, and handed it to Elena.

In the distance, Marcus’s voice spread through the rainy night like an echo, hinting at the banks’ absolute control over the financialization of antiquities. Matthias realized that what he had just stepped into was not merely an authentication commission, but a vast web woven from money and contracts. Every strand connected to an unseen power, and he stood at the center.

Elena turned and walked away. Her heels struck the ground with crisp finality, leaving a chain of echoes across the damp stone. Her final words pierced Matthias’s ears like icicles: “If you fail this authentication, your collecting career will end in Berlin’s winter. Remember: contracts outlast promises.”

Matthias gripped the broken sword, feeling the faint warmth radiating from the metal. Rain struck his face, cold enough to pierce bone, yet the fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever. He raised his head toward the blurred spire of the Louvre beneath Paris’s night sky. What awaited him there was not merely the truth, but a chance at his second rebirth.

The rain grew heavier. Matthias tucked the broken sword inside his coat, his fingertips brushing the chill left by the forged Rococo frame, his knuckles whitening. The dark-market stalls were already closing, candles going out one by one. In the fading traces of Elena’s presence, he recalled her brooch. A slight depression marked the spot he had touched—the habitual motion she made whenever verifying an authentic piece.

He turned and vanished into the dark alley. The broken sword trembled once more against his chest, like a pulse.

At dawn the next day, Matthias stood before a pawnshop on Balzac Street, its lintel rusted through. He took the broken sword from inside his coat. The inscription on its hilt gleamed in the morning light. The pawnbroker narrowed his eyes and brought a magnifying glass closer—then his pupils contracted sharply. Concealed beneath grime on the hilt was a mark: the private seal of a seventeenth-century court swordsmith.

Before Matthias could speak, the broker named a price—enough to cover three months’ rent in Paris.

Matthias shook his head. He only wanted to borrow a membership card granting access to the Paris Antique Dealers’ Association, returning it in three days. The broker stared at him for a long while, then pushed the card across the counter.

That afternoon, he reached the archives of the Antique Dealers’ Association. The dust-covered “1995 Paris Restorers’ Directory” lay open on the table. He turned to page 37—Louis Moreau, Rococo frame restorer. Address: 14 Temple Street, Marais. And engraved along the edge of Elena’s brooch were the initials “L.M.”

Everything fit.

He closed the directory. Rain fell beyond the window. Matthias gripped the broken sword. A faint hum rose from its blade as golden light seeped from the hilt, gathering into a blurred line of characters pointing toward Temple Street.

By nightfall, he stood before Number 14. The door opened. An elderly, white-haired man saw the broken sword, his eyes growing moist. “You’ve finally come.”

Matthias stepped inside. A Rococo frame on the wall instantly flared with golden light, revealing every step of its 1995 restoration. Deep within it, a line of tiny writing emerged and faded—the very mark the Paris banking powers had deliberately erased.

“They thought erasing the traces would erase the truth,” the old man murmured.

A faint smile touched Matthias’s lips. He looked out the window, where the Louvre’s spire appeared and disappeared through the rainy night. He knew that tomorrow, Elena would receive a report capable of overturning Berlin.

The golden light in the broken sword’s grasp grew brighter.