On Tuesday evening, Richard was halfway through memorizing the stack of difficult historical terms Mr. Holland had copied out for him when his Mother called from downstairs for him to take a phone call.
He went downstairs and picked up the receiver. A cough came from the other end, followed by a slow, deliberate voice.
"Kid, it’s me."
Clement’s voice was even hoarser than usual.
"Mr. Clement, do you have some news?"
"Last time, I thought Stuart was just doing its regular tightening up..." The old man swallowed.
"Turns out, not a single ’Category Two’ list has been leaked this season."
Richard held the receiver, not rushing to speak.
"I’ve been in this business for decades."
Clement sighed on the other end.
"The last time the market was this cold, the old-timers said it was back when the Oriental War broke out."
An ordinary person couldn’t sense the game being played behind the curtain, but an old Appraiser who had handled goods in auction houses for decades could smell the same scent just from the ebb and flow of merchandise.
"Even the big auction houses in the Imperial Capital are hoarding their stock."
Clement continued.
"Anyone with anything good is holding onto it for dear life. My old friends don’t have any inventory either."
The little bit of hope in Richard’s heart slowly grew cold.
"...I understand," he said, his voice softening.
"Thank you for thinking of me. With the market so cold, please take care of yourself. When things eventually pick up..."
"Hey, don’t be in such a hurry to hang up."
The old man changed the subject, and Richard’s hand, holding the receiver, froze in mid-air.
"The main channels are cut off, but that doesn’t mean there are no channels at all."
"Those big auction house types are only interested in two kinds of goods right now: things useful for war, or things with high research value.
They can’t be bothered to collect the leftover scraps.
Damaged goods, half-dead things, scraps—that tier is worthless to them. Hoarding them to wait for prices to rise would just incur more storage costs."
Clement coughed twice.
"Do you remember those shops I mentioned last time?
Those Appraisers will clear out some of their backlogged miscellaneous goods, taking whatever they can get for them."
Richard’s spirits immediately lifted.
"You mean..."
"Get out of school early on Friday," the old man said bluntly.
"Come to my shop at three in the afternoon. We’re going to meet someone."
"Alright. I’ll ask for leave in advance."
"Let’s get this straight first," Clement added.
"When we get there, talk less, look more. I’ll handle the haggling."
"I’ll remember that."
Friday afternoon arrived. The sky was gloomy, the clouds hanging low, though no rain had fallen.
Richard got permission for leave from Mr. Holland and arrived at the door of Clement’s shop at three o’clock sharp.
The old man had already changed into his outdoor attire: a hard-brimmed formal hat on his head and a copper-headed cane in his hand.
"Let’s go." The old man locked the shop door.
"Today, I’m taking you to visit an old friend of mine."
The two walked north along Grafton Street, then turned into a narrow alley Richard had never noticed before.
The shops on both sides of the alley were crammed together, their storefronts more unremarkable than the last. There were shoe repairers, pawn shops, and sellers of old newspapers.
As they walked, the old man explained that this old friend of his collected things others didn’t want for resale.
So there was no use hoping to find complete Marvels there; even flawed-grade Marvels were rare.
Clement expertly navigated his way deeper, stopping before an unmarked wooden door at the very end of the alley.
The old man raised his hand and knocked.
The sound of shuffling footsteps came from inside, and an eye peered out through a crack in the door.
"Clement?"
"It’s me." The old man tipped the brim of his hat. "Brought a young man to give you some business."
The eye behind the door scanned Richard’s face, pausing for half a second.
"From the Ashford Family?"
’I haven’t said a thing, how does he know?’ Richard’s heart jumped.
Clement coughed at his side. "Word got out from Old Tang, did it?"
"Who could you hide anything that happens on Huayue Street from?"
The person inside grunted and stepped back.
"Come in."
Inside was a small shop, dimly lit by a single gas lamp behind the counter.
All four walls were lined with curio shelves, on which were scattered all sorts of old objects.
When Richard saw the man who had opened the door, he rubbed his eyes, his face full of astonishment.
Bald and fat, with a monocle perched on the bridge of his nose.
Except for his face and height, which weren’t quite the same, he was practically a carbon copy of that fellow Donal.
"This is Tobin," Clement introduced him to Richard.
"He’s also from Stuart. Used to be in charge of screening goods for the second-stage process."
Tobin pushed the monocle more firmly into his eye socket and looked Richard up and down.
"Second place in the Cicero Cup," he said slowly.
"You’ve got a sharp eye, placing your bets this early."
"I’ve been placing bets my whole life." Clement leaned his cane against the counter.
"Won a few, lost more. This one’s my best bet yet."
Tobin didn’t reply, instead turning to pull a cloth-covered wooden tray from under the counter.
"With the market this cold, the only ones willing to run around to private shops are walk-in customers like you."
He muttered as he lifted the cloth.
"Those guys at the big auction houses, they’ve all gotten cunning.
They’re hoarding the good stuff in their warehouses, waiting for a war to break out so they can flip it for a profit."
"Aren’t you from Stuart, too?" Clement shot him a sideways glance.
"Key word is ’from.’ I’m out now." Tobin fully uncovered the tray. "Now I can only make a living by reselling the scraps others don’t want."
Richard stood before the counter, his gaze sweeping over the tray of old objects.
Beneath the cloth lay a dozen or so trinkets, most of them ordinary items.
A worn silver spoon, a chipped porcelain vase, one or two old coins of poor quality.
"Let me be clear. Stuart’s ’Category Two’ is split into three tiers:
Tier A goes to secret auctions. Tier B goes on the list of unsold lots. Tier C... doesn’t even qualify to be considered, it’s sent straight back to the original handler.
Everything on this tray is Tier C."
Tobin glanced at Clement as he gave his introduction.
Richard nodded. Better Marvels wouldn’t appear on a wooden tray in a private shop, much less be placed among miscellaneous junk.
’But for me,’ he thought, ’even a Fragment can be squeezed for a few Points.’
And in that pile, there were indeed two items that faintly triggered Richard’s inspiration.
His Inspiration Line, enhanced by Level 2 [Perception], had grown more and more precise over the past few months.
He first let his eyes slowly scan over the entire tray, putting on an act of being picky.
Only then did he casually let his gaze fall upon the two items.
The first was a Protective Talisman.
A blue glass eyeball, set in a tarnished silver mount.
The eyeball had a ring of dark blue in the middle, a ring of light blue around it, and a black pupil dotted at the very center. The whole thing looked like a wide-open eye.
"This one, what’s its origin?" Richard asked, pointing.
Tobin adjusted his monocle.
"An old piece from the Ottoman era. Could also be from the Persia region. Hard to say its age."
"The Appraiser on duty for that batch put his pen down after one look."
Tobin shrugged.
"I asked him about it privately. He said... the thing ’looked at him.’"
Richard’s heart stirred.
He discreetly activated his [Hidden Spiritual Vision], careful not to stare directly at the talisman.
Using the light spilling from the gas lamp on the counter, he let his inspiration gently reach out and touch it.
With that touch, he understood.
That blue eyeball had indeed "looked back."
A thread of extremely faint, extremely aged Ether was seeping out of the tarnished silver mount.
This was an eye so old it was about to go blind.
"This thing," Clement, at his side, recognized what it was.
"It’s a traditional item from the Mediterranean Sea to the Middle East, called an ’Evil Eye’."
"Evil Eye?" Richard asked, following his lead.
"People in that region believe malice can cause harm. If someone envies you or curses you, that malevolent gaze falling upon you can bring you bad luck, sickness, or trouble at home."
Clement tapped the Protective Talisman with the copper head of his cane.
"So they make these. A blue eye against a blue eye. ’An eye for an eye.’
You look at me with malice, and this eye reflects your malice right back at you."
"Reflects it back..." Richard stared at the tarnished silver mount.
"They hang it on doors, wear it around their necks, or sew it into their children’s swaddling clothes."
The old man nodded.
"The higher a family’s status and the more they’re envied, the more of these they hang up.
Blue was the rarest color in that region. It had to be fired from minerals, making it precious."
Richard understood.
This Protective Talisman had likely been genuinely hung and used for many years, blocking countless malicious gazes.
That was how its Ether had been drained away, little by little.
It had indeed been reflecting, for hundreds of years, until finally, the eyeball itself was old and nearly blind.
"This thing looks decent,"
Richard said casually, trying to drive the price down.
"It’s been sitting here a while, judging by its condition."
Tobin’s eyes narrowed. "You were introduced by Clement, so I won’t rip you off. One pound. Take it or leave it."
One pound. Not expensive, but not cheap either. Richard didn’t haggle yet, moving his gaze to the second item.
It was a Brass Arm Ring.
It was fashioned in the shape of a coiled snake, its head and tail meeting at the opening. The entire arm ring was a single snake connected from head to tail.
The brass surface had a damp-looking sheen, as if it were sweating.
Before Richard could ask, Tobin began his introduction.
"This is a Naga Arm Ring. The notes column said, ’Sweats in humid weather’... and it really does sweat.
Leave it in a cabinet overnight, and a layer of moisture will seep out onto the brass surface."
Richard reached out his hand. This time, he brought his fingertips closer, hovering half an inch above the arm ring without actually touching it.
He caught a strand of even, gentle Ether seeping slowly from the coiled snake’s brass body.
It wasn’t on its last breath like the Evil Eye Talisman, nor was it locked away by a Seal like other Marvels.
This strand of Ether seeped out steadily and naturally, as if it had been steeped in time, year after year.
"Naga," Richard wasn’t very familiar with the term. "A type of Snake God, I think?"
"A Snake Spirit of the water," Tobin said, pushing his monocle up.
"It’s a belief from the Southern Continent and the Spice Islands.
The Naga watches over water sources, guards treasures, and lives at the bottom of deep wells, rivers, and lakes.
When the rainy season comes, it becomes active.
The old folk over there often say that if a well ’sweats’ or the canal’s water level rises for no reason, it means the Naga at the bottom of the well has turned over."
Richard stared at that damp, coppery sheen.
’It sweats in humid weather.
The arm ring shared the same nature as the Snake Spirit it represented—both were connected to water.’
Richard straightened up. "I’ll take both of these. Can you give me a better price?"
Tobin quoted a price: "One pound for the Evil Eye Talisman, two pounds and three shillings for the Naga Arm Ring. I’ll round it down for you. Take them both for three pounds."
Clement coughed at his side.
"Old Tobin, it’s the kid’s first time here. Give him a better price."
Tobin rolled his eyes.
"This is already the private shop price, lower than the auction house’s reserve."
"Private shop prices depend on the person," Clement said, setting his cane on the counter.
"One of these is so old it’s nearly blind, and the other is just a piece of sweating brass... You think I can’t tell? Two pounds!"
Tobin and Clement went back and forth for a few rounds, finally settling on two pounds and six shillings.
Richard counted out the money, wrapped the two items separately in oil paper, and tucked them into his shoulder bag.
As they were leaving, he couldn’t help but ask a question.
"Mr. Tobin, how did these things... end up in Brighton back in the day?"
"How did they get here?" Tobin grinned. "They were shipped back, of course."
"Wherever the Imperial ironclads sailed, that’s where we hauled things back from.
Hauled from temples, hauled from tombs, and even more so, hauled from the hands of the living."
The shop fell silent.
"This Evil Eye Talisman," Clement said, tapping Richard’s shoulder bag with his cane.
"Once hung on the lintel of a family’s home in Persia, warding off generations of malice;
This Naga Arm Ring was once worn on the arm of a Priest in the Spice Islands, guarding a deep well."
"Later, the temple collapsed, the people scattered, and the items were put on a ship. They crossed the ocean, and finally ended up in this narrow alley, bought by you for two pounds and six shillings."
Richard gripped the strap of his shoulder bag, saying nothing.
’Imperial plunder was the root of it all.’
"At your age, what’s the use of thinking about such things?"
Clement patted his shoulder.
"The items are in your hands now. Just treat them well."

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