Volume One, Chapter Two: Spoils of War

Returning to the West Sea City Bureau, I hurriedly pushed open the task force office door and announced that we had made significant progress in the case.

If these two bronze you vessels truly formed a pair, then the amount involved in the case had to be immediately doubled, and the field investigators of our special unit would have to split into two teams: one to the museum for artifact authentication, the other to scour the black market from top to bottom. Vessel No. 1 and Vessel No. 2—neither could be overlooked.

But as I stepped inside, my foot struck something hard.

Even through the thick material of my standard-issue boots, I could feel, with only my toes, the curved shape of a bowl-like object.

Damn, an antique. I braked urgently.

Those of us who chose relic investigation as our first preference did so either out of genuine passion or an unwillingness to squander our talents. My particular talent was an extremely heightened sense of touch.

Touch is one of the five human senses—the hands and feet can keenly perceive the hardness, temperature, and shape of objects. But I was different. My entire body was acutely sensitive. Imagine yourself leaning against a patterned wall; you’d just feel discomfort in your back. But I could, just by the touch of my skin, “read” the exact design of the wall’s pattern. Don’t envy me. I was born with pathological tactile hypersensitivity. Year-round, I had to wrap myself in thick police uniforms, or else the sensations from all directions would drive me mad.

I carefully drew back my leg and looked down. Sure enough, there was a white-glazed porcelain bowl on the floor: its glaze had worn off, making it hard to tell whether the pattern was aged fly-wing cracks or chrysanthemum embossing. But the glaze was an ivory white tinged with yellow, the thin body translucent with tears—likely a precious Ding kiln piece from the Northern Song dynasty.

“...Master, I almost snuffed out one of your seven-star lamps,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes in displeasure. Only then did I notice the office floor was strewn with colorful porcelain—large and small—laid out like a bed of river stones, utterly spectacular.

At the end of this “pebble path” sat a handsome man in his thirties or forties, squinting back at me with a smile. He didn’t have the worldly ease or generous build of an old policeman; instead, his features were taut, bones sharp beneath the skin, tall and lean, squeezed into the dark winter police uniform marked with two bars and three stars. He resembled the deadliest mechanism waiting in an ancient tomb, ever ready to deliver a fatal blow to any grave robber.

He was the one sent from the capital to guide the case, surnamed Qi. I never did learn his real name. But I’d known him since police academy, where we’d shared a desk for four years—not because he’d been held back half his life, but because he was double-rostered in both the public security and national security bureaus, and also served as our school’s “information officer.”

Our academy offered some special courses—details I can’t divulge—but every class had a national security “info officer” embedded, concealing their identity and attending lessons with the regular students. Their main task was surveillance.

Not of spies, but of university professors.

Whenever a sensitive topic came up, professors in white shirts with wheat-embroidered epaulettes would dutifully report to Student Qi, “Comrade Information Officer, the above content isn’t my fabrication; it’s from such-and-such speech or document.” Only after he nodded would the lesson continue.

A few years back, it coincided with the founding of West Sea City. The city bureau and county squads were just getting started, desperately in need of staff. So the central government dispatched cadres, facilitated lateral transfers, and recruited young talent from nearby provinces, promoting them like rockets. That’s how I, though newly graduated, was quickly elevated to squad leader.

Still, I lacked experience. The case was reported to the provincial department, which launched a joint operation, and the ministry itself took it under supervision, specifying that I needed a mentor. When Qi heard, he volunteered to assist. I was willing to humble myself and call him “Master” because he was truly capable. His eyes were formidable—hawk-like, seeing far and seeing deep. From the Eastern District Security Committee to the Special Service Bureau Fourteen in the West, he could memorize everyone’s appearance, features, and gait in a glance—a walking camera. Spies above ground and grave robbers below all feared him by name.

“Hey, my good apprentice is back from his trip?” Master Qi was holding a small flashlight, examining a jade-green patterned bowl, his brows tinged with delight. “Come on, help me estimate—how much are these ‘lying down’ (meaning bowls and plates) worth?”

“Appraisals are for the experts. You can do the math yourself.” I glanced around the empty office. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, I sent them to Dongshan City on assignment.”

Dongshan City? What for? I frowned.

“Those grave robbers back then were truly shameless—insisted on digging up the No. 1 bronze you from the Dongshan tomb. They tunneled through the whole mountain like a coal mine. They can’t even remember where their own tunnels were. Who’d have thought, after a recent flash flood, a few of those tunnels collapsed. Local residents called the police, so our people went to check it out. Maybe we’ll find new clues about Vessel No. 1,” Master Qi said, pushing a cup of tea toward me.

“So many people went at once? Is this an elementary school field trip?” I didn’t take the tea, replying coldly that our case was seriously short-staffed; the county bureau was almost drained. Next time he sent people on assignment, the least he could do was tell me first.

Anyone who’d been seconded to a special case knew that the investigation period depended on the case’s complexity and the attention it received—sometimes half a month, sometimes years. The internal division of labor in a task force was as clear as in a beehive. I only had to sit in the queen’s seat, host the experts sent from above, unite everyone, and oversee the whole. But West Sea City was so understaffed I had to double as field investigator.

“Hey, don’t be mad, apprentice. Look, the city bureau’s special team sent one man, one woman, and a new recruit. Easier for them to take shifts questioning people. We can’t expect the local officers to babysit us all day, can we?” Master Qi was still all smiles.

I ignored him and sat down at my desk. Instantly, the strong stench of fish filled my nose. I glanced out at the blue sea. “What’s with the fishy smell... Can the sea breeze really carry this far?”

“It’s the smell of ceramics,” Master Qi chuckled.

“Nonsense. Ceramics aren’t fish—where would that smell come from?”

“You were away on assignment and missed the excitement. The cyber forensics team tracked the auction’s IP to a luxury cruise ship and asked me to go on board. But the people on that boat probably found me too upright to mess with. Heh, they just dumped a pile of ceramics into the sea and fled. I figured we couldn’t let the local fishermen scoop those relics up, so I called the fire brigade to fish each piece out of the water. Only finished this morning. Look—these are my trophies,” Master Qi said proudly, gesturing at the porcelain scattered across the floor.

Looking down, I saw many pieces still entwined with seaweed and mud. No wonder the place reeked of rotten fish and shrimp.

“Master, I didn’t know you had such power. Those criminals see you and throw their hard-stolen treasures into the sea in terror? Or maybe you’re their secret boss?” I shot him a glance.

“Don’t flatter me. These treasures are all tributes to us.”

“Tributes?”

“You haven’t seen it before? Some grave robbers deliberately leave artifacts near their tunnels as little gifts to bribe us police. Consider it hush money, a payoff,” Master Qi finally set down the jade bowl, clicking his tongue in wonder. “Ah, this is a sunflower-patterned jade bowl from the Ming dynasty, just tossed away... They must have more hidden. If those are lost, it’s a major blow to our country. Looks like we must see this case through.”

“Of course we must.” I told him everything I knew. “I found the person who handed over Vessel No. 1 all those years ago. He confirmed that both No. 1 and No. 2 are genuine, though their shapes are similar and easily confused. They might be a pair.”

“A pair? That’s uncanny,” Master Qi mused. “No. 1 was seized on a remote mountain at the Sino-Vietnamese border years ago, No. 2 was dredged up from the Xisha seabed and secretly auctioned off years later—such a vast gap in both time and space.”

What baffled us even more: it was plausible to unearth a well-preserved bronze from the soil, but how could anyone retrieve a Spring and Autumn period bronze from the highly saline, corrosive depths of the sea? In those days, the ancients hadn’t even mastered building tombs on land—how could they have built or entered a grave thousands of meters underwater?

“The rest of the team will be back by tonight. Use them as you see fit. I’m off to change into my diving gear,” Master Qi said, getting up.

“You’re going down into the tomb?” I stayed seated.

“What, finally worried about your master’s old bones?” He grinned back at me.

Not really. As relic investigators, we rarely enter tombs ourselves—too dangerous, and, more importantly, the law imposes strict liability on public officials: if negligence leads to the loss or damage of national treasures, the police are accountable.

Of course, I was a little concerned for him. After all, he was born and raised in the capital, probably only ever splashed around in Beidaihe. He’d never seen the deep waters of West Sea.

“Master, diving is even riskier than going underground. Let me check the scene. You stay up top and coordinate. I’ll report to you as needed,” I said, standing to block the door.

But Master Qi just smiled and waved me aside. “You’re more valuable now; let me play the pawn for once. Don’t worry, it’s not my first time diving. I know what I’m doing—see, here’s my official authorization.”

While I was distracted by the paperwork, he pinched my left underarm—a spot where my skin is most sensitive. I couldn’t help but shudder, allowing him to slip past.

“Master, the higher-ups’ inspectors will arrive in West Sea tomorrow. If something happens to you now... you know you can’t account for all these antiques,” I tried to sound stern, though inwardly I wanted nothing more than to drag him back.

“The structure and scale of that underwater tomb can be roughly deduced from the archaeologists’ photos. But tell me again: what are its distinguishing features? What traces were left at the scene? As the saying goes, reading about it is never the same as seeing it yourself. If you’re truly worried, why not come with me?” he said, as if reading my thoughts, with a smile.