Xi'an's summer is like a pressure cooker—no breeze, just dry dust and the tantalizing aroma of cumin-spiced barbecue wafting through the air.

My name is Ethan Shen. I run "Antiquity Quest Studio," the shop my grandfather left me. It earns me a decent living here in the melting pot of Xicang.

The Xicang market never changes—bodies pressed together, sweat-soaked shirts, and a cacophony of vendor shouts and haggling that bubbles like a cauldron of noise.

I take another bite of my lukewarm meat sandwich as I wander, my eyes sweeping the stalls like radar. Damn near everything here is fake—and poorly made at that—but that one-percent chance of finding something real? That's my catnip. Makes my fingers twitch every time.

That's when I spotted it—an iron box tucked in the corner of a stall hawking "family heirlooms" (read: copper coins with fake patina and broken pottery).

The box sat carelessly tossed among so-called "Ming and Qing dynasty porcelain," covered in dried yellow mud, blackened and unremarkable. About the size of a shoebox, square and solid—just a lump of iron to most eyes. But my heart skipped a beat. Grandpa called this feeling the "Passing Hand"—when ancient objects reach out to their rightful finders.

I crouched and lifted it. Damn, it was heavy—with a cold texture nothing like ordinary cast iron. I scraped away some mud with my thumbnail, revealing a dull metallic luster underneath with what looked like intricate patterns etched into the surface.

"Hey, how much for this?" I asked, keeping my voice deliberately casual.

The vendor—a skinny, wiry middle-aged man with darting eyes—perked up instantly. "Well now, sharp eyes you've got there! That's a genuine treasure I dug up beneath an old country estate—been in the same family for generations!"

I suppressed a snort. Christ, I'd heard that pitch so many times I could recite it in my sleep. I weighed the box in my hand, then tapped it—the sound came back dull, not hollow.

"It's just an old iron box," I said, stuffing the last bite of sandwich into my mouth. "Fifty yuan. Not a penny more."

"Fifty?" His eyes bulged. "You must be joking! This is—"

"Fine, fifty it is. Take it or leave it." I started to stand, brushing dust from my knees.

"Wait, wait!" He grabbed my arm. "Alright, fifty! First sale of the day—let's call it good luck!"

I quickly scanned his payment code and stuffed the heavy iron lump into my canvas satchel before disappearing into the crowd. Behind me, the vendor was probably congratulating himself on unloading another piece of junk. What he didn't know was that a small flame of excitement had already ignited in my chest.

Back at the shop, I immediately pulled down the roller shutter and cranked the AC to max. My place was crammed with artifacts, the air perpetually scented with old wood and dust. I placed the box on my prized huanghuali table—its surface polished to a rich amber glow by years of use—filled a basin with clean water, grabbed a soft brush, and began cleaning with surgical precision.

As the mud washed away, the box's true nature emerged. It was pitch black but somehow gleamed with a peculiar luster like the night sky. The surface wasn't smooth—it was covered with countless hair-thin grooves that resembled celestial orbits. Whatever this material was, it definitely wasn't ordinary iron.

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