The Lost Tomb · Conversa

In Hangzhou, the May rain made one’s very bones feel sluggish. Inside the shop at Xiling Seal Society, the only sound was the rhythmic swaying of an electric fan. Wu Xie was sunk deep into his old rattan chair, an auction catalog covering his face. The back cover of the catalog featured a Han-dynasty 'Eight-Cut' jade cicada, but he had no interest in it; he simply found the smell of printer's ink mixed with the scent of old wood comforting. The telephone on the counter rang three times, but he was too lazy to answer. After a while, Wang Meng came shuffling out from the back in his slippers. He picked up the receiver, gave a grunt, and then shouted toward the rattan chair, "Boss, it's for you." "Tell them I'm not here," came a muffled voice from beneath the catalog. Wang Meng spoke into the receiver without batting an eye: "The boss says he's not here." He hung up and shuffled back to the rear. At the same time, at the Panjiayuan antique market in Beijing, Fat Wang was squatting in front of his stall, polishing a German semi-automatic pistol he had just acquired with a piece of flannel. He rubbed it until it was so shiny he could see the bald head of Old Li from the stall across the way. Old Li leaned in to take a look: "Fat Master, is this gun real or fake?" "Guess," Fat Wang grinned, tucking the item into his jacket and patting his belly. "Guess right, and the stew is on me." Thousands of miles away, at an obscure long-distance bus station, a silent young man stepped off a bus with a travel bag on his back. He wore a dark blue hoodie, his face young and calm, yet his eyes held a vastness that belied his years. He stood on the platform for a moment, as if identifying his direction, before heading toward a predetermined destination. Meanwhile, in the courtyard of an old mansion in Beijing, Xie Yuchen was practicing the movements of 'The Peony Pavilion' with meticulous precision. As his water sleeves fluttered, they stirred a light breeze, shaking down a few locust flowers. Several snow-white petals landed on the shoulder of his pink shirt, but he remained oblivious, his brow slightly furrowed as if he were dissatisfied with a particular vocal turn. These people were whiling away yet another ordinary evening in their respective daily lives. A rubbing of a Warring States silk manuscript was about to emerge from Xi'an, destined to stir these scattered threads of fate—spread across the corners of the world—into the very same storm.