Chapter 291: Scavenging Treasures at the Ghost Market

The aftershocks of the whole courtyard's gathering, like the lingering oil smoke by the Stove, stubbornly spread through the air of the Siheyuan. In the Central Courtyard, the Sha Zhu family occasionally heard Ma Dongmei scold Sha Zhu over a child's crying or dissatisfaction; the voice was low but like a dull knife cutting flesh, tormenting Sha Zhu's nerves. He held his breath, venting all his frustration into kneading dough and chopping filling, making the kitchen clatter.

In the back courtyard, Xu Damao fell completely silent. He applied herbal poultices to his mouth, his speech leaked wind, and he spent most of his time with a gloomy face staying at home; when he did go out, his gaze was like chilled ice shards, especially when he caught sight of the Central Courtyard, a chilling cold spread. He was like a Poison Snake that had been struck, temporarily coiled back into its den, licking its wound, waiting for a chance to strike a fatal blow.

Wang Cuihua had been scolding for several days, seeing her husband's abnormal silence, and gradually hushed herself; yet in those sharp eyes, a calculating glint flickered from time to time.

Xi Kua Yuan remained an isolated utopia. Li Ping'an went to work each day, caring for his wife and daughter, his expression calm, as if the courtyard's turmoil never touched him. Only when night fell silent, after coaxing his daughter to sleep and looking at Lin Xueqing's tranquil sleeping face, did a barely perceptible thought flash in his eyes.

In this courtyard, beneath the surface calm, hidden currents never ceased flowing. He needed to gather more confidence for his little family.

That confidence came partly from the Spiritual Spring Space nourishing his wife and daughter's bodies, and partly from his vague yet firm understanding of the future.

Thus, on a moonless, bitterly cold night, Li Ping'an once again slipped on his old cotton coat silently, like a shadow merging with the darkness, and slipped toward the Ghost Market that harbored both filth and hidden treasures.

The Ghost Market was still shrouded in a dim, hazy yellow. The dying lantern swayed in the cold wind, stretching the silhouettes of stall owners and customers alternately long and short, like specters.

Whispers, coughs, and the rustling of searching hands intertwined, creating a unique atmosphere tinged with mystery and oppression. The air mixed the musty smell of old goods, earthy odor, and the scent of low‑grade tobacco.

Li Ping'an's gaze was steady as he moved slowly from stall to stall, appearing casual but actually sharp as a hawk. Most items were broken copper, scrap iron, old clothes, or obscure household supplies, none of which piqued his interest. Until he stopped at an unremarkable corner.

The stall owner was an old man wrapped in a tattered cotton robe, sleeves tucked, neck hunched, looking half‑asleep. On the cracked hemp cloth before him lay haphazardly some mud‑stained bottles and jars, a few yellowed scrolls, and a pile… of seemingly ordinary porcelain cups.

Li Ping'an's heartbeat missed a beat the instant he saw that pile of porcelain cups.

The cups were thin‑walled, their glaze warm and smooth; even under the dim light and thick grime, the rooster and hen motifs painted on them could be faintly discerned, the brushstrokes lively, the color—especially the barely visible pale purple hue—dull yet exuding an unusual charm. They were stacked haphazardly as if worthless junk, one even bearing a small chip on its rim.

Chicken jar cups! Chenghua doucai chicken jar cups!

Li Ping'an's heart surged with a storm. In his previous life he had admired such national treasures behind thick museum glass, fully aware of how priceless they were to later generations; the appearance of each one could shake the collecting world!

And here, there were… He quickly scanned, twelve in total! Though their conditions varied—some caked with kiln slag and earth, some slightly worn—they were whole, a set! If left for decades, their value could not be measured in money!

He forced down an almost‑unleashed exclamation, his face still as calm as an ancient well. He could not show any abnormality; in this Ghost Market, even a hint of emotion could cause prices to swing wildly.

He crouched, casually picked up a dusty inkstone washbasin beside him, glanced at it, then set it down. Then, as if unintentionally noticing the pile of cups, he picked up the chipped one, brushed the grime off with his finger, and frowned, "Boss, why is this drinking cup so dirty? And it's cracked."

The old man lifted his eyelids, speaking weakly, "Old items dug up from the ground are all like this. They're just usable enough."

"Usable for what?" Li Ping'an set the cup down, producing a faint clink that made the old man's heart jump. Though he thought the broken cups were worthless, he didn't want them shattered, "These rickety things are even leaky as salt jars. How much do you sell them for?"

The old man sized Li Ping'an up, seeing his plain clothes, not looking like a wealthy patron, and lazily extended five fingers, "Fifty cents each, pick any."

Fifty cents each? To buy chicken jar cups worth a fortune in later generations? Li Ping'an felt his heart twitch; this was a price lower than bargain—actually a giveaway!

But he could not agree; the Ghost Market's rule is that an overly eager acceptance hides a trick. He showed a disdainful expression, "Fifty cents? You're bold! Even giving this away would take up space. At most… one cent each, I'll take them home for the kids to play house; I won't mind if they break."

"One cent?" the old man nearly jumped up, fully awake, "You're bargaining too hard! These are old items! Three cents! At least three cents each!"

"Old items? I'd say they just came from some trash heap," Li Ping'an scoffed, tossing the cup back into the pile; the motion seemed casual but he carefully controlled the force, "Two cents! If not, I'll leave; over there Zhang Mazi seems to have similar ones, I'll ask him." He pretended to turn and leave.

That's called bluffing, a common haggling tactic in the Ghost Market.

Sure enough, the old man got anxious. Those broken cups had sat with him for days, no one asked about them; finally someone offered a price, even if low, it's better than them rotting. He still had rice waiting to be cooked at home.

"C‑c‑c! Two cents is two cents! You really know how to haggle!" the old man, looking sore, asked, "How many do you want?"

Li Ping'an felt ecstatic inside, yet his face remained flat; he pointed at the pile of cups, "They're all bundled, right? Looks fairly tidy. Twelve, correct? Two‑dime‑four cents." He deliberately tallied the sum, acting as if the small amount mattered.

The old man, hearing about the bundling, was even happier—convenient! He quickly fetched an old newspaper, deftly wrapped the twelve chicken jar cups together, and handed them to Li Ping'an, as if fearing he might change his mind.

Li Ping'an took the heavy, newspaper‑wrapped "priceless treasure," his fingers even trembling slightly. Calmly, he counted from his inner‑clothing pocket two one‑mao notes and four one‑cent coins, and handed them to the old man. The money still bore his body heat.

The transaction completed. The old man, pocketing the money, slipped his arms back into his sleeves and dozed off, perhaps still mocking Li Ping'an as a sucker for spending over two dimes on a pile of broken porcelain cups.

Li Ping'an carefully slipped the bundle of "broken porcelain cups" into his chest, feeling their icy touch. He restrained the urge to immediately enter the space for close appraisal, kept a steady pace, and soon vanished into the shadows of the Ghost Market.

Walking home, the cold wind brushed his face, yet Li Ping'an felt a heat surge through his body. The twelve chicken jar cups in his arms seemed to contain a massive energy, stirring his heart.

This is the true "dowry stockpile," the ballast against future storms! He knew these items could not be exposed now, must be safely hidden in the space, awaiting the passage of time and the changes of eras.

Back at the Siheyuan, all was silent. He slipped in silently over the wall, like a night‑returning cat. Xi Kua Yuan lay peaceful, only the occasional crackle of the hearth fire breaking the quiet. He glanced at his wife and daughter's sleeping bed, his heart filled with steadiness and satisfaction.

He did not rest immediately; instead his consciousness sank into the Spiritual Spring Space. In that private little world of his, he carefully took out the twelve chicken jar cups and gently rinsed them with Spiritual Spring Water.

The grime faded, revealing a white, delicate porcelain body; the glaze shone jade‑like, the doucai colors vivid and dripping, the famous pale purple deep and matte, a hallmark of Chenghua official kiln. Roosters crow, hens peck, flowers and grasses dot the scene—each piece a peerless treasure!

Who could have imagined that this treasure, coveted by countless future generations, now lay quietly in his palm, its cost only two dimes and four cents? The stark contrast gave Li Ping'an a dream‑like unreality, followed by immense joy and a firm certainty of controlling the future.

He stored the twelve sets of chicken jar cups safely in the bamboo house of the space, alongside the antiques he had previously collected. Watching his growing collection, he seemed to see his daughter's carefree future and the firmer foundation of his little family.

Meanwhile, behind the back‑courtyard window of Xu Damao's house, a pair of predatory eyes peered through the curtain slit, fixed on the darkened window of the Sha Zhu family in the Central Courtyard. Xu Damao touched the still‑painful, empty spot where his front tooth had been, his facial muscles twitching.

Sha Zhu, wait. I won't rest until I avenge this, swearing I won't be human! When you let your guard down…

The depth of night concealed the brilliance of the treasure's emergence, and also the quietly growing malice. A new day in the Siheyuan seems still to arrive amid this surface calm and hidden undercurrents.