A debt-ridden tycoon inherits a luxury mansion, but the tenants are not human.

At 2:30 p.m., Chen Mo stood at the entrance of the West City Secondhand Market.

The place was bigger than he had imagined.

The tin sheds stretched as far as the eye could see. The space beneath them was piled high with secondhand goods; tables and chairs with missing legs leaned against rusted tin cabinets, and bundles of old books sat next to faded enamel basins.

The air was filled with a mixture of dust, engine oil, and musty smells.

There weren't many people in the market. A few stall owners were playing cards together. When they saw Chen Mo come in, they only glanced up at him before looking down and continuing to play.

Chen Mo took out his phone and dialed Lao Zhang's number.

It rang three times before the other end answered: "Feeding?"

"Is this Mr. Zhang? I'm here to come and look at the counter."

"Okay, wait."

The phone hangs up.

Chen Mo stood at the entrance and waited, his gaze sweeping over the old goods.

With his clairvoyance, he saw more things.

A thin layer of gray mist floated above a tattered suitcase, condensing into a curled-up human figure. Not far away, at an old desk, the silhouette of a child was doing homework. From a pile of scrap metal in the corner, a few wisps of dark red light emanated.

He looked away, trying not to look closely.

After waiting for about ten minutes, a man in his fifties emerged from the depths of the market. He was wearing faded work clothes, had gray hair, deep wrinkles on his face, and a cigarette between his fingers.

"Old Zhang?" Chen Mo asked.

The man nodded, looking him up and down. "Want to see the counter?"

"right."

"Come with me."

Old Zhang turned and walked into the market, with Chen Mo following behind.

The two walked through rows of sheds and finally arrived at a standalone warehouse in the far corner of the market. The warehouse was made of corrugated iron and had a large padlock on the door.

Old Zhang took out his key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

It was dark inside. He pulled the light cord by the door, and an incandescent bulb turned on, casting a dim, yellowish light.

The warehouse was filled with old furniture, piled up to the ceiling.

Chen Mo spotted the counter immediately—an old-fashioned glass counter, about two meters long and one meter high, the glass was chipped and the wooden frame was badly painted. The counter was placed at the very back of the warehouse, with several old cardboard boxes on top of it.

"This is it." Old Zhang pointed. "I bought it when the department store was demolished. I wanted to open a small shop, but it didn't work out, so it's been sitting here ever since."

Chen Mo walked over and squatted down to look under the counter.

The dust was thick; he wiped the ground with his hand, revealing a layer of black stains.

"Could you move it a little?" Chen Mo asked. "I want to see what's underneath."

Old Zhang frowned: "It's very heavy."

"I can pay more."

Old Zhang stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded: "One hundred."

Chen Mo pulled a red bill out of his wallet.

Old Zhang took it, put it in his pocket, and walked to the side of the counter: "Give me a hand."

The two of them pulled together. The counter was heavier than they had expected; the wood was very solid. They moved it little by little, revealing the gap between the wall and the floor behind it.

Chen Mo lay down and shone his phone's flashlight inside.

The crevices were filled with dust and cobwebs, mixed with small pebbles and scraps of paper. He looked closely but didn't see anything silvery.

"What are you looking for?" Old Zhang asked.

"A ring, silver, very thin," Chen Mo said. "It probably fell in more than twenty years ago."

Old Zhang lit a new cigarette, took a puff, and said, "More than twenty years ago, even if it were still inside, it would have been cleared out long ago. When I bought this counter, I cleaned it inside and out."

Chen Mo didn't say anything and continued watching.

He focused his attention and activated his spiritual vision.

The perspective has changed.

The dust turned into floating gray particles, and the counter itself emitted a faint yellow halo, which was the memory left by the long-term use of the wood.

And in the crack... there is light.

A very faint, silvery-white light, like a small ball of cold fire, clung tightly to the wall in the deepest part of the crevice.

Chen Mo's heart raced.

He reached out to grab it, but his arm wasn't long enough. He stood up, looked around, and found a thin wire in the pile of debris nearby, bending it into a hook.

"Is there really something there?" Old Zhang also became interested and came over to take a look.

Chen Mo lay back down and carefully poked at the crevice with a wire hook.

The hook hit something hard, making a slight "click" sound.

He slowly hooked it outwards.

Little by little, just a little bit.

Something was pulled out.

It's not a ring.

It's a button. It's made of brass, and it's rusted black, with patterns faintly visible on it.

Chen Mo gripped the cold button tightly, his heart sinking.

Under spiritual vision, a very faint white halo floated on the button, a trace left by someone wearing it for a long time, but not an obsession.

The silvery-white light still lingered in the gap.

"Is there anything else?" Old Zhang asked.

Chen Mo didn't answer, and lay down again. This time he changed his angle, looking in from the corner between the side of the counter and the wall.

The silvery-white light is in the deeper part.

That spot is completely out of reach unless you move the counter aside or tear down the wall.

"Could you move it a little more?" Chen Mo asked.

Old Zhang shook his head: "It can't be moved; there's a wall behind it. Unless we stand the counter upright, but that would require removing the glass, which is easily broken."

Chen Mo stood up and dusted off his hands.

He stared at the gap for a long time, then asked, "Mr. Zhang, after we bought this counter, has anyone touched the floor underneath?"

"Floor?" Old Zhang thought for a moment. "No. The warehouse floor is just concrete; it hasn't been touched."

"Has the floor under that counter always been like this?"

"It's always been like this. What, are you going to dig the ground?"

Chen Mo didn't speak. He squatted down and tapped the cement floor next to the crack with his finger.

The sound was very solid.

But the silvery-white light was clearly below.

Unless... the light doesn't come from beneath the ground, but from even deeper—below the foundation.

Chen Mo suddenly remembered the news he had seen last night.

Republic of China coins were unearthed at the Wanda Plaza construction site; the silvery-white thing in the corner of the photo.

He stood up, took out his phone, found the photo, and zoomed in to show it to Old Zhang: "Boss Zhang, look at this. It was dug up at the Wanda Plaza construction site. Doesn't it look like a ring?"

Old Zhang squinted at it for a moment, then nodded: "Somewhat. Silver?"

"right."

"Then it's not with me anymore." Old Zhang flicked his cigarette ash. "It was dug out of the construction site; it should have been sent to the cultural relics bureau."

If the ring was really under the counter, after more than twenty years, it would either have been picked up by someone, buried in the foundation when the building was demolished, and eventually dug out during construction.

Chen Mo turned off his phone.

"Thank you, Mr. Zhang," he said. "The counter doesn't need to be moved back, and the money doesn't need to be refunded."

He turned and walked out.

Old Zhang called out from behind, "Young man, is that ring very important?"

Chen Mo stopped, without turning around: "It's very important to someone."

"Who is it?"

"Someone I've waited for my whole life."

Chen Mo walked out of the warehouse, the incandescent light bulb going out behind him. Old Zhang stood in the darkness, watching his retreating figure, shook his head, and muttered to himself, "Another one looking for something."

At 4:30 p.m., Chen Mo stood at the entrance of the Archaeological Institute of the Municipal Bureau of Cultural Relics.

This is an old-fashioned three-story building with red brick walls covered in ivy. There's a sign hanging at the entrance, the iron gate is closed, and there's a guardhouse next to it.

Chen Mo walked over and knocked on the window.

The window was opened, and an old man in his sixties was sitting inside.

"Who should I look for?"

"Hello, I'd like to ask if the materials unearthed from the Wanda Plaza construction site yesterday have been delivered here?"

The old man sized him up: "What do you do for a living?"

"I...I'm a family member," Chen Mo made up a reason, "There might be a family memento inside, and I want to take a look."

The old man shook his head: "No. Excavated cultural relics must be registered and stored; you can't just look at them casually. You need to go to the cultural relics bureau to get a certificate."

"I'll just take a look and confirm if it's true."

"I said no." The old man closed the window.

Chen Mo stood at the doorway, unconsciously kicking the pebbles on the ground with his toes.

He walked around the small building. There was a wall behind it, not very high, but it was covered with broken glass.

We can't get in through the main gate, and climbing over the wall is too risky.

He returned to the roadside opposite the main gate, found a bench to sit on, and stared at the small building of the research institute.

Under the spiritual vision, a faint halo surrounded the small building, a unique aura found in places where antiques are stored for a long time. The color was yellowish-brown, resembling a mixture of old paper and old wood.

The light from a certain window on the third floor was of a different color.

It is silvery-white, very light, but stands out against a sea of ​​yellowish-brown.

Chen Mo stared at that window.

The ring is right there.

The question is, how do we get in?

He sat on the bench until dark. The streetlights came on, and the lights in the research institute gradually turned on as well. The windows on the third floor remained dark; no one was there.

At 7 p.m., the old man in the gatehouse came out to lock the gate, then carried his lunchbox toward the cafeteria.

The opportunity is here.

Chen Mo stood up and walked to the wall. He found a spot with relatively little broken glass, took a few steps back, ran up, and jumped.

He grabbed the top of the wall, and shards of glass pierced his palm.

He groaned, used his strength to prop himself up, and rolled over.

He twisted his ankle when he landed, and the pain made him wince.

He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, and looked at his palm. Two cuts were visible in the glass, blood seeping out. He tore off the hem of his shirt, hastily bandaged the wound, and then walked towards the back door of the building.

The back door was locked, but a window next to it wasn't closed properly, leaving a crack.

Chen Mo pushed open the window and climbed inside.

The corridor inside was dark, with only the green light of the emergency exit illuminated by a faint glow. He turned on his phone's flashlight and shone it around.

The corridor is lined with rooms on both sides, with signs on the doors reading "Restoration Room", "Record Room", and "Storage Room".

The staircase is at the end of the corridor.

He tiptoed over and went up to the third floor.

The third floor was even quieter, so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat. He checked the room numbers one by one, finally stopping in front of a door that read "Temporary Storage Room".

The door was locked; it was an old-fashioned pin tumbler lock.

Chen Mo pulled the thin wire out of his pocket—he'd taken it from the secondhand market that afternoon.

He squatted down, bent the wire into a hook shape, and inserted it into the keyhole.

I haven't completely forgotten the skills I honed at the locksmith company.

He tentatively flicked the pin, pressing his ear against the cold door to listen for any sounds inside.

Click.

A soft sound.

The lock is open.