The term "jian lou," or picking up a treasure, is likely familiar to many, originating from the world of antique dealing.
Some say it relies on luck, but that's not entirely true.
While luck certainly plays a role in the antique trade, the most crucial element is "zhang yan," or having a discerning eye.
In modern terms, this refers to one's connoisseurship, which dictates their status and wealth in the antique world.
My family has been in the business of appraising treasures for generations. My great-grandfather once served as an appraiser for Ouyang Xiu.
Ouyang Xiu was particularly fond of collecting stone rubbings. On one occasion, my great-grandfather was honored by his invitation to appraise some items, which in turn brought him a measure of fame.
Then there's my grandfather, who was once a favored guest of Zhang Xueliang.
However, this ancestral craft faltered by my father's generation.
It wasn't that my father lacked skill, but rather that he was an extremely ostentatious person.
When my father was seven, my grandfather uttered a prophecy: "If this child learns to hide his strength and remain modest, he may achieve great things. But if he displays his brilliance too readily, he will surely court disaster!"
His words proved prophetic. My father was headstrong from childhood, never willing to be subservient in any matter.
Coupled with my grandfather's substantial wealth at the time, my father became even more defiant.
By his twenties, he had established his own venture, proclaiming himself "Jiangdong's Grand Eye," much to my grandfather's extreme displeasure.
Later, my grandfather arranged a marriage for my father, hoping that settling down would temper him. But when my mother was giving birth to me, she suffered a difficult labor, and the doctor asked whether to save the mother or the child.
My father's response was immediate: save the child.
As a result, my mother, in her effort to give birth to me, passed away from the complications.
My father, meanwhile, became like a runaway horse, even becoming involved in a secret incident.
The specifics of "that incident" remain unclear to me.
Regardless, my father abandoned me, then only three years old, to fend for myself for ten years, solely focused on "that incident."
My grandfather had passed away when I was three, and my grandmother, overcome with grief, followed him within days.
I was raised by a wet nurse.
Given my grandfather's considerable inheritance, I didn't suffer much hardship in my early years.
However, my father's obsession with "that incident" led to the family's finances spiraling out of control. Eventually, not only were all the family's possessions sold, but even the ancestral home was mortgaged.
If not for the kindness of the wet nurse, I would likely have joined my grandfather by now.
It is indeed a lamentable state for a hundred-year-old family of treasure appraisers to fall so low, all thanks to my father's actions.
When I turned ten, whether out of newfound awareness or some other reason, my father returned home and never ventured out again.
He spent his days engrossed in his notes in the study, seemingly possessed.
The townsfolk all called my father a prodigal son, not only squandering the family fortune but also driving himself mad.
However, in my opinion, my father wasn't mad; he was simply lost in "that incident."
Having been left to my own devices since childhood, my mischievousness was in no way inferior to my father's in his youth.
Later, perhaps finding my behavior unbearable, my father began to teach me to read and write.
While others learned phonetic alphabets and memorized multiplication tables, I studied seal script and recited the pseudonyms of ancient masters.
Seal script was manageable, but memorizing the pseudonyms of ancient masters was truly a torment.
A single ancient scholar could have over a dozen pseudonyms and pen names, completely unrelated to their real names.
Once, I asked my father, "Dad, why do ancient scholars adopt so many pen names and pseudonyms?"
My father explained that as they matured, scholars experienced different moods and thus adopted different pen names.
I then asked, "What's the use of having me memorize these?"
He told me that he wanted me to avoid being fooled or misled later in life.
At the time, I didn't understand, but as I grew older, I came to grasp its significance.
In the antique trade, different paintings might be by the same artist, but their inscriptions could bear different pseudonyms.
If you were unaware of a person's various pen names, you might miss out on a masterpiece.
Of course, memorizing these pseudonyms is merely the superficial aspect of treasure appraisal.
A proficient appraiser must understand not only history but also the craftsmanship and materials of an object.
In essence, a skilled appraiser is not just a historian but also an archaeologist and a materials scientist.
Naturally, I doubt I have the talent to become such a formidable expert.
My father spent eight years laying my foundation. When I turned eighteen, he finally passed down the ancestral secret manual for treasure appraisal.
This manual is called the "Seven Stars Nine Arts Xuan Kong Secret Technique."
Even now, I haven't fully mastered this book.
As for whether my father had mastered it, I don't know.
Because when I turned eighteen, a group of people of unknown origin found my father.
They claimed they needed his help to "zhang yan" an item.
I was still in high school at the time and had an exam that afternoon, so I didn't get to witness my father's appraisal.
However, when I returned home that evening, my father fell gravely ill and was bedridden.
I took him to the clinic, but the doctors couldn't diagnose his condition.
From that day forward, my father's health deteriorated daily, and ten days later, he passed away.
On his deathbed, my father told me, "Xiao Fei... I have made too many mistakes in my life and caused too much trouble... I failed to fulfill my filial duty to your grandfather... I was not a good husband to your mother... and I was certainly not a good father to you."
"My entire life, I wasted too much time trying to prove myself... I hope you won't end up like me..."
Listening to my father's words, my heart was filled with unspeakable pain.
I asked him if those people had done something to him, but he didn't answer. Instead, he said, "Never think of avenging me... You are no match for them... Forget about me and live your life well."
After my father's death, these words echoed in my mind daily, making it impossible to forget.
After much deliberation, I felt compelled to do something.
Regardless of whether my father was right or wrong, I believe I must fulfill my duty as a son!
I must find out who those people are and seek justice for my father, and for myself!