Chapter One: The Crimson Dragon with Five Claws

My name is Bai Buer, a small fry from the lower reaches of the Nine Rivers in Tianjin, and my trade is dealing in jade artifacts.

This line of work, the jade business, has never cooled off throughout the ages, regardless of dynastic changes. As a result, the number of people involved in this trade is as plentiful as the fry flooding the rivers in April and May: before one wave is fully digested, another has already spawned. Relying on some inherited skills, I run a tiny jade shop by the banks of the Hai River, just outside Yudong Gate, called Old Studio Hall.

The events I'm about to recount took place when I was twenty-eight, right around my birthday. Perhaps good fortune was at my door, for from opening to closing that day, I sold two jade Buddha pendants and over a dozen southern red agate bracelets. The profit wasn’t much, but for a struggling shop like mine, it was an auspicious sign.

Around six or seven in the evening, as darkness began to settle outside and I was preparing to close up, the half-shut door was suddenly pushed open from the outside, and in walked a man. He was over sixty, clad in a tight vest, yellow high-top rubber boots, leggings, and a bulging deerskin satchel slung across his back—who knew what he carried inside. On his right hand, he wore an extra-long glove reaching well past his elbow, almost up to his armpit. Dressed like this in such weather, he looked oddly out of place and was sweating profusely.

Seeing a customer, I hurriedly stuffed the volume of "The Flower-Examiner's Record" I’d just pulled from under the table back into its place. This book had been passed down in my family, devoted entirely to the study of metals, stones, and jade—a lifetime’s worth of learning, the true treasure of Old Studio Hall.

"Hey there, where are you from? Why are you sweating so much?" I greeted him amiably, but he ignored me, his eyes fixed intently on a golden child holding a lotus, a statue on the antique display shelf. "Are you interested in that piece?" I asked.

He nodded. "How much?"

"Three thousand," I replied. For a palm-sized, finely colored golden child holding a lotus, three thousand wasn’t expensive. But I expected him to haggle—back then, before inflation, three thousand was still a considerable sum.

"I’ll take it," he said, tightening his deerskin bundle and moving on to examine another piece.

Was he mistaken? I was momentarily stunned, then quickly brewed a fresh pot of Xinyang Maojian tea, my newest stock, and placed it on the table for him. I followed behind, enthusiastically playing the role of tour guide.

In this trade, a silver tongue is as valuable as the goods themselves. My father always told me: with new wares, sell the years; with old ones, sell the stories. A West Zhou ceramic is only valuable if you can spin a tale about it being the very brick shattered by Meng Jiangnu’s tears at the Great Wall.

My shop didn’t have many old treasures, and the few I showed didn’t seem to catch the old man’s eye. Noticing his growing disappointment, I hurriedly brought down the red dragon sculpture from atop the antique cabinet.

"Red Dragon Jade, stained with cinnabar, brought from an imperial Liao dynasty tomb by Chu Yupu, Commander of Tianjin’s garrison and Hebei’s administrator. Hundreds of armed guards died for it. Rumor has it that without this jade, even Chu Yupu wouldn’t have survived. It wards off all evil and brings nothing but good fortune. Take a look."

I’d heard this tale from Jin Yitiao—he’d sold me the piece as well. I didn’t know if it was true, but I’d paid for the story, so I had to sell it the same way.

The old man seemed interested in the Red Dragon. He set his deerskin bundle on the table, took up the tea, and examined the jade as he sipped. The bundle was bulky, its surface revealing squared-off corners—I guessed he’d brought cash to buy goods. When he drained his cup, I quickly refilled it, smiling: "So, what do you think? See anything special?"

He shook his head and said, "First, tally up those five pieces. I want to check a few more things."

I paused, realizing he was suspicious about the Red Dragon’s provenance. Otherwise, why ask for prices before I even quoted one? My real aim in showing the piece was to create a stroke of luck. The Red Dragon was one of the shop’s three major treasures—displayed for years. Following the principle that good goods shouldn’t gather dust, I always brought it out for VIPs spending over twenty thousand. If I could sell it, great; if not, I’d wait for the next chance.

Besides the golden child with lotus, the old man chose several similar-sized pendants and sculptures, totaling just over twenty thousand. I rounded it down by seven hundred, handing him a neat figure of twenty thousand—enough to cover a year’s rent for my two-story shop.

I personally handed him the receipt. Throughout the transaction, I noticed the old man’s eyes continually drifting to the Red Dragon, so I asked, smiling, "Want another look?"

He shook his head. "That one’s a fake."

I froze, then felt a surge of anger. But I couldn’t let a deal fall through just because someone called one of my items fake. In this business, there’s an old curse: call a piece fake to its face, curse an entire family. But I was too small-time to squabble over money in hand. I suppressed my annoyance and said, "If you think it’s fake, don’t buy it. The other pieces are all right, aren’t they?"

He glanced at me curiously, then nodded, sat down, took off his yellow boots, and pulled two bundles of cash from the soles—wrapped in coarse cloth, which stank up the shop. Still, smelly cloth means warm bills, so who cares about etiquette?

I counted them—ten thousand per bundle—put the cash in the drawer, wrapped up the items, and joked, "You really do make money with every step. Never seen anything like it."

He ignored me, instead pointing at the Red Dragon sculpture. "Other people's dragons have four claws. Why does yours have five?"

I looked down, following his finger, and my hand shook. The jade maiden holding a jar, which I’d just wrapped, slipped from its sandalwood box and shattered on the floor.

He bent down, picked up the pieces, and shook his head. "Such fine Hetian seed jade. What a pity."

"I won’t charge you for that." I took the receipt back, crossed off the price for the jade maiden, and counted out six thousand in cash. "It was five thousand, but here’s an extra thousand for your expertise."

He ignored this, instead pointing again at the Red Dragon. "Why shouldn’t a Red Dragon have five claws?"

I looked at him in confusion. "Surely you jest. Five-clawed golden dragons are symbols of fortune and auspiciousness. But a five-clawed demon dragon spells disaster. You know this—otherwise, you wouldn’t have pointed it out."

"A shop treasure?" He smiled faintly.

Embarrassed, I touched my nose. I’d bought the Red Dragon from Jin Yitiao for eighty thousand half a year ago, and ever since, it had sat in the shop’s eastern, front-facing position, hoping to draw in good fortune. Now, being called out by this old man, I had nothing more to say.

Despite the pain, I handed him the six thousand and his purchases, thanked and saw him out, then hurried to lock up and called Jin Yitiao.

A five-clawed Red Dragon isn’t exactly an auspicious piece, but it’s still a rare artifact from an ancient tomb. While maybe not the luckiest talisman, it shouldn’t be a disaster either. I’d checked it over many times before buying—how could I have been mistaken?

I called several times—no answer. Checking the clock, I realized it was after nine. That rascal usually hangs out at the East Market bathhouses until one or two in the morning. Why was he in bed so early tonight? I sent him a text, asking him to call me as soon as he saw it, then sat behind the counter with the Red Dragon, studying it closely.

The Red Dragon, slightly larger than my palm, soared skyward, its two claws poised to seize, wings pressed close to its body as if mid-flight and attack. The cinnabar-stained jade lent it an aura of fierce majesty—a rare and powerful talisman against evil.

Yet, having apprenticed under my father as a jade carver, I knew the rules: dragons never have five claws, phoenixes never just one feather, tigers never show their teeth, qilins never sway their tails. All are signs of grave misfortune. Buyers who wear or enshrine such items risk, at best, financial loss and, at worst, physical harm.

Modern sensibilities might call these superstitions, but anyone who shops for such talismans surely believes in them. The old man was clearly interested in the five-clawed dragon, hoping to haggle for it on the spot. I didn’t give him the chance. Jin Yitiao and I grew up together—he might cheat me for fun, but not outright deceive me. There had to be a reason. I had to ask him in person.

It was past ten, and, realizing Jin Yitiao wasn’t going to call, I straightened up the shop and was just about to lock up and head upstairs when a strange sound came from outside.

At first, I thought the old man had returned. I hurriedly stashed the Red Dragon in the counter, but quickly realized something was wrong.

The sound was deep, like fish bubbling to the river’s surface, growing closer, prowling into the shop. The window frames, the counter, the antique shelves all began to shake. The jade Buddhas and pixiu on the shelves trembled as if facing their nemesis, shifting from their original places as dust danced in the air.

I pressed down on the antique cabinet to steady it, hoping nothing else would fall and shatter, but unease crept into my heart. When Buddha statues shift, it’s never a good omen.

Soon, the sound stopped. I was about to step outside when the tea cup on the table suddenly cracked and shattered. A small dark shadow flashed across my vision, dropped onto the floor, and began croaking.

A toad?

Whatever it was had been hiding behind the table, out of sight. Now, under the lamp, I saw it clearly—a gigantic, blood-red toad, its back covered in dense warts, some as large as a thumb, others like grains of rice, all oozing white, viscous fluid—enough to make anyone’s skin crawl.

The toad was bigger than my palm by half, its belly pressed flat against the floor as it slowly crawled forward.

I stood dumbstruck. Only then did I notice the old man’s deerskin bundle still on the table. He’d left it behind. The bundle’s opening had come loose, the rim smeared with sticky white slime. It must have been the toad’s hiding place.

As the toad crawled steadily towards my feet, I summoned my wavering legs, darted out from behind the counter, flung open the door, and bolted outside. Glancing back, I saw the toad move even faster, leaping from the shop in a flash, then bounding across the street and plunging into the Hai River.

Not until the river’s surface calmed did I finally collect myself. What on earth was that? I’d never seen anything so revolting, let alone so large. Was it poisonous? I hurried back, locked the door tight, and approached the table against the wall.

I didn’t dare touch the slimy residue on the bundle, so I upended it over the table. Out tumbled several tangled wires, a three-inch stick, a jumble of odds and ends, and finally, a timeworn book.

Staring at the battered cover, my heart pounded in my chest.

A Hidden Treasure Compendium?

Thinking back on the old man’s strange attire and the monstrous toad, a name from an ancient, half-remembered profession suddenly leaped to mind.

A Hidden Treasure Keeper!