Volume One Chapter One: Counterfeit

According to the Classic of Rites: Autumn Officials, it is recorded that the Zhou Emperor established the office of the Suxuan, responsible for illuminating the underground palaces and guarding the nation's treasures. Legend has it that these officials watched over the royal tombs and sacred relics. Two thousand years later, their role has taken on a new name: Cultural Relics Investigation Police.

—Prologue

*

He found himself stranded on a river that marked the border between China and Vietnam. The soft waves washed over him again and again, leaving his body battered and raw. His nose, once accustomed to the cool mists of a three-thousand-meter mountain, had long lost all sensation, and his heart, like that of a hibernating frog, gave a faint tremor—finally roused by the rich aroma of a pot of beef brisket rice noodles.

With great effort, he forced his broken body upright, his wounds scraping against the earth. Beads of water, large and small, shattered on the ground as they rolled off his drenched skirt. Hurriedly, he clutched his tattered clothes to his chest and stared blankly at the East Asian faces across the river.

"You're awake?" The Chinese man gave him a friendly smile.

He nervously gripped his rags. Three hours ago, he’d still had the Spring and Autumn Period bronze you with the bird motif, worth thirty million, against his chest. Now it had vanished without a trace.

He knew all too well what awaited if his crime were discovered. National law was clear: all bronzes made before 1911 were strictly prohibited from leaving the country. Smuggling such a precious national treasure—caught red-handed—meant a minimum five-year sentence, at worst, a suspended death sentence.

"What’s your name?" The Chinese man, seeing his confusion, switched to Vietnamese. "Do you speak Chinese?"

He nodded; after all, he was Chinese himself.

In the 1980s, he’d been tricked out of the southwestern borderlands, but was too clumsy for the trendy telecom scams. Instead, he was drafted as a mule—a beast of burden for smuggling antiquities. It wasn’t until they chopped off three of his fingers that he understood: a mule is livestock. Livestock do not speak. Livestock cannot take off their panniers. Livestock must even sleep standing up at night. They spared his arms and legs only because they needed him to carry goods over the mountains each night; one misstep, and he’d tumble into an abyss, precious cargo and all.

He had tried to escape once. The result: a savage beating left him paralyzed, then he was thrown into a water dungeon until his lungs swelled, and after that, a grimy, disease-ridden knife took one of his kidneys. After that, he behaved.

He was no saint; in his previous life, he had been a grave robber. He’d plundered everything from late Tang pottery horses in western Henan, to Eastern Han tombs in southern Jiangsu, even fossilized ancient vertebrates from northern Liaoning. This time, too, he’d followed the boss’s tip, lured by greed. Perhaps, he thought, all this was a form of atonement.

Last night, a fresh batch of goods arrived. The boss called out a few mules, getting ready to smuggle them across the border. Everything was set.

He hoisted the basket—so heavy.

The boss, impatient, kicked his wobbly knees and warned him to be careful; these treasures were bound for a very important person.

His curiosity only grew; he kept sneaking glances at the load on his back.

Halfway through, he caught a glimpse of a frightening glint of bronze in the basket.

Startled, he nearly slipped off the cliff.

He came from a family of grave robbers, versed in the secret codes of the compass, familiar with all the black-market lingo, and—above all—bound by a sacred family rule: never touch bronze.

Maybe it was superstition, maybe fear of the law, but bronzes were strictly off-limits.

With the weight of family and nation pressing on him, he trudged over mountains, the basket on his back feeling heavier by the mile. The boss, annoyed at his slow pace, even broke off a few of his front teeth with a stone.

He swallowed blood, facing mountains and valleys, each one more treacherous than the last. He clenched his teeth, thinking: if I cross the border, I’ll be tortured to death sooner or later; if I turn back, the police will catch me selling bronzes, and that’s death too. Either way, it’s death. Better to tumble down this border mountain—maybe I can cling to life, and even bury a precious bronze piece with me, to rest in the soil of my homeland.

So, while the mule team rested during the day, he quickly grabbed the bronze you from the top of the basket, hugged it to his chest, and flung himself down the bottomless ravine.

Shots rang out above. But the mountain fog was thick; the bullets whistled past, grazing his temple. The boss could only curse and take a detour to search for him at the bottom.

He rolled down the knife's edge of the cliff and gradually lost consciousness.

He thought, at the moment of death, he might finally become a good man.

*

“Back then, we were patrolling the border. At noon, we’d just finished a pot of meat stew, and he drifted over, drawn by the smell. When we found him, he’d collapsed unconscious by the border river, still clutching that bronze you... It snows in the mountains by October. Luckily, the water hadn’t frozen yet. I had to pry his frozen fingers open one by one to get the treasure out.”

The elderly detective, his hair white as snow, reminisced as he pushed open the gates of Xihai City Prison, telling me that, whether in the past or now, the nation has always cracked down hard on cultural relic crimes.

“The death penalty for smuggling relics wasn’t abolished until the Criminal Law revision in 1997. He committed his crime under the old law—should have been executed. But since he turned himself in and handed over the loot, he got life instead. Later, he helped us catch an international smuggling ring and earned major merit, so his sentence was reduced. He’ll be out next year... Hard to believe this case was over twenty years ago.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied politely.

“You’re welcome. You said you’re a detective too?” The old cop asked, curious. “What did you study in police academy?”

“Cultural Relics Crime Investigation,” I answered.

“Well, isn’t that something. Back in our day, we’d just join a few local stations, slap up a sign for a relics squad, and learn everything from scratch.” A trace of admiration flickered in his eyes. “Now the country takes relic protection more seriously, and the branches of the police are ever more specialized.”

“Not at all, sir—it’s thanks to trailblazers like you, probing the unknown, crossing rivers by feeling for stones, that we have a more professional force today.”

“You’re quite the smooth talker, young Shi. No wonder you’ve been entrusted with so much at your age.” The old detective smiled and opened the interview room door for me.

The old grave robber was already waiting.

Prison rules dictated that every “radish” (inmate) must have at least one interview a month. After all these years, he was long familiar with the process. But since this was an old case from the last century, the procedure was more formal. As soon as we entered, we showed him the prison’s letter:

“Hello, I am Shi Guangyin, captain of Xihai City’s Criminal Investigation Unit and deputy leader of the March 13th Transnational Cultural Relics Smuggling Task Force.”

My father named me Guangyin—Time—hoping I would cherish it, study diligently, and stay forever in the light, far from the shadows.

I did cherish time, I did study hard. But in the end, I entered the “Tsinghua” of police academies, inherited my father’s badge number, and followed in his footsteps, continuing the pursuit of grave robbers in the dark underworld.

As the nation’s first cohort of students specifically trained in relics crime investigation, I’ve served five years on the force, with nine years of experience.

Without breaching confidentiality, let’s add some credibility to this tale with details you won’t find online. For example: on the Interpol Red Notice application, right under “terrorism,” you’ll find “cultural relics crime.” Don’t ask how I know—let’s just thank those tomb-raiders who waste so much of my time, forcing me to check that box again and again.

*

“Officer Shi, hello,” the old grave robber greeted with a nod.

“Hello. In March of this year, we received a report from the Xihai City Cultural Relics Bureau’s Inspection Team. They suspect the bronze you you surrendered years ago may be a forgery. Now it’s June; we’re here to interview you again, hoping to verify the facts and clarify the details. Do you understand?”

“A forgery? Impossible!” The old man instantly bristled, pounding the table. He swore that he’d risked his life to protect that bronze vessel and could never have been mistaken.

“Please calm down. The authenticity of the artifact needs further appraisal. Our suspicions are just that—suspicions.” I quietly moved the interrogation pen out of his reach, just in case.

The old grave robber took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“Officer Shi, listen. That kind of handled, narrow-necked bronze you was used by the ancients for wine. It looks like a big-bellied vase, commonly called a ‘swing-handle pot,’ with a flower bud knob on top and a ringed base. Any expert knows the craftsmanship on Spring and Autumn bronzes is exquisite—especially the two herons carved on the body, one big and one small, every feather clear as day! I’ll never forget it!”

“But our department suspects it’s a fake. This isn’t just about appearances; we found another genuine example.” I didn’t argue. Instead, I opened the interview room’s screen and played a video for him:

It was footage of an antique auction.

Police attention was drawn to this event because it was held in secret, without official approval, violating the latest 2024 Cultural Relics Protection Law. The video came from the Xihai black market, its source anonymous—he’d only speak if police guaranteed three months’ protection.

The auction was small; no actual items, only projected images and descriptions. The last lot was exactly the “Spring and Autumn Bird Motif Bronze You,” specially labeled as “sea salvage from Xisha.”

I noticed the old grave robber’s eyes widen instantly.

Years in prison had left him cut off from the world. Like many old tomb raiders, he didn’t realize that as treasures on land grew scarce, new grave robbers turned to the vast ocean.

When it comes to underwater tombs, Xisha is the favorite. To date, there are 124 underwater cultural sites in China’s South China Sea, 112 of which are in Xisha—an unrivaled trove. The South China Sea islands were a key node along the ancient Maritime Silk Road, rich in buried heritage. Underwater tombs are mostly “shipwreck tombs,” once silk-laden vessels. Ancient pottery and coins can be salvaged by the handful. Though less refined than land relics, they are numerous and harder for law enforcement to detect. Thus, “sea salvage goods” have become the illegal relic market’s hottest commodity.

I paused the video on the image of the bronze you, enlarging it for him:

“This bronze vessel, in both style and period, matches the one you surrendered exactly. Please look carefully—between these two, which is the real one?”

The old grave robber’s brow knotted in distress.

After a long silence, he finally said,

“Officer Shi, what if they’re both real? Maybe they’re a pair.”