Chapter Two: The Treasure Suppressor

As the saying goes, ants urinate in their own way—everyone walks their own path. Although my experience in the trade is shallow, after years of scraping by around the East Gate, there are things I may not fully understand, but I've heard enough to know a thing or two.

The three most familiar words in this world are “Treasure Suppressors.”

Most locals in Tianjin have heard some legends about treasure suppression. Tianjin is a land blessed by feng shui, and stories of treasure suppressors have existed since ancient times. The elders of old Tianjin are unwavering in their belief in the southern treasure suppressors.

The most famous tale is that of Bell Tower Pavilion.

The Bell Tower Pavilion stood at the northwest outskirts of Tianjin, originally named the Ji Gu Temple, built during the Tang dynasty. The temple housed a complete copy of the Great Buddhist Canon. Forty-eight golden bells hung from the pavilion’s eaves, and when the night wind blew, their chimes could be heard for miles—a true wonder of Tianjin.

In the eighteenth year of the Guangxu era, a great fire reduced the pavilion to ruins. No one knows how the fire started, but many claimed it was because southern treasure suppressors had taken the treasures hidden beneath the pavilion, which in turn caused the blaze.

It was said the forty-eight bells rang so loud and far because four golden toads guarded the feng shui underground. A few southerners, having noticed the presence of treasures below, began observing the pavilion nightly. One windy night, as the bells chimed, they saw each of the pavilion’s four corners reveal a golden toad above ground. The clear chimes were carried outward by the toads. The southerners, swift and stealthy, crept up to the toads and placed a heavy stone atop each one. Instantly, the bells fell silent.

The next morning, the southerners returned, moved the stones, and, finding a golden toad under each, took them away. Within days, a fire consumed the pavilion.

The golden toad, an amphibian, dwells by water. Once taken, the underground water table fell, and when dry weather followed, the fire broke out.

When I first started in this line of work, some old men running nearby apothecaries spoke of treasure suppressors. They truly existed, though after the founding of the nation, they rarely appeared in cities, instead roaming famous mountains and remote wilderness, their whereabouts unpredictable, their actions shrouded in mystery. Yet their purpose remained clear: to seek “celestial and earthly treasures.”

As for what constitutes celestial and earthly treasures, even these old men could not say for sure. They only knew that, to a treasure suppressor, a dog bezoar worth over two million was barely worth a glance. In those days, two million could buy a detached villa with a sizable garden in the heart of He Ping District. The treasures that caught a suppressor’s eye were beyond the measure of money.

I sat in my chair, eyes fixed on the old book on the table for a long time, my mind replaying the old man’s actions when he entered the shop.

He didn’t seem like someone looking to buy.

I rested my hand on the cover of the ancient book. My fingers itched, but I was wary the old man might return unexpectedly. I didn’t want to offend him. Having a treasure suppressor as a friend would be a great boon for my struggling little shop.

After waiting over an hour, rain began to fall outside. I peeked out several times, but the East Gate at night was nothing like it was by day—by day, it was lively and warm; by night, cold and desolate. The only ones on the street at this hour, besides desperate grave robbers looking to offload their goods, were stray cats and dogs.

I locked the door, drew all the curtains, and sent several messages to Jin Yitiao, telling him to come to the shop the moment he saw them, no matter what. I wasn’t going to sleep—I’d wait for him.

Since the old man must have left the book behind by accident, I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Besides, it seemed his visit had little to do with the items I’d recently sold; he was interested in the Red Dragon jade carving. I couldn’t fathom why he didn’t simply buy it outright—a treasure suppressor surely wouldn’t be short on cash.

I placed the jade carving and the old book nearby and tried to calm myself in the chair with my eyes closed, but my mind kept circling back to the ancient book at hand.

Jin Yitiao had dropped his phone in a bathhouse pool the night before and bought a new one first thing this morning, hurrying over to find me.

Jin Yitiao was a young man who looked like a plain, middle-aged fellow—sparse hair slicked shiny, a protruding belly, always dressed in shirts and slacks haggled from the East Market night stalls, shoes polished to a blinding sheen. He kept one or two branded suits for special occasions, spoke with crisp efficiency, and could pass for a prosperous businessman or a government section chief.

But Jin Yitiao was far from simple. Back when university graduates were still assigned jobs, he was a trained member of the China Geological Exploration Team—a future master craftsman of the nation. If he’d stuck with it, he’d be at the excavation site of the “Nanao I” Ming dynasty shipwreck in Shantou, Guangdong today. Sadly, he couldn’t resist the coal boom and followed his father into the coal business, hoping to become a new-era coal tycoon. But after several losses, he grew as timid as a turtle. In my view, he brought it on himself—he and his father traded coal from Pingdingshan to Datong, Shanxi.

After his father went bankrupt and fled, Jin Yitiao returned to his field, becoming a middleman in the antique trade. He often shuttled between Henan and Shaanxi, collecting old relics from countryside villages to resell in Tianjin and Beijing. He didn’t make a fortune, but managed a modest living.

When Jin Yitiao knocked, I slipped the ancient book into a deerskin pouch and stashed it with the other item behind the counter—not that I distrusted him, but the toad from last night had left me uneasy. Who knew if the old man had left the bundle here by accident or on purpose?

Jin Yitiao handed me a Yuxi cigarette. I took a few sips of tea, set my cup down, and leaned in to light up. Before I could speak, his eyes were already fixed on the Red Dragon jade carving. He had a sharp eye; back in the Greater Khingan Mountains searching for a Qing dynasty ruin with the exploration team, he’d found two coal mines by spotting subtle clues.

Seeing him so distracted, I tapped the table and asked, “See anything special?”

He glanced at me, reached behind the dragon carving, and pulled out a tangled bit of wire, waving it in front of me. “Where did this come from?”

I was taken aback, realizing the wire must have shaken loose from the deerskin bundle and had been tucked behind the dragon carving all along—I’d never noticed.

Noticing that Jin Yitiao seemed to recognize the wire, I couldn’t help but ask, “What is it? Have you seen this before?”

He didn’t answer my question, squinting at me: “Seriously, where did you get this?”

“Just something I made for fun,” I replied offhandedly.

“You? Don’t kid me.” Jin Yitiao pointed at the steel hooks hanging from the wire with his yellowed fingers, saying, “This thing—ten thousand yuan. Make me another one right now if you can.”

I said nothing. It was obvious he knew the origin of the wire and hooks, but I’d called him here to settle accounts. The Red Dragon carving was worth eighty thousand—half my shop—so I had no time for his games.

Sensing my displeasure, Jin Yitiao chuckled, “Twenty thousand. Sell it to me?”

Seeing my surprise, he exhaled, smoke curling around his words, “Let me be straight with you. This is called a Skinning Fork, used by shepherds to skin red foxes and silver wolves. You’re wasting it here. Give me five days, I’ll find a buyer and get you at least thirty thousand, maybe even fifty or sixty thousand if I find the right one.”

I took a quiet breath, feigning indifference. “You say so, but since it’s called a Skinning Fork, have you seen one in action?”

Jin Yitiao grinned, cigarette stub between his lips, unwinding the wire around his wrist and teasing out five steel hooks. He clenched his fist and looked at me. “See? You make a cut on the animal’s head, adjust the number of hooks to suit its size, then pull the cord while skinning. The hooks pull evenly, so you can peel off the whole pelt without tearing or leaving marks—quick and clean. Five years ago, I saw a shepherd in the Greater Khingan Mountains use one to skin a red fox, and there wasn’t a single scratch on it.”