Chapter 3: The Iron Warrant of Immunity from Death

Without troubling the shopkeeper, Lin Sicheng stepped behind the stall and began turning over several pieces of iron roofing tile.

These were cylindrical roof tiles cast from pig iron, a style that originated in the Tang dynasty, flourished during the Song, and became widespread in the Ming and Qing periods. However, they were rarely used in official buildings or private homes; their primary use was in Daoist temples and Buddhist monasteries, with similar ruins found in nearly every province.

Many of these sites have become famous tourist attractions, such as the Great Ci’en Temple and Xiangji Temple in the western capital, both of which feature halls roofed with iron tiles. The material’s durability means that a great number of these tiles have survived to the present day.

As the saying goes, rarity determines value. Unless a tile comes from a renowned temple, its price remains low, even for fine specimens.

Take, for instance, the tiles at this stall: all four sides are decorated with intertwining lotus patterns, and the tile surface is inscribed with sutras such as the Diamond Sutra and the Heart Sutra. The calligraphy is neat and even, and though rust has crept in, the characters remain mostly legible.

Lin Sicheng picked out the best-preserved piece. “Boss, how much for this one?”

“Two thousand!”

Lin Sicheng raised his brows. “Off the Big Wild Goose Pagoda?”

“Nonsense.”

“And you still want two thousand?”

The stall owner was caught off guard. “Just look—see how many characters are on it? Two hundred for you, that’s as low as I’ll go!”

Lin Sicheng nodded, set the tile at his feet, and picked up another. This one was much larger and of a peculiar shape. The other tiles resembled bamboo tubes, long and thin, but this one was reversed: short and thick.

Its condition, however, was poor. The rust was thick, most of the inscriptions were so blurred as to be illegible, and less than a tenth of the text could be made out.

He scrutinized it again and again, his eyes slowly narrowing: On the very first day of his new life, to come across such an object?

What incredible luck.

Satisfied he wasn’t mistaken, he held it up. “How about this one?”

The vendor glanced over. “Fifty.”

“Two tiles, two hundred and fifty—deal?”

The vendor did a quick calculation. “You’re bargaining over ten bucks?”

“Just trying to buy a bowl of meat stew for a kid!”

Remembering how the burly man earlier compared prices using stew as a standard, Dan Wangshu couldn’t help but laugh again.

Gu Ming didn’t mind; he often played the father figure for Lin Sicheng.

The stall owner wrapped up the iron tiles, handed them to Lin Sicheng, who paid promptly.

Just as he turned to leave, Wang Qizhi stepped in front of him, his gaze flicking repeatedly toward Gu Ming’s trouser pocket.

Lin Sicheng immediately understood. “Hello, can I help you?”

Wang Qizhi smiled. “That book you just bought—may I take a look?”

A bargain is meant to be flipped for profit; why not let him see?

“Of course.”

Lin Sicheng replied, casting a casual glance: Hmm, a connoisseur?

He pulled the book from his pocket and handed it over.

Wang Qizhi flipped through it page by page.

The paper was correct, the font and typesetting matched, and the publication number was authentic. Not a supplement, certainly not a photocopy, and it was in excellent condition.

No doubt about it. He closed the magazine. “How much?”

Gu Ming was still amazed—someone actually wanted this battered old book? Lin Sicheng held up one finger. “Ten thousand.”

Thinking the price outrageous, Wang Qizhi shook his head. “Too high. Five thousand at most!”

“If it’s just the book, five thousand is fair.” Lin Sicheng took the magazine, flipped to the last page, and pointed.

Wang Qizhi leaned in: on the inside back cover, a round seal—no larger than a fingernail—had been stamped.

The design was abstract, squiggly, as if a tangle of worms. But Wang Qizhi specialized in such things; how could he not recognize it?

This was “Worm Script,” and thus, a collector’s seal.

Looking closer: “Shi,” then “Lian”… Shilian?

His head snapped up. No wonder the asking price was ten thousand.

With this seal, the value was justified.

Its owner had once held a provincial leadership post, retired in the nineties, then served as an advisor to a certain committee—the very institution that launched the magazine “Fiery Spring and Autumn.” This might well be a first-issue copy.

But the owner’s provincial tenure was in the sixties and seventies; how could this young man know that?

More importantly: without training in archaeology or ancient scripts, how would he recognize Worm Script?

Wang Qizhi looked up, studying him again. Judging by his appearance, the boy was likely an archaeology student, probably not yet graduated.

But that alone wasn’t enough; even the best-trained archaeologist wouldn’t know this book was an internal reference.

He asked suspiciously, “What does your family do?”

Lin Sicheng smiled. “Just a regular family.”

Impossible.

An ordinary family couldn’t raise someone with such insight.

But since the other party was unwilling to say, Wang Qizhi couldn’t press further. He handed back the book. “There’s a bank just ahead. I’ll wire you the money.”

Gu Ming’s eyes nearly popped out. The man was really buying?

He thought it was a joke—until the transfer went through and Lin Sicheng got the text alert.

Gu Ming was stunned. Ten thousand—it would take him two years, working full-time for four hundred a month without spending a cent.

And Lin Sicheng had spent thirty?

What about that box of old tiles, and the two pieces of scrap iron in his hands?

Gu Ming hurriedly grabbed the two iron tiles.

Lin Sicheng was caught off guard. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll carry these for you.”

“No need—”

Before he could finish, there was a metallic crash.

Perhaps too excited to hold them steady, or maybe the vendor hadn’t wrapped them well—either way, both tiles slipped from the newspaper and crashed to the ground.

These were cast iron; how could they survive a fall?

Lin Sicheng’s eyelid twitched. He looked down, then breathed a sigh of relief: only a bit of rust had flaked off.

Gu Ming stooped to pick them up, but Lin Sicheng stopped him. “Don’t touch—I’ll get them.”

He’d known from childhood that Gu Ming was clumsy, always rushing, never gentle; better not risk another accident.

Turning this over in his mind, he bent to retrieve the tiles. As he straightened, another head appeared in front of him.

Wang Qizhi’s eyes were wide, flicking between the iron tile and Lin Sicheng, then back again.

Lin Sicheng, baffled by the scrutiny, glanced down—and swore inwardly.

Had Gu Ming’s clumsiness revealed a hidden secret?

No matter; after all, Wang Qizhi didn’t know who he was.

Hurriedly, Lin Sicheng covered the tile with newspaper. “Goodbye!”

“Goodbye? Hold on,” Wang Qizhi grabbed his sleeve. “Let me have a look!”

Lin Sicheng smiled. “Just two temple tiles—nothing special.”

“You think I can’t read?” Wang Qizhi was anxious. “I’ll buy them!”

That would be a lot of money...

The words nearly slipped out, but Lin Sicheng swallowed them. Truth be told, this man really could afford it.

He considered for a moment. “Not now—they need to be cleaned and authenticated. Why don’t you leave your number?”

“Of course, of course!” Wang Qizhi was almost frantic. “Let me see them first!”

Lin Sicheng, resigned, handed them over.

This man was a true expert, a genuine collector, not a common antiques dealer. He understood the passion, the thrill of discovery, the reverence for a treasure.

So long as the price was right, he really would buy.

Sure enough, as soon as Lin Sicheng handed them over, Wang Qizhi glared at him. “Be careful!”

Then, as if cradling something precious, he set the tiles on the sofa and gingerly peeled back the newspaper.

The well-preserved one needed no inspection; it was clearly a temple tile.

But the rusty one… if this wasn’t an imperial pardon token, he’d eat it on the spot.

He started at the last line: “Respectfully decreed in the first year of Yongchang…”

What is a decree?

An imperial edict.

Who used the era name Yongchang?

Several emperors in history, but the most famous—Li Zicheng.