After settling the matter with the LV bag, Ethan wasted no time in testing how far his luck could stretch. He had tasted the sweetness of quick cash once, and now every item tucked in his backpack felt like a lottery ticket waiting to be scratched.
First went the rare wristwatch. The shopkeeper's eyes had lit up the second he saw the limited-edition model, no longer in production. They haggled for formality's sake, but Ethan already knew he had the upper hand. The watch was gone in minutes, leaving behind a fat stack of eight thousand dollars in his pocket.
The silver bracelet came next. That one fetched only eight hundred, and Ethan felt a pang of disappointment. It wasn't the money—he'd originally planned to exchange it for system points. But when he tried, the system flatly refused: "Financial and biological treasures cannot be converted into points."
Tch. The rules of this treasure-hunting system always seemed designed to trip him up. With no other choice, he let the bracelet go for cash.
On the brighter side, the cheap fishing rod and those worn-out Double Star sneakers finally proved useful. The system classified them as level 1 treasures, which meant one point each. Small as it was, it pushed his total from twenty-five up to twenty-seven points.
Ethan almost fed the Armani suit into the system too. It was tempting—another handful of points to play with. But after much hesitation, he pulled it back out. The sleek, tailor-made suit had cost him a fortune once, and though he rarely had the chance to wear it, Ethan wasn't blind to its potential. "A man in a suit is a man of power," he muttered to himself. Someday, that suit might help him close a deal or charm a beauty. Points could wait. The suit was off to the laundromat.
That left two oddballs in his backpack: a USB flash drive and a manual titled "Nunchuck Practical Course."
The flash drive was suspicious. It looked plain, but the system had flagged it as a treasure. Ethan couldn't help but grin. "If this thing's loaded with… ahem… 'entertainment films' from a certain island nation, then maybe I'll keep it for personal research before trading it in." He resolved to check it at an internet café later.
The manual, though—that stirred real excitement. Though not as earth-shattering as the Nine Talons of the Abyss, it was still a martial arts guide. Ethan wondered if he could transform it into a combat card. If so, he'd get a chance to test the system's combat functions in a safe way. Besides, Bruce Lee himself had trained with nunchucks—what better starting point than that?
After sorting through everything, only one object remained in his backpack: the ugly slab of obsidian, officially named the Obsidian Writing Slate.
The system labeled it a level 3 treasure. Trading it in would net him three points—decent value. But Ethan hesitated. The thing looked unimpressive, yes, but the system's classification hinted there was more to it. He decided to ask someone who knew better. If it turned out worthless, he could always come back and cash it for points.
And so, Ethan carried the slate down a familiar street to an antique shop tucked between a bookstore and a café.
The shop belonged to Mr. Harris, a man in his sixties with a sharp nose, thinning silver hair, and a reputation as one of the city's finest appraisers. Ethan had met him years ago when he was still working at a grain store nearby. Once, Harris had collapsed from a stroke on the sidewalk, and Ethan, without a second thought, had pedaled him to safety on his old tricycle. The doctors had said the quick rescue saved his life.
Since then, Harris had treated Ethan like a nephew. He had even offered him work at the antique shop several times, but Ethan always declined. He didn't see himself as cut out for antiques—too much studying, too much patience. Still, their bond had held strong. Ethan often stopped by for tea, stories, and a peek into the strange, shadowy world of collectors and treasure hunters.
So when Harris looked up from behind the counter and saw Ethan step in, his face lit up. "Ethan! What brings you here, boy? Sit down, sit down."
The old man brewed tea himself, poured it steaming into clay cups, and began fussing over Ethan's health, his work, his finances. "If you're in trouble, you tell me," Harris said firmly. "Money's not the end of the world."
Ethan smiled faintly. The concern was genuine, and it warmed him more than the tea. But he couldn't tell Harris the truth—not about the system, not about where his items came from. So he spun the same story he'd told the bag shopkeeper earlier: "A friend found this and asked me to see what it's worth."
When Ethan laid the Obsidian Writing Slate on the counter, Harris froze. The old man's brows furrowed, then lifted with surprise. "You? Bringing me antiques? Didn't you always say this trade wasn't for you?"
"Helping a friend," Ethan repeated smoothly, though guilt prickled.
Harris didn't press. Instead, he slid on his reading glasses, took up a magnifying lens, and began to examine the slate. His movements were precise—tapping gently with a metal awl to clear dirt from the carvings, holding it up to the light, tracing the yellowed streaks along its surface.
Ethan watched, growing restless. Harris's face remained unreadable throughout, and that only made him sweat more.
Finally, Harris set the tools down and asked abruptly: "This didn't come from a grave, did it?"
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"The dirt's still fresh. Ghost goods. Looted relics." The old man's voice turned sharp. "Tell me the truth. Did you dig this out of some tomb?"
Ethan flailed his hands. "Do I look like I have the guts for that? I dropped it—uh—picked it up near the riverbank, that's all!"
Harris narrowed his eyes. For a moment, Ethan thought the man could see straight through him. But then Harris chuckled softly and shook his head. "Fine, fine. You've always been a terrible liar."
"Well?" Ethan leaned forward. "How much is it worth?"
Harris didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his banking app.
Ethan gaped. "Seriously? I ask you a price, and you start playing with your phone?"
"Calm yourself," Harris said without looking up. "I need to see how much money I actually have. What if I want to buy it from you?"
Ethan's jaw dropped. Harris—wealthy, well-established Harris—checking if he had enough money? "Don't joke with me. You've got millions locked away. You could buy and sell me ten times over."
The old man shot him a glare. "Watch your tongue, boy. I just tied up most of my funds in a major acquisition. Until that clears, my liquidity is tight. If I want this slate, I need to know how much I can offer."
"Then give me a number already," Ethan urged. "My friend's in a hurry."
Harris peered at his phone one last time, then weighed the slate in his hands. At length, he sighed. "Twenty thousand. That's its fair value. But I can only pay you fifteen now. The rest will have to wait until next week. I'll write you an IOU."
For a heartbeat, Ethan didn't move. His mind had gone blank.
"Ethan? Did you hear me?" Harris waved a hand in front of his face.
Ethan twitched like he'd been shocked, eyes wide and lips moving silently.
"Good heavens." Harris scrambled for his phone again. "Are you having a seizure? Should I call an ambulance?"
But just as quickly, Ethan snapped back to normal, legs crossed, face calm. "What? No, I'm fine. Don't dramatize things." He swallowed, then forced a crooked smile. "You said twenty, right? Only fifteen now? Then, uh… fine, write the IOU."
Harris watched him warily, unconvinced, but obliged.
As he scribbled out the note, he spoke: "You don't understand, Ethan. This isn't just some rock. It's an Obsidian Writing Slate—royal commission, late Renaissance to early Enlightenment era. Few were ever made, and even fewer survived. That golden patina on the edges? It's not damage—it was intentionally worked in, a symbol of sovereignty. Only courts or monarchs would have ordered something like this."
Ethan nearly choked on his tea. The system was right! A royal treasure… priceless…
"It's a shame about the crack," Harris went on, tapping the broken underside. "If it were intact, we'd be talking hundreds of thousands, maybe more."
Regret stabbed Ethan's chest—but only for a second. Then his lips curved into a grin. If a damaged level 3 treasure was worth this much, then what about the higher-grade treasures he'd yet to find? The thought made him dizzy with greed.
By the time Harris transferred the fifteen thousand and handed over the IOU for the rest, Ethan was floating on air. He tried to argue for lowering the price—it felt wrong to profit so much off a friend—but Harris was firm. "This business is not charity. If I buy, I buy to profit. If you don't want to sell, you can always keep it."
That settled it.
Ethan pocketed his phone, numbers glowing on the bank app. Fifteen thousand. Added to the other sales—the bag, the watch, the bracelet—he was sitting on more cash than he'd seen in years.
When he left the shop, the autumn sun felt brighter, the air sweeter. His stride turned brisk, his mind racing.
He had money. He had points. And he had an open mission waiting for him.
Slapping his thigh, Ethan laughed aloud in the street. "Of course! Time to get ready… and dive into history itself!"
(End of Chapter 10)