It was unconsciously the latter part of the month again, and any book friends with monthly tickets should cast their votes now—no need to save them any longer, support is needed.

After listening to Elder Qian’s appraisal, Wang Guan and Pi Qiushi nodded in unison. After all, they had possessed the Gongbu Sword for some time, studying and admiring it frequently, and had naturally noticed the distinctive patterns on the blade.

“You must also realize that the human eye has limitations, and our sense of touch via our fingertips isn’t the most acute. Even if the blade feels utterly smooth, it doesn’t mean it is absolutely flawless,” Elder Qian continued his analysis. “The textures on the blade are dense and extremely similar, which implies continuity…”

In an instant, Wang Guan and Pi Qiushi experienced a flash of enlightenment, completely grasping Elder Qian’s meaning. Water, this ** substance, is inherently rootless and source-less; it must cling to something tangible to exist, or at least to be visible to us.

Water, already possessing an adhesive quality, when encountering the relatively balanced and stable patterns on the sword’s surface, achieved an effect where one plus one becomes greater than two. Furthermore, because the texture possessed the characteristic of continuity, combined with the refractive principles of water ripples and light, it naturally created the illusion of a ceaseless, flowing stream.

Of course, while some truths, once revealed, seem trivial, this did not apply to the Gongbu Sword. After all, anyone with some knowledge of Chinese weaponry would immediately understand how extraordinary it was to possess such consummate swordsmithing artistry more than two thousand years ago.

In comparison, modern swordsmithing techniques have not only failed to progress but, conversely, require them to painstakingly rediscover and study the very processes passed down by their ancestors from a thousand or two thousand years ago just to forge respectable weapons. If they were merely treading water, that would be one thing; but to have regressed two millennia—isn't that a disgrace?

Wang Guan truly hoped that when appreciating ancient Chinese weaponry, certain people would be motivated by shame to advance, rather than simply basking in self-satisfaction that such technology existed in antiquity…

“Elder Qian.”

At that moment, Pi Qiushi asked deferentially, “You mentioned that the ‘Flowing Water Forging’ method is only relatively superior to ‘Pellet Forging.’ Are there any techniques more potent than the Flowing Water process?”

“Certainly, there are,” Elder Qian smiled slightly, a touch of aspiration in his eyes. “But you must also know that the Flowing Water Forging process itself is already an exceedingly high-level technique. Any superior craft would involve such immense randomness that it couldn't be replicated successfully on a large scale.”

Wang Guan and Pi Qiushi exchanged a look and nodded, signifying their understanding.

It was much like the work of a master calligrapher or painter. Normally, their earnest creations would undoubtedly exhibit a high standard. But on a certain day, when inspiration suddenly exploded, they complete a piece in one fluid burst of brushwork.

That piece would absolutely be brimming with spirit, the result of a peak moment of skill. If you asked the master to repeat the exact process step-by-step, they certainly couldn't; even if they forced it, the resulting work would lack the original spiritual essence.

This situation is what is known as serendipity—the true meaning of ‘a natural composition, miraculously obtained by a masterly hand.’

Ancient swordsmiths were the same. They undoubtedly forged countless blades in a lifetime. The grandmaster Ou Yezi was an exception, having certainly mastered certain techniques and patterns, thus forging many famous swords passed down through the ages. But for others, having even one peak representative work in a lifetime was commendable enough, sufficient for them to earn their place in history and be remembered by the world.

“The most profound forging technique is called ‘Cyclical Welding’!”

At this point, Elder Qian continued his explanation. “‘Cyclical Welding’ is a modern term, a generalized description. The patterns of Cyclical Welding are not fixed; they can resemble feathers, fish intestines, ** or staggered stairways—endlessly varied.”

“Cyclical Welding is also a form of pattern welding, but the resulting textures exhibit extraordinary regularity, creating dazzling and aesthetically beautiful patterns. In fact, the flowing water effect seen on the Gongbu Sword is quite similar to Cyclical Welding.”

As he spoke, Elder Qian showed a hint of helplessness. “Of course, if you pressed me to explain the difference in effect between these two processes, I truly couldn’t answer. Even modern experts studying cold weapons are likely shrouded in fog, able to offer only a rather vague explanation.”

Wang Guan pondered this and rather understood Elder Qian’s point. Ancient weaponry never formed a systematic discipline, and the physical artifacts remaining are exceedingly rare. Scholars today can only gain a partial view through written records, then interpret the differences between various techniques according to their own understanding. This inevitably leads to personal bias, resulting in differing opinions without a unified consensus.

“No need to dwell on it too much; just knowing it’s a fine sword is enough,” Wang Guan laughed. He was a collector, not a specialized scholar of cold weapons, so he didn’t need that deep a level of comprehension.

“It’s best if you think that way,” Elder Qian chuckled, returning his attention to admiring the Gongbu Sword.

By this time, the water had boiled, and Wang Guan conveniently started brewing tea. Taking the tea leaves from the adjacent box, he noticed Elder Qian had changed the blend again. Judging by the shape and color of the leaves, this should be Xinyang Maojian.

Elder Qian certainly favored Lushan Yunwu, but the tea offered to guests often varied; Wang Guan was long used to this. He used tongs to place some leaves into the pot, then poured the scalding water over them. Instantly, a cloud of intense fragrance diffused, and the bright, verdant leaves floating in the water gave a refreshing, lush impression.

“Elder Qian, tea time!”

After serving tea to everyone, Wang Guan picked up a cup for himself. Taking a small sip, he immediately felt a strong, fresh coolness wash over him, and the discomfort from traveling between two regions vanished.

Just then, Elder Qian gently placed the Gongbu Sword back into its case, lifted his cup for a sip, and then smiled, “That Tang Hou Xing Cong painting—you didn’t manage to acquire it?”

“Don’t even bring it up; I couldn’t afford it,” Wang Guan sighed, shaking his head. “Only when I got to the auction house did I realize how many rich people there are. An item priced at 1,500 Euros, they drove the bidding up to 3.75 million Euros—it’s like they don’t consider money to be money.”

“That’s quite normal,” Elder Qian estimated calmly. “It’s only about thirty million-plus [RMB]; the price is relatively standard. To be honest, it’s because you went in hoping to snag a bargain that you felt it was expensive when you found no bargains to be had.”

“Perhaps,” Wang Guan gave an embarrassed smile, followed by a touch of regret. “But it’s a pity the painting’s colors were so dim and lackluster, far from the vibrancy of the replica housed in the Palace Museum. Still, considering it survived over a thousand years of wind and rain without being destroyed, it’s quite fortunate, so I shouldn’t ask for more.”

“That’s why cultural relics need careful preservation; otherwise, every transfer of ownership is another ordeal,” Elder Qian nodded. “Too much turbulence, and even an iron frame will loosen, let alone silk and paper paintings.”

Wang Guan deeply agreed, but some matters cannot be controlled by personal will; there are always irresistible external factors, and then there is nothing to be done.

In truth, the inheritance of antiques is a process of great waves washing away the sand, compounded by elements of chance. Everyone understands the principle of the great wave washing the sand: only the gold remains at the end. After all, only good things are treasured; inferior items are neglected and often perish, but no one mourns them.

Of course, sometimes extremely precious items were buried because of the ignorance of the ancients, who felt it was only right and proper that their favorite possessions accompany them in death. Thus, many treasures were interred, never to be heard of again, effectively lost to history.

The most famous example is the Lantingji Xu (Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion). Some say it was buried in the tomb of Emperor Taizong of Tang, Li Shimin; others claim it was an accompaniment to Empress Wu Zetian’s burial. Either way, there is no definitive conclusion to this day.

However, things like the Lantingji Xu are relatively fortunate, as at least people still hold out hope. Given the Chinese penchant for grave robbing, the tombs of Emperor Taizong or Empress Wu Zetian will sooner or later fall victim to the authorities, so the original manuscript of the Lantingji Xu will eventually see the light of day.

But compared to being buried as funerary objects, there was an even more detestable custom in ancient times—human sacrifice in burial!

Take the Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountains painting, for instance—a famous masterpiece by the Yuan Dynasty calligrapher and painter Huang Gongwang, considered the pinnacle of his artistic output and the realization of his mastery. Pouring out his heart and soul, it took him several years to integrate his entire life savings and accumulated insights into its creation.

Once completed, it was deemed a divine artifact, worshiped by later generations. In just a few hundred years, this painting was collected by numerous literati and famous scholars, including masters like Shen Zhou and Dong Qichang.

Time flew, the Ming Dynasty ended, and during the Shunzhi reign of the Qing Dynasty, the painting fell into the hands of the collector Wu Hongyu. However, on his deathbed, he maniacally intended to burn the Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountains as a funerary rite.

On the first day, he burned the genuine manuscript of the Thousand Character Classic by Monk Zhiyong; on the second day, he began burning the Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountains…

When Wang Guan first read this anecdote, he wished he could travel back in time, kick the man to death, and flee with the painting. But history allows no 'what ifs,' and the Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountains was indeed partially burned.

Fortunately, amidst misfortune, Wu Hongyu was senile, and there were discerning individuals among his descendants who rescued the masterpiece by covertly substituting it. But the painting had been burned, naturally resulting in damage. From then on, it was split in two, and now resides in two separate locations: one half at the Hangzhou Museum, and the other at the Taipei Palace Museum.

All these events naturally evoke deep sighs and contemplation.

Of course, these were all tangents. At this point, Elder Qian inquired about some details of the Tang Hou Xing Cong painting, offered Wang Guan some solace, and then smiled, “You stayed in Hong Kong for so long; did you only acquire one Gongbu Sword? I heard you managed to secure another national treasure.”

“Mm!” Wang Guan immediately adopted a vigilant posture. “Did Curator Wang call you?”

Besides Curator Wang, Wang Guan truly couldn't imagine who else would report this matter. He hadn’t mentioned this previously; he had intended to give Elder Qian a pleasant surprise, but now it seemed his effort was wasted.

“That’s right.” Elder Qian smiled faintly and nodded. “He called me late last night, his tone filled with intense envy and jealousy. I assumed it was about the Gongbu Sword, but it turned out to be something else.”

No Pop-up Novel Network www.RT