I followed Curator Qian upstairs. It was hard to imagine that the director of a provincial museum lived in such an old apartment building—his frugality was clearly genuine.
"My wife passed away early, and after my daughter started working she's rarely home. There's no one to tidy up, so just find a spot and sit," Curator Qian greeted me warmly.
His sixty‐square‐meter apartment was indeed cluttered, but not dirty: books lay overturned everywhere, as if a thief had ransacked a library. On the living‐room wall hung a family portrait of three, taken when Curator Qian was still young. Flanking it were countless certificates of honor.
He emerged from his study holding a bottle of mineral water in one hand and a thick, yellowed tome in the other. He sat down, set the book on the coffee table, and said, "There were cameras in the office yesterday, so I couldn't answer your questions there."
"You're not even allowed to speak freely?" I asked, surprised.
"Of course not," he replied. "We must speak with evidence, backed by artifacts. Cultural knowledge for future generations can't be built on hearsay."
He flipped open the book. The very first page held an old photograph that took my breath away: an endless sea under a sky, and a gargantuan turtle on the shore. Judging by the fishing boat in the frame, the creature's shell rose five or six meters high, its back like a small hill.
"Curator Qian, is this really a turtle?" I asked.
He tapped the photo. "A close friend of mine took that years ago. When he published it, no one believed him. He fell into depression and died. The photo eventually came into my hands. Now people are free to speak—but much of the original evidence has been destroyed."
Recalling those fervent years, Curator Qian grew reflective and distant for a moment. Then he smiled and said, "That's not a turtle—it's a yuan, a giant soft‐shelled turtle from legend."
Living alone, he seemed eager to share. He told a story for every photograph, each more fascinating than the last.
But as we reached the final pages, I glanced at the clock and realized I had promised Xiaocui I'd be back for dinner. Curator Qian hadn't mentioned anything about Taoist alchemists, so I grew anxious.
Seeing my unease, he turned the pages faster. Soon another yellowed photograph caught my eye: a black stele standing on a rocky reef. Even in monochrome, its white carved patterns stood out clearly against the ink‐dark stone.
I inhaled sharply. The patterns matched the totems I'd seen on that patch of black human skin.
Curator Qian pulled a rubbing from behind the photo and handed it to me. "I made this from the picture—take it home and study it."
I hesitated to take it. I'd come not to chase clues, but simply to learn.
"Curator Qian, do the Undying really exist in the East Sea?" I asked, eyes on the stele.
He nodded. "The strange beasts you saw were found in waters near that stele. Some have lived thousands, even tens of thousands of years. And such finds aren't modern. It's said Emperor Qin Shi Huang once saw a giant yuan on the East Sea shore, with a strange man claiming to be from an immortal island—and that he was three thousand years old. The emperor met him alone for days, and then, on a stormy, lightning‐filled night, both man and yuan vanished."
I'd never heard any of this before, yet coming from Curator Qian it felt credible.
He continued, "After that, Qin Shi Huang obsessed over immortality. He recruited countless wandering alchemists and even built a grand ship, sending Xu Fu with five hundred boys and five hundred girls to search for the Immortal Isles. After Xu Fu's voyage, esoteric arts—fangshu—spread across the land. By the Eastern Han, figures like Zuo Ci, Zhang Jiao, and Yu Ji—legendary sorcerers—had emerged; they, too, were fangshi."
"Are you saying Xu Fu found the island?" I pressed.
He nodded again. "Xu Fu returned several times. He brought back alchemical knowledge from overseas. But one thing's certain—he never discovered true eternal life. To save his own skin, after his last departure he never came back."
His stories widened my world. Today's visit had been more than worthwhile.
He also recounted tales of Zuo Ci and Yu Ji—figures close to the otherworldly, yet impossible to prove. Like the ghosts we sometimes encounter, believed by those who see them yet doubted by everyone else.
Noting the hour, Curator Qian insisted I stay for lunch, though in my head I groaned that after chatting so long, we'd be eating in the afternoon. As I rose to leave, he clasped my hand. "Li Yang, you're welcome anytime to come and talk."
I sensed his loneliness—living alone, with truths he feared would be dismissed as nonsense if spoken. He treasured having a listening ear.
At the door, he suddenly called me back. A few minutes later he reappeared with a bundle wrapped in scarlet cloth. Pressing it into my hand, he said, "I nearly forgot this. Take it home and look—just don't open it on the street."
My heart leaped. Was he giving me an antique? A fortune in the making!
I carefully tucked the bundle under my arm, resisting the urge to unwrap it.
A taxi later, I reached home. Aunt Su Yimei was in the kitchen cooking, with Huang Xian'er and Xiaocui trailing after her like eager students.
Huang Jiu leapt onto my shoulder as I entered. "What about the bronze mirror?"
"Patience!" I replied. In truth I'd barely dared to mention it at Curator Qian's—but even if I had, I doubted he'd lend it.
Huang Jiu pouted—until it caught sight of the red bundle in my arms. It scrambled down to peer.
I unfurled the cloth in the living room to reveal a dark‐reddened wooden box. Before I could inspect it, Huang Jiu yanked it open.
In that instant, every hair on my body stood on end.