Shen Yuxi was lost in thought when his gaze was suddenly caught by an object at a roadside stall.
It was a seven-string guqin, ancient in form, its entire body seeming steeped in the passage of time and glowing with a deep, somber red. Like old charcoal burned through, like sweetgum in late autumn, like the final streak of molten gold before the setting sun sank behind the mountains—it held warmth beneath its stillness.
Faint golden patterns drifted across the surface of the instrument. Looking closely, they were long streaks shaped like chrysanthemum petals, winding upward from the tail of the qin and sparsely climbing toward its head. The patterns were exceedingly faint, nearly invisible without close inspection; only as the angle of light changed did they appear and vanish, like flames hidden in the dark—unassuming, yet unable to conceal their proud character.
The qin's head had been carved into the shape of a phoenix. Its head was raised slightly, its beak held a blood-red bead, and its feathers stretched behind it, blending naturally into the curve of the body. The carving was not particularly fine, and its lines were even somewhat rough, but it possessed an ancient, unadorned charm. One glance was enough to tell that it was an old object with some years behind it.
Shen Yuxi slowed his steps. He remembered that he still had a troublesome thing in his possession, one he did not know how to handle. Calling it a treasure would be inaccurate, since he could not use it; calling it junk would be a waste, since he could not bear to throw it away. Besides, he truly needed to find a qin before he could use it.
He stared at the fiery-red body of the qin for a few moments longer, his gaze