My Treasure Basin: Vault of All Things

Chapter One: Ye Huan, the Freelancer Upon graduating from university, Ye Huan quickly became a member of the so-called flexible workforce. Initially, he secured a position at a chemical plant as an ordinary employee. Yet despite his relentless toil, his monthly salary barely reached 2,800 yuan. After deducting rent, he was left with just over a thousand — scarcely enough to support himself, let alone send money home to his aging parents. He sent out numerous résumés in search of better opportunities. The high-paying jobs rejected him outright, and the lower-paying ones were hardly an improvement over his current situation — hardly worth the trouble of changing. After all, graduates like him were everywhere. To be employed at all was already a modest fortune; who was he to be choosy? At the factory, tightening screws day in and day out, the base salary hovered just above 2,000 yuan. Only by exhausting himself with overtime could he hope to earn four or five thousand — hardly a dream worth chasing. If such labor could be done by a middle schooler and still paid so meagerly, then what had been the point of his degree? Why not have started working ten years earlier? He had squandered a decade of youth on schooling and spent a small fortune — two to three hundred thousand — on tuition, only to return to square one. It was a bitter reckoning, and with that clarity, Ye Huan resigned from the factory. Thus, he became — in the truest sense — a freelancer. A few days here, a couple weeks there, he drifted from odd job to odd job, until one day, he stumbled upon a profession that was, in every sense of the word, flexible. Though grimy and humble, it suited his needs: the life of a waste collector. This work offered unparalleled freedom — start when you wish, finish when you please. The threshold was low: a pair of baskets, a shoulder sack, or at most, a three-wheeled electric cart would suffice to begin. The capital required was minimal — a mere hundred yuan, though more wouldn’t hurt. Ye Huan saw the opportunity and seized it without hesitation. He didn’t have the resources to invest in any grand venture, but this — this he could afford. He had some 7,000 to 8,000 yuan left from his final paychecks. He spent 1,200 yuan on a second-hand electric tricycle and purchased a shoulder sack for buildings where he’d need to climb to reach the goods. After two to three months of hustling, the results were better than expected. His monthly earnings consistently exceeded 10,000 yuan. The work was hard, but profitable — a fact that filled him with pride. His services were wide-ranging: old books and newspapers, used furniture, scrap metal, copper wire — anything discarded and undervalued, he would buy. Eventually, he even devised a new line of business: helping elderly residents purchase groceries and staples, delivering them directly to their doors for a modest fee. At first, Ye Huan was self-conscious, hiding behind a large face mask to avoid recognition. But after a month or two, his pride faded. The mask, which once concealed his shame, was cast aside and forgotten. What need was there for vanity? A full stomach was worth more than appearances. That very morning, Ye Huan landed a new job. An elderly woman had bought a 50-jin sack of rice and a variety of vegetables — a load of 70 to 80 jin in total. She was far too frail to carry them home, and the rice vendor refused delivery, claiming the distance was too great for such a small order. Just then, Ye Huan happened to pass by, and the grandmother eagerly flagged him down. “Young man, you collect recyclables, don’t you? Could you help me bring this bag of rice to my home? I’ll give you ten yuan.I’ve got some scrap at home too — you can earn another twenty or thirty yuan easy.” Ye Huan casually asked, “Granny, how far is your place?” “Not far, young man,” she replied. “I live at 164 Dahe Street. No more than ten kilometers. Your little electric cart will get there in half an hour. Plus, I’ve got waste to sell. You’ll make some money. Won’t you help an old woman out?” Ten kilometers to the east side — Ye Huan knew the area. Many elderly folks came here to shop, as prices were far lower than those in the city center. The ten yuan she offered was neither generous nor stingy, and under normal circumstances, perhaps not worth the trip. But seeing her age and the burden she bore, Ye Huan agreed without complaint. The old woman had done her math too — a bus ticket home would cost her two yuan, and carrying so much would be an ordeal. She had trekked all this way because produce and grain here were markedly cheaper. Though she spent a few extra yuan on delivery, she saved much more on her purchases. It was still early, and traffic police weren’t yet on duty, so Ye Huan dared let her ride with him. Had it been later, he wouldn’t have risked it — the fines were steep. He loaded the rice and vegetables onto his tricycle, carefully helped the old woman onto the passenger seat beside him, and instructed her to grip the side rail tightly. Then, gently and cautiously, he set off. He dared not jolt or speed — any mishap with the elderly passenger would make that ten-yuan job cost him dearly. Fortunately, twenty minutes later, he arrived safely at 164 Dahe Street, rice and vegetables intact. Having carried everything up to her home, Ye Huan gratefully accepted the ten yuan she offered. But when the old lady produced her "recyclables," he could only smile wryly. What she offered were not newspapers, but glossy, useless flyers — the kind handed out on the street. Even recycling centers wouldn’t take them. Yet Ye Huan said nothing. She was likely over seventy, still shopping and hauling groceries herself — clearly living a hard life. With gentle tact, he explained that such paper held no resale value. The old woman, not at all surprised, graciously gifted him the few pounds of flyers anyway. This part of Dahe Street belonged to the old city district — filled with crumbling grey-tile rooftops and weatherworn walls. In the distance, the metallic clatter of an excavator echoed through the street. “Granny, are they tearing down more houses ahead?” Ye Huan asked casually. “Yes,” she said. “They’re demolishing Tianxu Temple. I heard the Tourism Bureau wants to redevelop this area — turn it into a cultural tourist street. They’re knocking down the old houses but keeping the ones with real historical value.” “Why don’t you go take a look?” she added. “There are old doors, windows, frames — you might find something worth selling on the antique market. I saw some antique dealers already waiting nearby.” The old woman, feeling a bit guilty for offering him worthless junk, now spoke with great enthusiasm. “Tianxu Temple?” Ye Huan frowned. He had passed through this area countless times, yet had never seen a temple. “Gexistsranny, I’m familiar with this street. There’s no temple here, is there?” “Young man, you’re just too young to know,” she said patiently. “Tianxu Temple was once famous in Jiangcheng! But during the more 'special' times, it was shut down — labeled a superstitious relic of the old ways. They nearly tore it down back then, but for some reason, they didn’t. Instead, they built houses around it, hiding it from view. That’s why folks your age or newcomers to the city don’t even know it .”