My Treasure Basin: Vault of All Things

Chapter 3: The Collapsed Temple

Chapter 3: The Collapsed Temple

Ascending the creaking wooden stairs from the main hall, Ye Huan reached the second floor. The level was barren—swept clean and stripped of anything of value. Evidently, the cultural bureau's personnel had already scoured the place, leaving nothing behind.

Undeterred, he continued his climb to the third floor, which turned out to be a cramped attic. Low-ceilinged and dusty, the space held nothing of interest. With a disappointed glance, Ye Huan turned to descend—only to be stopped short by a sudden, thunderous explosion.

A deafening blast shook the entire structure. The floor beneath him groaned and trembled violently.

In that instant, Ye Huan knew: the demolition team had begun the detonation. He hadn’t expected them to skip a final sweep before igniting the charges. Perhaps they had already evacuated the area when he entered.

Panicking, he turned to flee—but before he could move, something struck him heavily on the head. Darkness claimed him.

What he didn’t know was that above the attic lay a hidden compartment, disturbed by the force of the blast. From within it, a heavy object—neither wholly a cauldron nor merely a basin—fell and struck his brow, splitting his skin. Blood poured from the wound, trickling into the strange bronze vessel.

Outside, the temple had crumbled into ruin. Rubble now buried Ye Huan beneath shattered timbers and broken tiles.

The demolition crew, seeing their work complete, showed little urgency. With the structure down, their task was nearly done. Since the ancient bricks and tiles were to be salvaged, they worked slowly, carefully piling debris to be transported elsewhere—never suspecting a man lay buried beneath it all.

Meanwhile, Madam Yu Wenfang grew increasingly anxious. Ye Huan had not returned, and the explosion had shaken the air. Fear gripped her—should anything have happened to him, would she be held responsible? Yet she dared not act. All she could do was remain at home, praying silently for his safety.

Unconscious, Ye Huan bled into the bronze vessel. The basin seemed almost alive—greedily absorbing his blood like some ancient vampire. It wasn’t until the dead of night that he finally stirred.

Trapped beneath wooden beams and shattered tiles, he coughed and strained. Luckily, the debris had not completely crushed him—there were gaps enough for air. Gritting his teeth, he forced the rubble aside and slowly climbed to his feet.

His head throbbed. His fingertips found blood at his temple. After fumbling around in the dark, he recovered his phone and turned on the flashlight.

There, amid the wreckage, lay the object that had struck him: a strange bronze vessel, its shape somewhere between a basin and a ritual cauldron. Its surface was encrusted with centuries of grime, its inscriptions dulled by time.

Though he knew not its name or purpose, Ye Huan felt certain—it was ancient. Perhaps even valuable. If he had to suffer injury for something, he thought grimly, he’d better at least walk away with something worth selling.

He picked up the bronze basin and pushed through the rubble.

The demolition site was now desolate. Weakened by blood loss, he staggered, barely keeping upright. Had there been security, he might’ve startled them into thinking a ghost had emerged from the ruins.

Careful to avoid detection, Ye Huan slipped away. Soon, he returned to Madam Yu’s front gate. His electric tricycle remained untouched. Silently, he climbed aboard and drove off into the night.

The vehicle made little noise, and Madam Yu—lost in uneasy sleep—did not stir as he left.

By the time Ye Huan arrived at his rented home in the southern district, dawn was nearing. His humble dwelling, two tiled rooms with a small yard, cost just six hundred yuan a month. The courtyard overflowed with piles of scrap and recyclable junk.

After parking his tricycle, Ye Huan carried the bronze vessel into his room. Setting it down carefully, he turned to food—his stomach roared with hunger after a full day and night unconscious.

Too weary to cook, he boiled a packet of instant noodles, slurped them down quickly, and returned to examine his prize.

The object resembled a large bronze washbasin—about forty centimeters in diameter, ten or so centimeters deep, with a narrow base and flared rim. Vines curled in ornate spirals around the lip, while the interior wall bore four dragons, each lifting its head and spewing stylized streams of water. At the center lay a carved circle, and within it, a single character: *—the ancient script for Heaven, or Creation.

The dragons' tails twined together at the base, their jaws flung open, as though locked in some sacred rite.

Ye Huan stared in fascination. The vessel was caked in filth, yet its shape was elegant—its aura unmistakably ancient. Surely, he thought, it must be worth something.

If nothing else, the sheer weight of the bronze would fetch a decent price. He hefted it—it likely weighed over ten kilograms. Even sold for scrap, that would mean at least two hundred yuan.

But considering his injury, two hundred barely felt adequate compensation.

No, he thought. If he sold it at the weekend flea market on Antique Street, he’d open with two thousand yuan. He wouldn’t go below five hundred.

First, though, it needed a proper cleaning. As it stood, it looked worthless—just another piece of corroded junk.

He carried the basin to the kitchen and turned on the tap. Water gushed in, but he went off to find a soft cloth—careful not to damage the so-called "patina." After all, collectors valued the age-stained grime of antiquity.

When he returned a few minutes later, he blinked in surprise.

The basin was still almost empty.

That wasn’t right. At full flow, it should have filled in seconds. Confused, Ye Huan lifted the basin and inspected the underside—searching for leaks.

Nothing. Dry as bone.

Where had the water gone?

Puzzled, he stared into the vessel's dark, quiet depths.

Something was very wrong.