Chapter 84: Schemes

“This is where the story gets truly fascinating: the mysterious seller who parted with the blood-red jade cicada to the wealthy Liu heir was none other than Crooked San himself.” Old Liao chuckled slyly, his gaze fixed on me, a curious expression on his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, feeling a bit unsettled by his stare.

“The real background of this story is even more intriguing,” Old Liao went on. “I just want you to know, everyone harbors jealousy. When people come into money, their original intentions often change; but when they see those around them getting rich, that’s when the seeds of malice might take root.”

Indeed, wasn’t that exactly what happened with Xiao Wei?

It turned out that Crooked San was more than just an ordinary antiques expert; in truth, he was a thoroughbred schemer through and through. The blood-red jade cicada wasn’t simply a treasure unearthed from an ancient tomb—it was also an object steeped in sinister power.

Just three months before that auction, Crooked San had been loitering in his usual haunt, a curio shop, boasting and bantering as usual. Though his personality was hard to stomach, his sharp eyes for authenticating antiques were unrivaled in the business, so the shopkeepers were actually glad to have him around. Whenever he uncovered some overlooked gem, they’d pay him a small fee for his expertise. All in all, the neighborhood relations were quite harmonious.

That day in the shop, Crooked San instantly recognized the rarity of the jade cicada. The seller was a simple fellow from the mountains, his Mandarin clumsy and broken, hardly able to communicate with the boss, who was as native to Beijing as they came. After a few awkward exchanges, the boss grew impatient and signaled for Crooked San to see the peasant out.

Crooked San, ever the sycophant, nodded and bowed to the boss while shepherding the countryman outside. “So, where did you get this jade cicada?” he inquired. For all his infamy, Crooked San was shrewd and meticulous, never content unless he’d traced a thing to its roots.

The mountain man, honest to a fault, answered simply, “Dug it up from our remote mountain nook.” He explained its origins without the slightest reservation.

Crooked San’s mind raced. If something like this turned up there, there must be an ancient tomb in those hills, and judging by the workmanship, the grave goods must have belonged to someone of considerable rank.

Without hesitation, Crooked San took the peasant to a hotpot place, plied him with liquor until he was thoroughly drunk, and then, seizing the opportunity, asked him gently, “Old friend, would you sell me this jade cicada?”

“How much will you give? I… I need the money to buy some seeds for planting back home.”

“Five thousand! I mean it, five thousand, and I’ll even throw in the cost of your seeds. I’ll bring them to your house myself and maybe bring a friend along to try some countryside fun,” Crooked San said, grinning as he held up five fingers.

“Boss, you’re… you’re truly a good man! Next time you come to our place, just stay at my home. I’ll cook you an old hen stew!”

“Haha, you’re too kind! Since fate has brought this jade cicada to me through you, we’re brothers now. Where’s your house? I’ll bring the seeds over as a gift.”

“We live in…”

And so, after a pleasant chat, Crooked San learned both the origins of the jade cicada and the location of its source.

The very next day, Crooked San rounded up a few fellow grave robbers, ready to try his luck digging up more treasures.

He eagerly explained the story to his comrades, all the while absently fondling the jade cicada. At that time, it wasn’t yet blood-red; instead, it was milky white with a faint greenish hue, and only thin red threads were visible within—barely noticeable unless held under direct light.

The grave robbers quickly reached a consensus: if such a rare artifact could be found so easily, the tomb in those hills must be extraordinary. Posing as benevolent aid workers delivering seeds to the countryside, they made their way openly to the villager’s home.

The villagers, believing this to be a stroke of luck, welcomed the “benefactors” with open arms and hearty feasts.

After days of indulgence, the group finally got to their real purpose, clamoring to go up the mountain to search for treasures.

The old village chief, hearing their intentions, quickly waved them off, “You mustn’t go! That mountain is off-limits!”

“Why not? After all the food we’ve given, you won’t even let us take a walk in the hills?” barked one of the grave robbers, his true nature showing.

“Exactly, village chief, surely there’s no harm in a little hike,” Crooked San added, stirring the pot.

The chief frowned deeply, sighing, “It’s not that we won’t let you, but the back mountain… it’s haunted by wicked spirits!”

These men were bold beyond belief, the sort who could eat, drink, and relieve themselves inside ancient tombs. Legends of mountain spirits elicited nothing but derision from them.

Indeed, in many villages near ancient tombs, tales of monsters and spirits abound—ghosts, beasts, even gods—all invented for a single purpose: to conceal the existence of the tombs.

Passed down for generations among honest villagers, these stories were reinforced by the complex terrain and wild animals. Any mysterious death or disappearance over the years would be ascribed to the “curse.” Crooked San and his fellow grave robbers were more excited than alarmed by such tales.

“Come now, chief, let them pick some fruit, enjoy the scenery—your old stories might scare children, but they don’t work on us anymore.”

“Why don’t I act as their guide, bring along my big dog, and show them around?” a young man from the village suggested.

Suddenly, the crowd began to surround the chief, all talking at once.

The village had always had tales of a tree spirit that harmed people—not like the spectral matriarchs of storybooks, but a true ancient tree turned demon. Every summer the cicadas, every autumn the snakes, every spring the bears—any animal that approached it would go mad, attacking the first person they saw, eyes blazing red.

With the crowd pressing him, the chief finally, reluctantly, agreed.

As I listened, utterly engrossed, Old Liao paused to gulp down several mouthfuls of tea.

“Guess what happened in the end?” he asked.

“What?” I stared at him, wide-eyed.

“In the end, Crooked San was the only one who made it out of the mountain alive!”

“What happened? Was there really a monster up there?”

“No one knows for sure. What’s certain is that after Crooked San came back, he never dabbled in tomb raiding again. Instead, he relied on his sharp eyes to curry favor with wealthy patrons and began working behind the scenes. Oh, and the jade cicada? After all his companions died, it gradually turned blood-red, taking on an eerie, unearthly glow. It even began to affect Crooked San’s fortune.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“As I said, Crooked San was a cunning man. He realized right away that this was a cursed object. After what happened in the mountains, when he saw the cicada’s color change so bizarrely, he couldn’t tell anyone the truth. All he could do was find some rich fool to unload the thing on. After much plotting, he settled on the Liu heir…”

“So you’re saying that Liu was doomed from the start, that Crooked San set him up?”

“Of course! In the antiques business, they call those gullible rich clients ‘fat sheep’—to be fleeced for profit. The whole trade is a game of give and take: if you think something’s worth it and pay, you can’t blame anyone else. No one forces you to buy. Even if you get swindled, you just have to swallow your loss.”

Crooked San was truly malicious—a master of the “blindfolded slaughter,” as the insiders call it.

He’d learned in advance about a high-end auction in the coming days, so he brought his goods to the Liu heir, claiming he was helping him hunt for treasures and needed some sponsorship. He flattered the young man, exaggerating his wealth until he was giddy with pride.

Then Crooked San had his confidant register several items for the auction—five or six in total, including the blood-red jade cicada. Why so many? To muddy the waters. The auction house keeps records of sellers, and big clients often use their connections to ask about the “background” of certain lots. The rest of Crooked San’s items were worthless scraps—broken relics dug up from tombs, but all equally ancient.

This, in literary terms, is known as “highlighting by contrast”: one seller, one batch of goods, all ancient, but only one perfect piece. What would you think if you were the buyer?

Crooked San understood the Liu heir’s mentality, first reassuring him: “This is a genuine antique of great value!” Then, using his expertise, he subtly hinted that the piece was a bargain, and even let himself be “outbid” by the Liu heir, ensuring the sale.

At first, the Liu heir didn’t want to buy the cicada—the symbolism was ominous, hardly as auspicious as a jade ruyi. But he was no match for Crooked San’s scheming, and fell completely into the trap.

“Why did the Liu heir end up slaughtering his entire family, fourteen people in all?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

“That’s the most interesting part—because within that jade cicada, there really was a ‘demon spirit.’”