Ryan stood in a quiet corner of the exhibition hall, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee. The sheer scale of the event was beyond anything he had imagined. Crystal chandeliers bathed the space in a soft, warm glow, casting light onto the carefully curated antiques on display. Each item seemed to whisper tales of its past, their fine details highlighted by the interplay of light and shadow.
The hum of polite conversation buzzed around him, occasionally punctuated by the clink of glasses or quiet laughter. Attendees, most of them dressed in sharp suits or elegant dresses, moved in small groups, stopping to examine the treasures on display. The air carried a faint scent of polished wood and leather-bound books, an aroma that lent an almost timeless charm to the setting. Ryan adjusted his posture, trying to appear more confident, though his casual attire and uncertain demeanor made him feel distinctly out of place.
His attention was soon drawn to the centerpiece of the room: a large blue and white porcelain vase displayed on an elevated pedestal under its own spotlight. Its surface was adorned with intricate lotus patterns, the glaze shimmering under the warm lighting. A small placard beside it declared it to be a treasure from the Yongle period of the Ming Dynasty.
Curious, Ryan discreetly activated the system. A moment later, the results flashed in his mind:
"Item: Blue and White Porcelain Vase (Replica)
Era: Late Qing Dynasty
Details: Overly vibrant glaze; inconsistent brushstrokes in the base mark; slightly thick body. A clear imitation from the late Qing period.
Market Value: $500."
Ryan's brow furrowed. It wasn't genuine—it was a well-crafted replica, but nothing close to the treasure the placard claimed. For an exhibition of this scale, this kind of mistake was shocking. After a brief hesitation, he approached one of the staff members.
"Excuse me," he said, lowering his voice, "I think there might be an issue with this vase. The details don't match authentic Yongle porcelain. Perhaps it would be worth double-checking its provenance?"
The staff member gave him a disinterested glance, her expression flat. "This piece is from one of our most trusted collectors," she replied curtly. "There's no need to question its authenticity."
Ryan clenched his jaw, frustration rising. He knew he didn't have the credentials or reputation to back up his claim, but he also knew he wasn't wrong.
"Of course, the amateur with a critique," came a sneering voice from behind him.
Ryan turned around and immediately recognized the speaker: Philip Hargrove, the antique dealer who had dismissed him weeks ago when he tried to sell an item. Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit, Philip's smug expression radiated self-satisfaction.
"Fancy seeing you here," Philip continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "What are you doing here, exactly? Decided to try your luck at spotting fakes in front of an audience?"
Ryan maintained his composure. "I didn't realize this vase belonged to you."
Philip smirked, clearly enjoying himself. "Sharp observation. Yes, it's mine. And let me guess—you think there's something wrong with it?"
Ryan met his gaze steadily. "There's no denying it has inconsistencies. The glaze and craftsmanship don't align with the period it's attributed to."
Philip chuckled, shaking his head. "I've been in this business for over ten years. I know quality when I see it, and this is quality. You, on the other hand… well, let's just say you've got a lot to learn."
Their exchange began to draw a small crowd. People nearby started whispering, their curiosity piqued by the brewing confrontation. Philip noticed the growing attention and, emboldened, decided to escalate.
"Well, if you're so sure of yourself," he said, folding his arms smugly, "why don't we make this interesting? You can pick any other piece from my collection—any piece you like. If I'm wrong about this vase, that item will be yours. But if you're wrong, you'll owe me a public apology for questioning my expertise."
The challenge hung in the air. Ryan scanned Philip's exhibit carefully. His eyes landed on a small wooden elephant tucked away in a shadowed corner of the display. The craftsmanship caught his attention—the dark wood gleamed softly, and the intricate detailing on the trunk and ears made it look almost lifelike. It was positioned as if it were an afterthought, ignored by both the dealer and the audience.
He activated the system:
"Item: Gold-Inlaid Wooden Elephant
Era: 19th Century
Material: Rosewood with ivory and gold inlay
Market Value: $12,000."
Ryan's heart quickened, but he kept his expression neutral. "That one," he said, pointing to the elephant.
Philip raised an eyebrow, glancing at the piece. A dismissive chuckle escaped him. "The little wooden trinket? Sure. It's a decorative piece at best, but if you want to waste your choice on that, be my guest. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Ryan didn't respond. Instead, he turned his focus back to the vase. He could feel the weight of the crowd's eyes on him, waiting to see how this would play out.
Before he could speak, another voice joined the conversation.
"Philip," Emma's voice cut through the air, calm yet authoritative. "I've looked at this vase too, and I agree with Ryan. The glaze is overly vibrant, the base is too thick, and the brushstrokes are inconsistent. It's a late Qing replica at best."
Emma stepped forward, her presence commanding. Dressed elegantly but not ostentatiously, she carried herself with the kind of quiet confidence that made people listen. Philip's smirk faltered. He hadn't expected Emma, someone he admired, to side with Ryan.
"Emma," he began, forcing a chuckle. "I respect your expertise in restoration, but collecting antiques is a different skill set. It requires years of fieldwork and experience, not just theory from books."
Emma didn't flinch. "Experience is only valuable if it's paired with precision and honesty. True Yongle porcelain is known for its thin body, subtle glaze, and precise symmetry. This vase doesn't meet any of those standards."
The murmurs around them grew louder. Philip's jaw tightened as he realized the tide was turning against him.
"Well," he said, his voice strained, "we'll let the facts speak for themselves, won't we?"
Emma's grandfather, who had been silently observing the entire exchange from the sidelines, finally stepped forward. He smiled faintly, his sharp eyes moving between Philip, Ryan, and Emma. "I must admit," he said, "this is turning out to be far more entertaining than I expected."
Emma leaned slightly toward Ryan, her voice low but steady. "Are you sure about this?"
Ryan allowed himself a small, confident smile. "It's not about being sure," he replied. "It's about letting the truth speak."