The morning light filtered through the narrow window of the storage room, casting a pale rectangle on the concrete floor. Mason Cooper sat on the folding bed, the faint silver geometric mark on his left wrist emitting a gentle warmth. A clear interface had already materialized in his mind:
[Ability: Value Perception (Beginner)]
[Status: Usable Count 3/3]
[Time Limit: 24 hours (Timer Started)]
[Effect: Briefly perceives the objective market value and potential value of tangible objects within line of sight. Duration: 5-10 seconds. Range: Within a 10-meter radius centered on the user.]
Three chances, twenty-four hours. Mason took a deep breath—this was no longer a random game of picking, but a strategic hunt. He remembered those frantic days last autumn, when he had clung to hope like a drowning man, huddled behind the convenience store counter every night, watching "City Treasure Hunter" videos on an old tablet. The channel host's calm, certain voice had been his solace in despair: "Truly valuable items are never in the most obvious places; they are buried by dust and time, waiting for prepared eyes."
Now, he had eyes enhanced by ability, but his mind still needed that knowledge to navigate.
"Old Town Pasadena," Mason whispered to himself, making his first decision. He recalled the "City Treasure Hunter" mentioning it repeatedly—an old-money community, home to intellectuals, which meant old items might gradually drift into local antique shops through family legacies. More importantly, those narrow streets and weathered storefronts often held "sleeping stock." The shop owners themselves might have forgotten what was piled in the corners. That was the kind of chaos he needed—the more chaotic, the more likely forgotten treasures lay hidden.
At ten in the morning, he stood outside "The Attic of Time" antique shop. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, the bell jangled sharply, as if announcing an intruder.
The shop was cluttered to the brim, like a warehouse forgotten by time. Mason's gaze swept slowly over this chaotic sea—old books piled high, rusty tools scattered about, broken picture frames leaning against walls. His heartbeat remained steady, his thoughts clear: the ability was his radar, knowledge his map. He needed to find the marked treasures in this chaos.
Standing in the center of the shop, he took a deep breath of the dust-filled air and focused his will.
*Snap.*
A crisp snap of his fingers echoed in the quiet shop.
Instantly, the world was redrawn. Pale golden halos radiated from the surfaces of countless objects, like stars of varying brightness in the night sky. Mason's mind raced, dormant knowledge awakened, weaving into the incoming stream of information to form a clear picture:
In the corner of a bookshelf, an old book buried beneath a stack of "Reader's Digest" compilations emitted a yellow halo. The "City Treasure Hunter's" voice flashed in Mason's mind: "American first editions from the 1920s—pay attention to key points: font, paper, copyright page format." He took a few steps closer and indeed saw the faint spine lettering: "F. SCOTT FITZGERALD"—the font was distinctly Baskerville. Carefully, he opened to the copyright page and saw the "FIRST EDITION" declaration in the specific location. The information stream confirmed: [First edition, first printing of "The Great Gatsby" by Scribner's, 1920s].
Among a pile of cheap cutlery, six tarnished silver spoons emitted a yellow halo. "Tiffany silver marks," he recalled from the videos: "Company name, purity, date code." Pretending to browse casually, he picked up a spoon and, in the dim light, saw the bottom indeed bore "TIFFANY & CO." and "STERLING," along with a faint letter "M." His mental date code table automatically matched: M corresponded to 1895. The information stream flowed: [Set of six coffee spoons by Tiffany & Co., circa 1895].
The most dazzling golden light came from a dark wooden box on the highest shelf. Mason squinted—the YouTube episode on Spanish colonial gold and silverware surfaced in his memory: "22K gold, hand-chiseled, religious themes common." He fetched a stool, stood on it, and leaned close to examine the metal pieces: though covered in grime, the edges had intricate wave patterns, and one piece faintly revealed the outline of a cross. The information stream flowed: [Gold inlay plates from a church reliquary box, Viceroyalty of New Spain, circa 1750].
The halos lasted nine seconds before fading.
Maintaining a calm expression, Mason executed his plan: He bought seven old books, including the first edition, for $30; purchased the silver spoons along with several stainless steel spoons as cover for $35; and finally paid $20 for the "old box for sewing supplies."
Stepping out of the antique shop, the Californian sun was blinding. Cost: $85. Potential value: over $20,000. But he knew the real challenge was just beginning—turning these items into cash.
"The first edition needs a specialist bookstore," he thought as he walked. "The silver spoons need a buyer who understands brand silverware. The gold plates... hardest of all. Can't sell them as raw gold; need someone who understands both precious metals and antiques."
On the way to Beverly Hills, Mason's mind raced. The initial success at the antique shop validated the ability's effectiveness, but it also exposed problems: monetization required specialized knowledge and the right buyers. He needed a different kind of prey—items with greater value elasticity, items that, once "rediscovered," could yield astonishing premiums.
"Artwork." The word surfaced. The "City Treasure Hunter" had once done an episode titled "Forgotten Canvases," precisely about potential treasures hidden in gallery storage rooms. Works that had been taken down or never displayed due to mismatched styles or poor condition were sometimes grossly undervalued to absurd degrees.
He chose the "Abstract Frontier" gallery in West Hollywood. This choice was deliberate: First, West Hollywood galleries were highly competitive with fast inventory turnover, meaning more "rejects." Second, galleries focused on avant-garde art often disdained traditional works and were more likely to treat old paintings as junk. Third, he needed a place with a storage room that was easily accessible.
There was an even subtler thought: Start with the frames. It was a trick he'd learned from the videos—valuable antique frames themselves were a collecting category. More importantly, if a mediocre painting was housed in an exceptionally fine old frame, it often hinted at an incongruity that could hide a secret: perhaps the frame was worth more than the painting, or perhaps the original painting had been replaced, and the original might have been a more significant work.
At noon, Mason stood outside the "Abstract Frontier" gallery. Through the glass, he saw an exhibition titled "Digital Ruins" inside—all AI-generated prints. Perfect, he thought. The backrooms of such a place must be piled with "outdated" physical paintings.
Just as he was about to head toward the storage room, a figure blocked his path.
"Sir, this is a work area." The voice was sweet but carried an indisputable authority.
Mason looked up. Before him stood an Asian woman, around twenty-eight or twenty-nine, wearing a perfectly tailored dark gray suit skirt that ended just above the knees, revealing a pair of long, slender legs tightly sheathed in ultra-thin, flesh-toned black stockings. She stood poised on seven-centimeter black patent leather high heels. Her name tag read: Vivian Chen, Gallery Director.
"Apologies, I'm just interested in old frames," Mason said. This reason was both truthful and safe—he genuinely was looking for valuable frames, and it sounded more reasonable than "I want to rummage through your trash."
Vivian Chen scrutinized him for a few seconds, her red lips curving into a professional smile. "Those are all inventory slated for disposal. If you're interested in classical styles, we can schedule a visit to the archives upstairs."
Mason noticed she leaned slightly forward as she spoke, the V-neck of her suit revealing a glimpse of fair skin, the muscles of her stocking-clad calves tensing subtly.
"Disposal? Does that mean they're for sale? I just want a special frame; I don't care about the painting itself." He emphasized "frame," which sounded like a plausible, less suspicious need.
Vivian Chen stepped aside. "Five minutes. Please try not to make a mess."
Mason entered the storage room. Dozens of paintings were stacked here, along with various frames and rolled canvases. He positioned himself in the center of the room, his back to Vivian at the door, and focused his will.
*Snap.*
The snap sounded somewhat muted in the cluttered space.
Instantly, golden halos spread from him, covering the entire storage room. Halos surfaced on countless objects, and Mason's appraisal knowledge activated simultaneously:
A landscape painting with a blurred signature emitted a yellow glow. Mason's mind flashed with the "City Treasure Hunter's" explanation: Characteristics of early 20th-century American regional painting schools—thick impasto, visible brushstrokes, colors darkened by age. He glanced at the painting and confirmed these features. The information stream confirmed: [Study by a California regional painter, early 20th century].
A set of six gilded frames emitted a yellow glow. Mason's knowledge base retrieved key points for identifying late 19th-century French frames: back wood, multiple layers of gold leaf, carved patterns, mortise and tenon structure. He stepped closer for a detailed look, verifying each point. The information stream confirmed: [Set of six gilded frames from the Nice region, France, late 19th century].
The most dazzling golden light came from a flat object wrapped in burlap, buried under a broken plaster statue in the farthest corner of the room. Mason's heart pounded—this manner of storage meant it was either worthless trash or deliberately hidden treasure.
As the information stream flowed in, his professional knowledge instantly grasped its weight: [Suspected 16th-century German Renaissance panel painting]. Key identifying points exploded in his mind: oak panel thickness, underdrawing, natural mineral pigments, craquelure patterns—all pointing to a breathtaking possibility.
The halos lasted eight seconds before fading.
Mason maintained his composure and first approached the set of French gilded frames. "How much for these frames?"
Vivian Chen leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her stocking-clad legs crossed. "$200. They're all from the late 19th century, but the gilding is severely worn."
"$150."
"$180. Can't go lower."
"Deal." Mason agreed readily. Then, he kicked aside the broken plaster statue, revealing the flat object underneath. "And this? Looks like an old panel."
Vivian glanced at it, utterly uninterested. "Leftover from some exhibition. $50, take it. Saves us the trouble of disposal."
Suppressing his excitement, Mason nodded and paid $230 in cash.
While waiting for the items to be packaged, Vivian took a few steps closer, her high heels clicking crisply, a woody perfume scent wafting over. "You really have an eye for these old things."
"Sometimes, truly valuable things aren't in the most obvious places," Mason said meaningfully.
Vivian's red lips curled into a deeper smile as she reached out, her nails lightly grazing his palm.
At two in the afternoon, Mason sat in a Beverly Hills café with three items awaiting monetization. He needed a clear strategy: diversify, specialize, be quick. He couldn't sell everything to the same buyer—that would raise suspicion and could lead to lowballing. Each item needed the most appropriate, most professional channel.
"First edition to a specialist bookstore," he sipped his black coffee. "Brand silverware to a knowledgeable silver dealer. The gold plates... toughest, need someone who understands both gold prices and antiques."
He chose "The Passage of Pages" rare bookstore as his first stop. Online reviews indicated the owner was a true scholar-type bookseller with deep expertise in bibliography. More importantly, Beverly Hills' clientele meant the owner was psychologically prepared for high-end items and wouldn't be shocked by a $3,000 book.
The elderly woman, wearing gloves, took "The Great Gatsby," examined it carefully, and offered $3,200. Based on his knowledge, Mason judged this a fair price and nodded in agreement.
The second stop was "Silver Gleam" precious metals shop. He chose it because online reviews said the owner specialized in collecting brand silverware and offered fair prices. After testing, cleaning, and verifying, the owner offered $1,100. Mason accepted.
Now for the gold plates. Mason had done his homework. Maurice, owner of "Golden Years" antique jewelry restoration shop, had forty years of experience, specializing in antique gold and silverware, and the shop was located on a relatively quiet street, emphasizing privacy. It was an ideal choice.
After verifying with a professional process, Maurice said, "$15,500. That's a fair price considering gold value and antique premium."
Mason quickly calculated in his mind: Raw gold value about $3,600, meaning roughly a 300% premium. For an antique gold piece with clear historical characteristics and intact craftsmanship, this premium was reasonable. He nodded agreement but requested the amount be deposited into two different accounts in two transactions.
Leaving the shop, Mason tallied his total gains: $19,770 already monetized. Added to his original 23000 dollars, his total assets exceeded fo 40000 dollars. And the set of frames and the mysterious panel still held even greater potential.