Chapter 121: The Military Medal and the Silver Ring

That morning, Richard received some unexpectedly good news.

It was a phone call from Clement.

The old man had mentioned before that the clearance cycles varied; a new batch might arrive in a week or two, or it could take up to a month or two.

Almost three weeks had passed since he bought the Solar Seal, making this interval perfectly normal.

After classes ended, he skipped the school bus and jogged straight toward Grafton Street.

He arrived at the antiquities shop and pushed the door open. The brass bell chimed.

The old man was crouched on the floor near the back of the shop. Several wooden crates and cardboard boxes were spread out in front of him, stuffed with items wrapped in old newspaper and straw.

"You're here?" he asked without looking up, still pulling items from a wooden crate.

"Yeah," Richard said.

"Find a place to sit. I still need to sort through this for a while."

Richard sat on a tall stool beside the counter and scanned the boxes.

During his last visit, Clement had only a small drawer beneath the counter for the unsold auction items.

Today, at least five or six crates of various sizes cluttered the floor. Some hadn't even been opened.

"It's the end of the year. Time to clear out the inventory."

Clement continued pulling items out of a box.

"Stuart clears its warehouses every December. Any unsold items that have piled up for over two years are flushed out all at once, and the prices are slashed to the absolute minimum."

He pulled out a porcelain plate painted with a blue windmill—likely from the Netherlands.

"Most of the things in this batch are ordinary antiques. Nothing special.

Porcelain, silverware, old picture frames, discarded church candlesticks... Proper antique dealers wouldn't give them a second glance, but they can still fetch a decent price in a little shop like mine."

The old man set the porcelain plate on the counter and dusted the straw from his hands.

"But aside from Stuart's year-end clearance, I also snagged some private stock from a few old colleagues."

"Private stock?"

"Retired ones. They've all hoarded a few good pieces over the years."

Clement stood up. His knees popped loudly, and he winced and rubbed them.

"A few of those old geezers worked at the auction house their whole lives. They've handled tens of thousands of items.

Whenever they came across a piece they liked, they bought it at the employee price and held onto it."

"Then they retire and move. Their wives complain that the junk takes up too much space, and their kids think it's worthless, so they ask me to help get rid of it."

He took out something wrapped in velvet and weighed it in his palm.

"Among this batch of private stock, there are two items with annotations."

Hearing this, Richard focused on the old man's hands.

Clement unwrapped the velvet cloth to reveal a bronze medal.

It was slightly larger than a standard military medal. The front featured a relief of an eagle with its wings spread, grasping a bundle of wheat in its talons, and a green gemstone set into its chest.

"One of my old colleagues bought this medal at an estate auction."

Clement placed the medal on the counter.

"The owner of the estate was a retired military officer whose family had been rooted in Yorkshire for three generations.

The exact age of this medal is unknown, but judging by the oxidation of the bronze and the style of the relief, it has to be at least a hundred and fifty years old."

Clement tapped his fingernail against the green gemstone on the eagle's chest.

"My old colleague added a handwritten note in the remarks section:

'Green stone material unknown; neither malachite nor turquoise. Suspected alchemical treatment.'"

Richard leaned in closer.

The Panel flickered.

The numbers began to climb slowly from their current value, increasing at roughly the same rate as they had for the Solar Seal.

It was the real deal.

He didn't rush to touch it, letting Clement continue his introduction.

"My old colleague held onto this medal for almost ten years. He kept it in a drawer in his study and used it as a paperweight."

Clement shook his head.

"His wife passed away last year, and his son is a lawyer in the Imperial Capital who refuses to return to his hometown.

Living all alone in that big house, the old man started clearing out his belongings."

"He said these things had been with him for most of his life. It would be a shame to throw them away, but he was afraid they'd be ruined if he just sold them off blindly. So, he asked me to find a suitable buyer."

Having said that, Clement pulled an even smaller Cloth Bag out from under the counter.

Its mouth was tied with a red string. He untied it and tipped out a ring.

It was a silver ring, its face engraved with a cross and a circle. This was one of the oldest solar symbols on the Western Continent.

It predated the Greeks' sun wheel of Apollo by hundreds of years, tracing all the way back to the Celts or even earlier, to the megalithic era.

"This ring belonged to another old colleague," Clement said, placing the ring beside the medal.

"He specialized in appraising silverware and jewelry. When he retired, he picked a few pieces out of a pile of leftover inventory to take home with him, and this Silver Ring was one of them."

"The appraisal tag reads: 'Silver ring, origin unknown, dates to approximately the seventeenth century, symbol on the face suspected to be a religious or guild mark.'"

Clement rubbed his thumb over the cross and circle on the ring's face.

"The Category Two annotation was added by him personally.

He wrote a single sentence in the remarks section: 'Silver purity abnormally high; exceeds the standard for silverware of the same period.'"

Richard devoted half his attention to the Panel.

The Ether seeped from the ring a bit faster than from the medal—roughly 0.015 per minute.

"How much for both?"

Clement dug up a handwritten price list from under the counter.

"For the medal, my old colleague's cost price was two pounds. I'll sell it to you for three."

"For the ring, his cost price was one and a half pounds. I'll sell it to you for two."

"Five pounds for both."

Five pounds.

Richard calculated his cash reserves.

The Cicero Cup prize money was thirty pounds. After deducting the train tickets, Evelyn's shoes and coat, the oil lamp, the Solar Seal, his daily allowance, and his contributions to the household expenses, plus the accumulated income from his tutoring gig... he still had over twenty pounds on hand.

Five pounds was no small sum, but it was well within his means.

"I'll take them," he said.

Clement nodded and tore a receipt from his ledger.

Richard took his wallet out of his inner pocket, counted out five one-pound notes, and placed them on the counter.

Clement collected the money and handed over the receipt.

Richard folded the receipt, tucked it into his pocket, and looked again at the partially unpacked crates on the floor and counter.

"Mr. Clement, among these ordinary antiques, are there any you think will be difficult to sell?"

The old man, who was in the middle of locking the money away in an iron cash box, looked up.

"Why do you ask?"

"I want to buy another piece or two," Richard said candidly.

"Getting this private stock from your old colleagues involves shipping fees and calling in favors. Both are costs.

The profit margins on unsold auction items are thin enough as it is, and dealing with private stock is a good way to lose money just to keep busy."

"If I buy a few more ordinary pieces, it'll help you balance the books for this batch."

Clement's hand paused on the lid of the cash box.

"Kid." The old man shut the lid, the latch clicking into place.

"How old are you?"

"Almost seventeen."

"So, sixteen." The old man shook his head.

"You don't need to worry about this stuff for me."

"But—"

"I worked at Stuart for thirty years," Clement interrupted.

"The savings I built up over those thirty years are enough to keep this little shop running until the day I close my eyes for good."

He rapped his knuckles on the counter.

"The shop is small, and the location isn't great, which is why rent is only twelve pounds a year. I can afford it. My supply costs fluctuate every quarter, but I know what I'm doing."

"For the private stock from my old colleagues, the shipping fees and favors certainly are costs.

But when those old geezers ask me to handle their things, they never expect to make money off them anyway."

Clement stood up from his chair and walked around the counter to stand in front of Richard.

The old man was almost half a head shorter than Richard, forcing him to look up.

"When I said I was investing in you, I meant it was a real investment."

"Investing means putting my capital on you, waiting for you to become valuable, and then reaping the principal and interest."

"It doesn't mean you need to start paying off your debt right now."

He poked a finger against Richard's chest.

"The most important thing for you to do right now is spend your money where it counts."

"Spending five pounds on two annotated items—that's spending money where it counts."

"Blowing a few more pounds on a bunch of vases, old jewelry, and bronze candlesticks just to let them gather dust at home—what do you call that? You call that being a sucker!"

Richard opened his mouth, completely at a loss.

Clement clapped him hard on the shoulder.

"If you really want to help me, then study hard and walk your own path."

"Once you've established yourself in the Imperial Capital, if my two grandsons ever run into trouble, you can look after them. That'll be much more useful than buying ten pieces of junk right now."

Having said his piece, the old man turned around and walked back behind the counter to rifle through his clutter.

The newspapers lining the bottom of the crates rustled loudly. The old man kept his back turned, leaving only the graying crown of his head visible.

Richard stood there, clutching the two Cloth Bags in his hands, not knowing what to say for a moment.

"What are you still standing around for?" the old man's impatient voice rang out from behind the counter.

"It's already dark. Hurry up and go home to eat."

"...Alright."

Richard tucked the two Cloth Bags into his schoolbag.

"Thank you, Mr. Clement."

"Get lost, you brat."

The brass bell chimed, and the door closed behind him.