The days blurred together.
Morning after morning, Lin Hao returned to the park. Same tree. Same dirt. Same hope.
He dug with a small plastic shovel—barely more than a toy—and when that failed, with his hands. His palms were rough now, his nails dark with soil, but he didn't stop.
Weeks turned to months.
Three, to be exact.
He learned how to hide what he was doing. Sometimes he pretended to plant imaginary seeds. Other times, he played "pirate" hunting for buried gold. Children watched him curiously. Parents shook their heads and smiled.
But Lin Hao's hands never stopped moving.
And still—nothing.
The treasure was either gone, never existed, or worse… was just out of reach.
Meanwhile, his father grew thinner. The change was subtle at first. But Lin Hao noticed.
The way his shoulders slumped more each night. The deeper lines beneath his eyes. His uniform hanging a little looser each week. He still smiled, still laughed—but the spark was fading.
Lin Hao's urgency sharpened like a blade.
He had tried. For three months, he had tried.
And yet the hole by the white tree was deeper than his hope now.
It was the end of another long, sun-drenched afternoon.
His arms were heavy, his shirt soaked. His knees ached. He swung the little shovel again—and this time, it hit something hard.
Clink.
He froze.
Hands trembling, he dropped to the dirt, scooping fast, ignoring the sharp rocks and roots. His fingers scraped metal. Cold. Solid.
A box.
Small. Barely the size of his palm. Around three centimeters per side. Black with age. No lock. No markings.
He stared at it, chest pounding.
Then frowned.
"This… can't be it."
No glow. No aura. No sign of power.
Just a tiny, dull cube.
His stomach sank. After all this effort… could it really be just a trinket?
Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the soil.
His mother's voice called out behind him. "Hao'er, time to go!"
He sighed and slipped the box into his pocket. "Coming…"
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The box was under his pillow, cold and silent.
What if he was wrong?
What if the story was just that—a story?
His time was running out. His father's health was fading. And he still had no money, no medicine, no way to change what was coming.
He pulled the box from beneath the pillow and stared at it in the dark.
"What are you…?" he muttered.
He tossed it up once. Caught it. Tossed again.
The third time, he missed.
It dropped straight down and hit him squarely in the forehead.
"Ow!"
He sat up, rubbing the spot. It wasn't deep, just enough to sting.
But a droplet of blood slid down his temple... and landed on the box.
And then—
Light.
Blinding. Brilliant. The box trembled in his hands and began to hum. The glow swelled until the entire room was bathed in golden-white light.
He shielded his eyes, heart racing.
Then silence.
When he opened his eyes, the box was gone.
In its place—on the back of his right hand—rested a dark silver ring. Faint patterns pulsed along its surface like veins of living metal.
Lin Hao blinked.
His hands trembled.
"…A spatial artifact?"
He didn't speak the words aloud. He couldn't.
But he knew.
The treasure was real.
And it had chosen him.