Divine Eye Appraisal: Starting with a Lucky Pickup of a Beautiful CEO's Family Heirloom

When Wen Zhaoye got off the train, the air in the provincial capital was much drier than in Jiangcheng, and the wind carried dust.

He took out his phone and checked the navigation. The antique association's office building was in the old district of the south of the city, about a fifteen-minute walk away.

He didn't take a taxi. Instead, he carried his canvas bag and followed the navigation. He passed a street lined with sycamore trees, the leaves of which were only half yellow and crunched as they fell to the ground.

The office building was easy to find; it was just around the corner—a three-story building made of gray bricks with a faded wooden plaque hanging at the entrance that read "Provincial Capital Antiques Association," the paint of which was cracked.

Wen Zhaoye stood at the door for a moment, then pushed the door open and went inside.

The hall was not large, with two glass display cases on each side, containing a few pieces of porcelain that looked like decorations.

Directly opposite was a receptionist, a woman in a dark blue uniform sitting behind her, looking down at her phone. "Hello, I'm from Jiangcheng, here for the hearing."

The receptionist looked up at him, then glanced down at the invitation on the table: "Did you bring the invitation?"

Wen Zhaoye took out the invitation from the inner pocket of his canvas bag and handed it over.

The receptionist took the book, flipped through a couple of pages, checked it, and then looked up at him with a slightly subtle expression—the kind of look that says, "Oh, this is the person," but she didn't say it aloud.

"Wait a moment, I'll go get someone."

She stood up, took the invitation, and walked into the back corridor, her footsteps fading into the distance on the wooden floor.

Wen Zhaoye stood in the hall waiting.

One minute.

five minutes.

ten minutes.

He glanced at the clock on the wall—9:40 a.m.

The receptionist hasn't returned yet.

He was all alone in the lobby. Occasionally, a staff member would pass by in the corridor, glance at him, and then walk away with their head down. No one greeted him or asked if he was thirsty.

Wen Zhaoye wasn't in a hurry. He found a chair against the wall, sat down, put his canvas bag on his lap, and took out his phone to check the messages.

Qin Fei didn't send any new messages. Yu Tinglan didn't either.

He turned off his phone, leaned back in his chair, and stared blankly at the porcelain pieces on the wall.

I waited for almost another hour.

When the clock struck 10:35, footsteps finally echoed down the corridor.

The receptionist returned, followed by a middle-aged man in his forties wearing glasses and a dark gray jacket, holding Wen Zhaoye's invitation in his hand.

"Mr. Wen?" The bespectacled man walked over, his tone polite but not particularly enthusiastic. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I was in a meeting."

Wen Zhaoye stood up: "It's nothing."

The bespectacled man returned the invitation to him, then took out his business card and handed it over: "My name is Fang Ming, deputy director of the association's office. I'll be in charge of coordinating the hearing."

Wen Zhaoye took the business card, glanced at it, and put it in his pocket.

Fang Ming adjusted his glasses, his tone steady, as if reciting a prepared statement: "The hearing is scheduled for three days from now, at nine o'clock in the morning, in the conference room on the third floor. You can familiarize yourself with the environment of the provincial capital in the next few days; there aren't any special restrictions from the association. However—"

He paused, then lowered his voice by half an octave: "I suggest you don't go to places you shouldn't go." Wen Zhaoye looked at him, but didn't reply, his eyes calm.

Fang Ming felt a little uncomfortable under his gaze and coughed lightly, "Well, if Mr. Wen has nothing else to do, you can go back now. Just come back on time in three days."

He finished speaking and turned to leave. "Director Fang."

Fang Ming stopped and turned to look at him.

Wen Zhaoye reached into the canvas bag, pulled out the note written by Sun Bo'an from the inner layer, and handed it over.

"I'd like to see two people," he said, "Old Zhou and Old Chen. Could you please make the arrangements?"

Fang Ming took the note, glanced at it, and then his expression changed.

It wasn't the kind of bewilderment of "What is this?" but rather the surprise of "You actually have this?"

He looked at the note for several seconds, then looked up at Wen Zhaoye, then looked down at the note again, as if confirming something.

"Did Sun Bo'an give it to you?" he asked.

"Um."

Fang Ming was silent for a few seconds, then folded the note in his hand and handed it back to Wen Zhaoye: "Old Zhou is in the archives room on the second floor. Go find him yourself. Old Chen won't arrive in the provincial capital until tomorrow. Come back tomorrow morning."

He left as soon as he finished speaking, his pace quickening considerably from when he arrived.

Wen Zhaoye put the note back into his canvas bag and turned to walk towards the stairs.

The second floor. The corridor was narrower than the first floor, with closed offices on both sides. One of the light bulbs on the wall was broken and flickered twice before turning on.

The archives room was at the end of the corridor, the door ajar, with the light of a table lamp shining through.

Wen Zhaoye walked over and knocked on the door frame.

"Come in."

The voice was a little hoarse; it was an old man's voice.

Wen Zhaoye pushed open the door and saw the scene inside—a small room with metal cabinets on all four walls, the cabinet doors half open, and the inside filled with brown paper file folders.

In the middle was an old wooden table with stacks of documents piled on it, and an old-fashioned desk lamp was lit, its lampshade yellowed.

An old man with gray hair and reading glasses sat behind the table, looking down at the files in his hands.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up, took off his reading glasses, and sized Wen Zhaoye up and down.

"You're the kid Sun Bo'an was talking about?"

"Yes." Old Zhou put his reading glasses back on the table, leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his stomach, and stared at Wen Zhaoye for a long time.

"When Sun Bo'an called me, he said you looked more energetic than in the photos. To me, you look so-so."

Wen Zhaoye didn't reply, but simply took out the list of problematic auction items from his canvas bag and spread them out on the table.

"Mr. Zhou, this is the data I compiled from Bao Dequan's ledgers and Qian Bohong's shop list. Please take a look."

Old Zhou glanced down at it but didn't pick it up immediately.

He first picked up the teacup on the table and took a sip, then slowly picked up the stack of papers and flipped through them one by one.

The archive room was so quiet that only the sound of turning pages and the ticking of the clock on the wall could be heard.

Wen Zhaoye stood in front of the table, neither sitting down nor urging anyone to sit.

After finishing the first page, Lao Zhou paused for a moment, then flipped back to the previous page and glanced at a particular line a few more times.

His finger stopped when he turned to the third page.

"Are you sure this Ming dynasty huanghuali brush pot was handled by Qian Bohong?"

"Confirmed. His signature is on the auction record, and the remarks column says 'commissioned for appraisal,' but the actual transaction price was three times the market price."

Old Zhou didn't say anything. He put the paper back on the table, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

He remained silent for a while, then raised his head and looked at Wen Zhaoye.

"You're a little younger than Sun Bo'an said."

Wen Zhaoye didn't understand whether the remark was a compliment or an insult, so he didn't respond.

Before he could reply, Lao Zhou bent down, opened a drawer, pulled out a handwritten appraisal report, slammed it on the table, and pushed it in front of Wen Zhaoye. "This is what I could write." Wen Zhaoye glanced down at it—the cover of the report was written in pen as "Supplementary Explanation on the Appraisal Opinion of the Warring States Jade Bi Case," and below it was signed Lao Zhou, with a stamp and date, everything that should be there.

He turned to the first page, scanned a few lines, and pressed his finger along the edge of the page.

"The rest," Old Zhou put on his reading glasses, lowered his head again, and opened the file he had just been looking at, "will depend on your performance at the hearing."

Wen Zhaoye closed the report, held it with both hands, and bowed deeply.

"Thank you, Mr. Zhou."

Old Zhou waved his hand, didn't look up, and continued flipping through his file: "Go on. Don't forget to go to Old Chen's tomorrow; he's prepared a file for you that's even thicker than mine."

Wen Zhaoye carefully placed the report into the inner compartment of the canvas bag, put it together with the family photo, and zipped it up.

As he reached the door, Old Zhou said from behind, "You checked the huanghuali brush holder correctly. I was there when Qian Bohong acquired it three years ago."

Wen Zhaoye stopped and turned to look at him.

Old Zhou didn't look up, his finger tracing across the file: "I felt something was off back then, but I had no evidence. Now that you've produced it, that's good."

He turned a page of the file and said in a calm voice, "Go ahead, don't let this old man of mine have wasted his time."

Wen Zhaoye stood at the door, watching Old Zhou's gray hair gleam under the lamp, remained silent for a few seconds, and then turned and walked out.

The lights in the corridor were still flickering.

When he went downstairs, the receptionist had changed; the woman sitting there was on the phone and wasn't looking at him.

He walked out of the antique association's gate, stood on the steps at the entrance, took out his phone and glanced at the time—11:20 a.m.

The sunlight in the provincial capital was more dazzling than in Jiangcheng, and the shadows of the trees on the gray brick walls swayed in the wind.

He touched the report in the canvas bag; it was bulging and a bit heavy.

I wonder what Old Chen will give him tomorrow.