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

The next day at 9:40 a.m.

Wen Zhaoye had just come out of Lao Zhou's place when his phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

He answered the phone, and a middle-aged man's voice came through, very politely: "Mr. Wen, Director Qian would like to speak with you. The teahouse across from the Antiques Association, second floor, by the window. Would it be convenient for you to come now?"

Wen Zhaoye didn't think much of it: "Okay."

After hanging up the phone, he touched the appraisal report in his canvas bag and then walked towards the teahouse.

The teahouse is just across the street from the association's office building. It has a small storefront, and the windows on the second floor are open, so you can see someone sitting inside.

Wen Zhaoye went upstairs and saw a middle-aged man in a suit sitting by the window with a pot of tea and two cups on the table.

"Mr. Wen, please have a seat." The middle-aged man stood up, gestured to the seat opposite him, and wore a professional smile, speaking in a very gentle tone.

Wen Zhaoye sat down and placed the canvas bag at his feet.

The middle-aged man poured him a cup of tea, moving very slowly, as if he were waiting for something.

"Director Qian asked me to pass on a message." He pushed the teacup in front of Wen Zhaoye, "If the young man admits his mistake, the association can be lenient."

Wen Zhaoye didn't reply, nor did he touch the cup of tea.

The middle-aged man took an agreement out of his briefcase, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards him.

"The appraisal company affiliated with Director Qian will hand over 30% of its profits every year," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "The ban will be lifted immediately. From now on, you can do whatever you want in the provincial capital without anyone bothering you."

After he finished speaking, he leaned back in his chair, waiting for Wen Zhaoye's reaction.

Wen Zhaoye glanced down at the agreement. The cover was printed with "Cooperation Agreement on Affiliation of Jianzhen Pavilion," and the font size was quite large, making it look rather formal.

He didn't reach out and touch it.

"Let him tell me himself at the hearing."

The middle-aged man's smile froze for a second.

He stared at Wen Zhaoye for a few seconds to make sure he wasn't joking, then stopped smiling and put the agreement back in his briefcase.

"Mr. Wen, are you sure?"

"Sure."

The middle-aged man stood up, brushed off non-existent dust from his suit, and looked at him: "Young man, the provincial capital is not like Jiangcheng; the waters run deep. Think it over yourself."

After he finished speaking, he turned and left.

The footsteps faded into the distance on the wooden stairs and eventually disappeared.

Wen Zhaoye sat by the window, the tea on the table still steaming.

He didn't drink, got up, paid the bill, and went downstairs.

As he walked out of the teahouse, he glanced at the gray brick building of the antique association. Behind the third-floor window, he saw a figure flash by.

He didn't pay any attention and turned to walk towards the small hotel.

The sunlight in the provincial capital was quite dazzling; half of the sycamore leaves had turned yellow and were falling to the ground, being blown around by the wind.

Wen Zhaoye returned to the small hotel. The room was small, with a bed and a table, and the window faced the old street downstairs.

He sat on the edge of the bed, took out his phone, and opened the email sent by Su Xiaoman.

The email had no body, only three attachments.

The first was a bank statement, Qian Bohong's transaction records for the past three years, filled with dense numbers. Wen Zhaoye read it from beginning to end, swiping his finger across the screen for three minutes.

The second is a relationship diagram showing the connection paths of four offshore accounts. The arrow points to an account called "Lin's Cultural Investment," and the flow of funds is as clear as a map.

The third is a photo of Qian Bohong's office, with a document on the desk that reads "Emergency Plan for the 17th Jadeite Gambling Conference" on the cover.

Wen Zhaoye stared at the photo for a long time.

He turned off his phone, lay on the bed, and stared blankly at the ceiling.

There was a crack in the ceiling that stretched from the corner of the wall to the lamp base, like a dried-up riverbed.

He lay in the darkness for a long time, his mind racing with those numbers and arrows.

Qian Bohong's financial chain was vast, but also fragile—four offshore accounts and a common terminal, all pointing to the Lin family.

If you pry open just one of them, the whole chain will break.

But the problem is, the provincial capital is not Jiangcheng. He has no roots here, no acquaintances, and no one he can trust.

Old Zhou and Old Chen are willing to help him, but only to provide the appraisal report; they can't fight for him. He needs someone, someone who can help him make contact with the Lin family.

My phone suddenly vibrated.

Wen Zhaoye picked up his phone, and the screen displayed "Sun Bo'an".

He answered, "Old Sun."

Sun Bo'an's voice sounded tired and breathless, as if he had just finished running: "Zhao Ye, how are things on your end?"

"It's alright. I just met with Qian Bohong's people, but we couldn't reach an agreement."

"I know." Sun Bo'an paused for two seconds. "Old Zhou just called me and said that Qian Bohong already knows you went to see him."

Wen Zhaoye sat up: "So fast?"

"The provincial capital is only so big. Qian Bohong has more ears than you think." Sun Bo'an's voice deepened. "Old Zhou said that when he went downstairs to buy cigarettes this morning, someone was waiting for him in the alley and told him not to meddle in other people's business."

Wen Zhaoye tightened his grip on his phone. "Is Lao Zhou alright?"

"It's alright, but he can't be involved any more." Sun Bo'an sighed. "Zhao Ye, if things really don't go well on your end, come back first, and we'll discuss this further."

Wen Zhaoye remained silent.

The numbers and arrows swirled in his mind, along with the "emergency plan" on the office photo. "Old Sun, I can hold on for two more days."

Sun Bo'an was silent for a moment, then said, "Okay, be careful."

He hung up the phone.

Wen Zhaoye put his phone on the table, stood up, and walked to the window.

The lights in the old street downstairs lit up one by one, casting a dim yellow light on the bluestone pavement. Someone rode an electric bike out of the alley, with an insulated box strapped to the back seat.

He stood by the window, watching the twilight fall on the old street, his fingers tracing the corner of the family photo in his pocket.