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

Wen Zhaoye took out a second document from his canvas bag.

He placed the document flat on the long table, pointed to the transfer record, and spoke in a low voice, but every word was clear: "Three days before the Yu Mantang incident, Bao Dequan transferred 200,000 yuan to an account ending in 7878, with the note 'money' written in the remarks column."

He raised his head and looked directly into Qian Bohong's eyes: "The cardholder of this account is Qian Bohong."

The lobby was so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioner.

Qian Bohong's fingers clenched tightly on the table, his knuckles turning white, but his voice remained calm: "This is a private loan and has nothing to do with this case."

Wen Zhaoye did not refute.

He looked down and pulled out a third document from his canvas bag. "This is a copy of the communication records provided by Comrade Qin Fei of the Provincial Antiques Association."

He held up the document so the review panel could see it clearly: "Three days before the incident, Bao Dequan dialed the same number seven times in a row, with call durations ranging from forty-five seconds to four and a half minutes."

He paused, then looked up: "This number is registered under Qian Bohong's name."

People started moving in the hall.

The judge, student A, took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on.

The second student on the review panel looked down, pretending to look at a document, but he was holding it upside down. Wen Zhaoye looked at Qian Bohong, his voice as calm as if he were saying, "The weather's nice today."

"Director Qian, do I really need to make seven phone calls to borrow 200,000?"

Qian Bohong tapped his fingers three times on the table.

Then they stopped. The five judges exchanged glances.

In the back row of the audience, Yu Tinglan's fingers stopped on her knee, her gaze fixed on Qian Bohong's right hand.

The hand finally slowly lowered from the table, hanging down on the outer edge of the table.

Qian Bohong's lips moved, but no sound came out.

There was a silence in the hall for about five seconds, but it felt like five minutes to everyone.

The head of the judging panel took off his reading glasses and looked at Qian Bohong: "Director Qian, what do you have to say about this?"

Qian Bohong remained silent.

He sat in the chair, his expression still there, but the "elderly" composure was gone.

He glanced at the documents on the table, then at Wen Zhaoye, his lips twitched slightly, and then he said:

"I did lend money to Bao Dequan. But that was because his family had some trouble and he needed my help."

"Oh?" Wen Zhaoye said, "What about the communication records?"

"Bao Dequan called me frequently those days to ask about borrowing money," Qian Bohong said, his voice a little hoarse. "That's normal."

"Normal?" Wen Zhaoye said, "Bao Dequan borrowed money three days before the Yu Mantang incident, and you lent it to him. Bao Dequan called you seven times three days before the incident, and you answered. Then, on the day of the incident, Bao Dequan framed me for theft, and three days later you pushed for a blacklist in the association."

He paused, then looked at Qian Bohong: "Director Qian, do you think this is normal?"

People in the hall began to whisper among themselves.

In the audience, some people took out their phones, while others whispered to the people next to them.

The camera is still recording, the red dot flashing on and off.

Qian Bohong's lips moved slightly, then he said, "Wen Zhaoye, what are you implying?"

"I wasn't implying anything," Wen Zhaoye said. "I was simply stating the facts."

He picked up the documents on the table, turned to the third page, and pointed to the numbers: "Records of Bao Dequan transferring 200,000 to Qian Bohong, communication records between Bao Dequan and Qian Bohong, and transaction records where Bao Dequan marked 'Master Qian' in the ledger." He put down the documents and looked at Qian Bohong: "Director Qian, tell me, how do you explain these three lines?"

Qian Bohong remained silent.

The head of the judging panel looked at Qian Bohong, remained silent for a few seconds, and then said, "Director Qian, you must provide an explanation today." Qian Bohong's lips twitched. He looked at the head of the judging panel, then at Wen Zhaoye, and said, "I have nothing to explain. This evidence was provided unilaterally by Wen Zhaoye." "Director Qian," Wen Zhaoye said, "you just said you lent money to Bao Dequan. Can you tell me how much you lent him?"

Qian Bohong was taken aback. "Two hundred thousand," Wen Zhaoye said. "That's what's written on the transfer record. But you just said you 'borrowed money,' without specifying the amount."

He paused, then looked at Qian Bohong: "Director Qian, you don't even remember how much money you borrowed?"

Qian Bohong tapped his finger on the edge of the table.

Then he stopped. He seemed to have all his strength drained away, slowly leaning back in his chair, looking at Wen Zhaoye with an indescribable look in his eyes—not hatred, but resignation.

"Okay," he said. "Okay." He looked at Wen Zhaoye: "You win."

He stood up, turned around, and walked towards the door.

As he reached the door, he stopped and glanced back at Wen Zhaoye: "But your grandmother's score isn't over yet."

He pushed open the door and went out.

The door slammed shut with a bang, echoing down the corridor.

The head of the review panel took off his reading glasses, rubbed his temples, and then looked at Wen Zhaoye: "Mr. Wen, the association will carefully verify your evidence. The ban has been lifted, and you can operate normally now." Wen Zhaoye nodded, bent down, and put the account books and documents into his canvas bag.

He straightened up and glanced at Yu Tinglan.

Yu Tinglan sat in the back row of the audience, her fingers resting on her knees. She looked at Wen Zhaoye, her eyes filled with surprise, admiration, and something else she couldn't quite define.

Wen Zhaoye didn't say anything, just nodded, then slung the canvas bag over his shoulder and turned to walk towards the door.

He pushed open the door, but the corridor was empty; Qian Bohong's figure had already disappeared around the corner of the stairs.

He stood at the entrance of the hall, looking at the hazy sky over the provincial capital, and took a deep breath. The hearing was won.

But the real storm has only just begun.

He took out his phone and sent Qin Fei a message: "The ban has been lifted. Qian Bohong said that Grandma's score isn't over yet."

After sending the message, he put his phone back in his pocket and headed for the stairs.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Yu Tinglan chased after him and stood beside him: "Are you alright?"

"It's alright," Wen Zhaoye said, continuing down the path.

Yu Tinglan stood beside him, remained silent for a few seconds, and then asked, "Do you believe what Qian Bohong said?"

"I only believe it halfway," Wen Zhaoye said. "The Lin family definitely received money, but Qian Bohong is also involved."

He paused, walked to the top of the stairs, and glanced back at Yu Tinglan: "Help me check the Lin family's transfer record of 280,000 yuan three years ago."

Yu Tinglan nodded: "I'll have someone investigate."

Wen Zhaoye didn't say anything and continued walking down.

Stepping out of the antique association's gate, he stood in the provincial capital's sunshine, gazing at the bustling traffic in the distance.

The phone vibrated. Qin Fei replied, "Okay. I also found something—Lin's Culture had an expenditure of 280,000 yuan three years ago, with the note 'Jade Purchase'."

Wen Zhaoye stared at his phone screen, his finger hovering over it.

Three years ago. The same year Grandma bought the bracelet.

The Lin family paid 280,000 yuan.

He looked up at the hazy sky over the provincial capital, and a thought crossed his mind. Bao Dequan was just a link in a chain.

Qian Bohong is another link in the chain.

The Lin family is the other end of the chain.

He closed his phone, put it back in his pocket, and then walked towards the train station.

The wind from the provincial capital blew against his face, carrying the smell of dust and exhaust fumes. He touched the family photo in his wallet's inner pocket, his finger tracing the edge of the picture. Then he quickened his pace. The matter wasn't over yet.