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

Wen Zhaoye stood in the cold teahouse, his fingers holding the yellowed business card.

He turned it over and looked at the line of penmanship on the back—No. 13, Wutong Street, Provincial Capital. The handwriting was old, the ink had faded to brown, but every stroke was written with great force, as if the writer was afraid of losing the address.

He placed the business card on the table, his fingertips lingering on the paper. "This person was also in the provincial capital the year your father disappeared," Gu Qinghan's voice came from behind the counter, flat and indifferent, as if commenting on the weather. Wen Zhaoye looked up at her. She put down her tea set, picked up her teacup, leaned against the counter, and took a sip without looking at him. "Where is this Zhou Huaiyuan now?" Wen Zhaoye asked.

Gu Qinghan put down her teacup, walked behind the counter, bent down, and took a bunch of keys from a drawer. Three old-fashioned brass keys hung on the keychain, worn smooth and shiny. She placed the keys on the table and pushed them towards Wen Zhaoye. "No. 13 Wutong Street, it was acquired by Lin's Culture three years ago and turned into an antique warehouse," she said. "But Zhou Huaiyuan goes there once a month; I've followed him twice."

Wen Zhaoye picked up the keys; they felt heavy. He looked up at her and asked, "Why are you helping me?"

Gu Qinghan didn't answer. She turned and walked back behind the counter, picked up a rag, and continued wiping the teaware. Her movements were slow and meticulous, as if she were wiping something very expensive. "The back door of No. 13 Wutong Street is not easy for anyone to find," she said to him with her back to him.

Wen Zhaoye held the keys, watching her back as she wiped the tea set, and a strange feeling welled up inside him. She was wearing that gray long gown, her hair tied back, and from behind, she looked like a woman from a bygone era.

"Aren't you coming with me?" he asked. "No," Gu Qinghan said without turning around. "You can go. If I go, I'll just attract more attention."

Wen Zhaoye put the key in his pocket, along with the business card. He walked to the door, pushed it open, and glanced back at her.

She was still wiping the tea set, her back to him, like a statue.

"Thanks," he said. Gu Qinghan did not reply.

Wen Zhaoye pushed open the door and walked out. The sunlight was just right, shining on his face. He stood at the entrance of the teahouse, took out his phone, opened the map, and entered "No. 13 Wutong Street".

The navigation system indicated that it was 3.2 kilometers away, in an alley in the old town.

He put his phone back in his pocket and walked in that direction.

The old town of the provincial capital has narrow streets lined with old houses, some of which still bear slogans from decades ago, faded to grayish-white. Number 13 Wutong Street is nestled among a row of old buildings; there's no sign at the entrance, only a rusty iron gate. Wen Zhaoye stood at the gate, feeling for the keys in his pocket.

He tried three times, one after another. The first one wouldn't go in.

The second one went in, but I couldn't turn it.

The third one, inserted, gently twisted, clicked, and the lock opened.

He pushed open the door, the iron gate creaking loudly. He squeezed through, then closed and locked the door. Inside was a small courtyard, paved with blue bricks and covered in moss. In the middle of the courtyard was a pile of scrap wood, covered with a canvas, which was covered in a layer of dust. On either side of the courtyard were two rows of bungalows, their doors and windows closed, the glass covered in dust.

Wen Zhaoye stood in the courtyard and glanced around. This place didn't seem to be frequented by anyone. He walked to the door of the first bungalow, pushed it, and found it locked. He took out his key and tried again, but it wouldn't open. The second one was also locked and wouldn't open.

The third room had its door ajar. He pushed it open, and a musty smell hit him. Inside was a warehouse, piled high with all sorts of things—old furniture, old porcelain, old calligraphy and paintings, all haphazardly stacked together, some even wrapped in newspaper. Sunlight streamed in through the window, and dust swirled in the beams of light.

Wen Zhaoye walked in, his gaze sweeping over the items.

He squatted down, picked up an old porcelain bowl, turned it over and looked at the mark on the bottom—it was from the Republic of China era, worthless. He then picked up a piece of calligraphy, unfolded it, and saw that it was a forgery; even the seal was crooked.

He stood up and dusted off his hands.

This place is just an ordinary secondhand warehouse, nothing special.

But Gu Qinghan said that Zhou Huaiyuan would come once a month.

Why does he come every month?

Wen Zhaoye stood in the middle of the warehouse, his gaze sweeping over the surroundings. He noticed an old table in the corner, with a lamp on it and a notebook next to it.

He walked over, picked up the notebook, and opened it. The first page had a handwritten date, three years ago, followed by the words: Lin's Culture Acquisition, Inventory Check. He turned to the second and third pages, both filled with inventory lists, densely written in neat handwriting. When he reached the middle page, his hand stopped.

On that page, there was no list, only a line of text written in red ink, the handwriting hurried, as if the writer was very excited: "Third item, don't touch it. Old Wen's stuff."

Wen Zhaoye's heart skipped a beat.

He stared at the line of text, his fingers tracing the surface of the paper.

Old Wen? His dad?

He continued flipping through the pages, but the next few pages were blank; there was nothing there.

He closed his notebook, stood still, his mind racing. The third thing: Don't move.

Something I've heard a lot about before.

In this warehouse, there is something that belongs to his father?

He glanced at the warehouse full of old things, and a surge of emotions welled up inside him—first a churning, like something stirring in his stomach, then a sinking, sinking to the bottom, cold and hard. He put down his notebook and began searching through the warehouse.

He rummaged through box after box, examining each item one by one. There were old porcelain, old paintings and calligraphy, old furniture, old bronzes, old wood carvings—all sorts of things—but nothing that could be linked to his father.

He climbed to the back of the warehouse and saw a large wooden crate leaning against the corner, covered with a white cloth, which was covered in a layer of dust. He went over and lifted the cloth. The crate was locked with an old-fashioned brass lock, the cylinder of which was rusted shut. He squatted down, shone his flashlight on the lock, looked at it for a while, then took a safety pin from his pocket, bent it, and inserted it into the keyhole.

After five minutes of fiddling, the lock clicked open.

He lifted the lid of the box.

The box was full of books, all old, some with yellowed pages. He flipped through them one by one; they were all ancient books, some thread-bound, some mimeographed, all looking quite old. When he reached the bottom shelf, his hand touched something hard and cold.

He took it out and saw that it was a piece of jade.

A white jade pendant, round in shape, with a dragon carved in the center through openwork. The dragon's lines were very fine, and the carving was very old. The edges of the pendant were rounded, indicating that it had been handled for a long time. He turned the pendant over to look at the back.

Two characters are engraved on the back—

The sky was vast. Wen Zhaoye's hands began to tremble.

He held the jade pendant, his fingers tracing the two characters "Tian Kuo" over and over again. This was his father's. His father's jade pendant.

He squatted beside the wooden box, holding the jade pendant. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the jade, which shone with a warm, gentle light.

He remembered when he was a child, his father wore a white jade pendant around his neck. He had asked him what it was, and his father said it was a family heirloom. Later, his father disappeared, and the jade pendant was gone too. He thought he would never see it again in his life.

Wen Zhaoye held the jade pendant, his knuckles turning white. He stood up, carefully placed the jade pendant in his pocket, and put it next to the business card, keeping it close to his body.

He glanced at the wooden crate, then at the notebook. The third thing: Don't touch it.

He understood.

Zhou Huaiyuan comes once a month, not to see these things, but to see this one—to confirm that it is still there.

He walked out of the warehouse and stood in the yard. The sunlight shone on his face, a little dazzling.

He took out his phone and sent Gu Qinghan a message: "I found it."

A minute later, my phone vibrated.

Gu Qinghan replied, "Found what?"

"My dad's jade pendant." The phone was silent for a few seconds, then vibrated again.

"We'll talk about it when we get back."

Wen Zhaoye put his phone back in his pocket, then took the jade pendant out of his pocket and held it in his palm.

The jade was warm, warmed by his palm. He looked down at the jade pendant, at the two characters, his lips twitched as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

He put the jade pendant back in his pocket, zipped it up, turned around, walked out of the yard, and locked the iron gate.

He stood on Wutong Street, the sun shining brightly. He took out his phone, glanced at the map, and headed towards the Cold Tea House.