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

It was 11 p.m. on Wutong Street in the provincial capital. Wen Zhaoye stood in front of the back door of No. 13, his hand gripping the key so tightly it felt hot. The surroundings were quiet; the streetlights cast long shadows, and the sycamore trees across the street rustled in the wind. He took a deep breath and inserted the key into the lock.

Click. The moment the lock turned, he felt his heart skip a beat. The back door opened silently, revealing a narrow crack. He squeezed in sideways and gently closed the door behind him. The courtyard was pitch black, with only moonlight filtering down from above. He took out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam swept across the corner—a few piles of old wooden crates, dusty shelves, and several bronze artifacts scattered on the ground, labeled: "Lin Family Culture - Pending Disposal." Wen Zhaoye squatted down and shone the flashlight on the bronze artifacts. They were all antique imitations, crudely crafted, and of little value. Just as he was about to stand up, the beam of light caught sight of something in the corner—a small cauldron, about half a person's height, half-covered by a tattered cloth, the exposed part gleaming with a dark green patina of bronze.

He went over and lifted the rag.

The cauldron was heavy, with a simple and ancient design, three legs and two handles, and its surface was covered with verdigris. He shone his flashlight around it but didn't find anything special. But he still felt that something was off about the cauldron, as if it was hiding something.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his divine eyes had been activated.

Pale gold characters appeared on the surface of the cauldron, leaping out line by line. "A bronze cauldron, made in the late Warring States period, imitating the style of the Shang and Zhou dynasties. It was not a ritual vessel and was cast by an individual. The bottom of the cauldron is inscribed with the three characters 'Zhou Tiankuo,' written by Wen Tiankuo."

Wen Zhaoye's hand trembled suddenly.

His father's name. He crouched down and shone his flashlight on the bottom of the cauldron, and sure enough, he saw three characters—Zhou Tiankuo. The characters were very faint, as if they had been scratched with the tip of a knife, but the strength and angle of the strokes were exactly the same as the characters on the inside of the bracelet his father had left behind.

"Zhou Tiankuo," he murmured, tracing the characters with his fingers.

Why did his father use the name "Zhou Tiankuo" instead of "Wen Tiankuo"?

As he was thinking, he suddenly heard footsteps outside.

It was light, yet clear, as I walked step by step onto the stone path, heading this way.

Wen Zhaoye immediately turned off the flashlight and retreated to a corner, hugging the wall.

The footsteps stopped at the back door. Then came the sound of a key being inserted into the lock, and with a click, the door was pushed open.

A figure darted in. In the moonlight, the man, dressed in a gray long robe, was thin and appeared to be in his fifties. He didn't turn on the light, but went directly to the tripod-shaped object in the corner, bent down, picked it up, and turned to leave. His movements were practiced, as if he had been there many times before. Wen Zhaoye huddled in the shadows, watching the man's retreating figure through the cracks in the wooden crate. He recognized the face—Zhou Huaiyuan. It was the man on the business card.

Zhou Huaiyuan carried the cauldron and walked quickly. He paused at the back door, glancing back at the warehouse. But he didn't see Wen Zhaoye hiding in the corner. He simply shook his head, then pushed open the door and left.

The door closed again, and the footsteps faded into the distance.

Wen Zhaoye emerged from the shadows and stood in the middle of the warehouse, looking at the door that had closed again. He took out his phone, scrolled to the photo he had taken of the bottom of the cauldron, and zoomed in to see the three characters—Zhou Tiankuo.

He remained silent for a few seconds, then retreated the way he came, gently closing the door behind him.

Standing under the sycamore tree, he took out his phone and dialed Gu Qinghan's number.

I answered the phone after it rang twice.

"There's something there," he said.

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, then Gu Qinghan's calm voice came through, devoid of emotion: "There's a noodle shop at the east end of Wutong Street. I'll wait for you there."

Hang up when you're done.

Wen Zhaoye put his phone back in his pocket, glanced back at the tightly closed iron gate of No. 13 Wutong Street, and then turned and walked towards the east end.

Wutong Street was deserted at 11:30 p.m., with dim streetlights and the occasional taxi passing by. Wen Zhaoye walked to the east end and sure enough, he saw a noodle shop still lit up, with a sign that read "Tongji Noodle Shop" hanging at the door and the words "Open for Business" pasted on the glass door.

He pushed the door open and went in.

The noodle shop was small, with six tables, but only one was occupied. Gu Qinghan sat by the window, a bowl of noodles in front of her, untouched, as if waiting for him.

"You're here?" She looked up at him.

"You're here." Wen Zhaoye sat down opposite her.

Gu Qinghan pushed the menu towards him: "Let's eat noodles first, then we'll talk."

Without even looking at the menu, Wen Zhaoye directly shouted to the owner, "One bowl of beef noodles, with an egg."

The boss responded, and the sound of spatulas came from the kitchen.

Gu Qinghan picked up a piece of noodles with her chopsticks, slowly ate a bite, then put down her chopsticks and looked at him: "What did you discover?"

Wen Zhaoye took out his phone from his pocket, scrolled to the photo of the bottom of the cauldron, and turned the screen towards her. "This one."

Gu Qinghan took the phone, looked at the words on the photo, and frowned slightly. "Zhou Tiankuo?" she looked up. "Is that your father's name?"

"It should be," Wen Zhaoye said. "He used an alias, but the handwriting is exactly the same as his bracelet."

Gu Qinghan handed the phone back to him and remained silent for a while. "The year your father disappeared, Zhou Huaiyuan was also in the provincial capital," she said. "Your father's use of the name 'Zhou Tiankuo' might be related to the Zhou family."

"The Zhou family?" Wen Zhaoye paused, then asked, "Which Zhou family?"

"Zhou Demao is Zhou Huaiyuan's older brother, and also the one who bought your father's bracelet," Gu Qinghan said. "The Zhou brothers have been in the provincial capital for decades; they're not your average antique dealers."

Wen Zhaoye held his phone, his fingers tracing the screen.

"That cauldron," he asked, "why did Zhou Huaiyuan go and move it in the middle of the night?" "Because that thing shouldn't have been in that warehouse," Gu Qinghan said. "After Lin's Culture acquired No. 13 Wutong Street, many old things were cleared away, but there were some things that some people didn't want to be cleared away."

She paused, then glanced into Wen Zhaoye's eyes.

"Your father left behind more than just that cauldron."

Wen Zhaoye's breathing quickened.

"What else?"

Gu Qinghan did not answer, but picked up the bowl, took a sip of soup, put down her chopsticks, and stood up.

"After you finish your noodles, come with me."

She turned and walked to the counter, took out her wallet to pay, and then glanced back at Wen Zhaoye. "Your father's situation is much more complicated than you think."

Wen Zhaoye sat in the chair, watching her back. The beef noodles hadn't arrived yet, but he'd already lost his appetite. He stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open, letting in a gust of cold wind. Gu Qinghan stood under the streetlight, her hands in her pockets, her hair slightly disheveled by the wind.

"Where to?" he asked. "To a place," Gu Qinghan said, "a place your father has been to."

She turned and walked across the street.

Wen Zhaoye followed behind her, walking quickly, but a surge of indescribable emotions welled up in his heart—first churning, as if something was stirring in his stomach, then sinking, sinking to the bottom, icy cold.

His father's situation was like a tangled mess, getting longer and more complicated the more he pulled at it. But he knew he had to keep pulling at it.

Because at the end of that tangled mess lay the answer he had been waiting for for seventeen years.