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

At the east end of Wutong Street, when Wen Zhaoye found Gu Qinghan at the noodle shop, she was sitting by the window with two bowls of noodles in front of her. One bowl was already cold, the noodles clumped together, and a layer of oil floated on top of the soup. The other bowl was untouched, the chopsticks neatly placed on the rim, as if she had been waiting for someone for a long time. Wen Zhaoye sat down opposite her, took out his phone, scrolled to the photo at the bottom of the cauldron, and pushed it in front of her. "Take a look at this."

Gu Qinghan glanced down and stopped eating.

She didn't move, just stared at the screen, her pupils contracting slightly. Then she put down her chopsticks, picked up her phone, zoomed in on the photo, and stared at those three words for a long time.

"Zhou Tiankuo," she murmured, her voice very soft, as if afraid of being overheard.

Wen Zhaoye stared at her expression, his fingers tightening on the table: "You recognize this handwriting?"

Gu Qinghan didn't answer immediately. She put her phone back on the table, picked up the bowl of cold noodles, and took a sip of the soup. Her movements were slow, as if she was stalling for time, or perhaps thinking about how to say it.

Wen Zhaoye didn't urge her. The noodle shop was quiet, with only the bubbling of noodles cooking in the kitchen and the owner's occasional cough. The shadows of the sycamore trees outside the window were stretched long by the streetlights, swaying back and forth on the glass.

Gu Qinghan put down her bowl, looked up, and met Wen Zhaoye's eyes. "This handwriting," she said, "is exactly the same as the calligraphy in my master's study."

Wen Zhaoye's fingers tightened suddenly on the table.

"Your master?"

"Um."

"Does he know Zhou Tiankuo?"

Gu Qinghan did not answer. She lowered her head and began drinking the cold soup again, as if using it to avoid something.

Wen Zhaoye stared at her, and the tide of emotions in his heart began to churn—first it surged, like something was pushing up in his chest, then it churned, making his stomach tighten.

He took a deep breath, suppressing his urge, and asked in as calm a voice as possible, "Who is your master?"

Gu Qinghan put down her bowl, her fingers pausing on the table for a moment before she pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from her pocket, its edges frayed. She pushed the paper towards Wen Zhaoye. Wen Zhaoye took it and opened it. The paper contained only four characters, written in pen, the handwriting neat and strong, each stroke steady, as if the writer's hand and mind were both very steady.

"Kunlun Mountain, our ancestral home."

Wen Zhaoye stared at the four characters, his fingers tracing their lines on the paper. He looked up at Gu Qinghan: "What does this mean?"

Gu Qinghan lowered her head, picked up the bowl of cold soup, and took another sip. She swallowed, raised her head, looked into Wen Zhaoye's eyes, and spoke in a calm voice, but with a hint of forced calmness.

"My master sent me to watch over you, but he never said that you shouldn't know the truth."

Wen Zhaoye gripped the note, his knuckles turning white. He looked at Gu Qinghan, and Gu Qinghan looked back at him. The two stared at each other for a few seconds under the dim light of the noodle shop, neither of them speaking. Then the owner's voice came from the kitchen: "Beef noodles with an egg, ready!" Wen Zhaoye didn't move, and neither did Gu Qinghan.

"Who is your master?" Wen Zhaoye asked again, his voice lower but more forceful than before.

Gu Qinghan lowered her head, picked up the now-cold bowl of noodles, drank the last mouthful of soup, then put the bowl down, looked up, and stared at Wen Zhaoye.

"My master is called Xuan Kongzi." "Xuan Kongzi?" Wen Zhaoye repeated the name, feeling a little unfamiliar, yet somehow vaguely familiar. "He is the Grand Elder of Xuanji Pavilion," Gu Qinghan said, his voice calm, as if he were talking about something very ordinary. "Xuanji Pavilion is a secluded sect, located deep in the Kunlun Mountains, with a history of over a thousand years."

Wen Zhaoye held the note, his finger pausing on the three characters "Kunlun Mountain". "The year your father disappeared," Gu Qinghan continued, "my master was also in Kunlun Mountain. After he returned, he wrote a calligraphy in his study, those four characters—'Kunlun Mountain, ancestral land'."

Wen Zhaoye's breath hitched. "Your master has met my father?"

"I don't know," Gu Qinghan said. "He never told me. He only knew your father's name and sent me down the mountain to keep an eye on you and see if you were qualified."

"What qualifications?"

Gu Qinghan paused for a moment, then shook her head: "I can't say." Wen Zhaoye stared at her, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He looked down at the note in his hand; the four words were particularly clear in the dim light.

Kunlun Mountain, our ancestral home.

His father disappeared in the Kunlun Mountains. He remembered what Sun Bo'an had said—the Lin family in the provincial capital might know something about your father.

But now it seems that it's not just the Lin family who know. There's also the Xuanji Pavilion, and that person named Xuan Kongzi.

He held the note, his knuckles turning white, and the tide of emotion in his heart began to sink—not a sinking of despair, but the kind of sinking that comes after finally finding direction, sinking to the very bottom, and then settling down.

He looked up at Gu Qinghan: "Why are you telling me all this?"

Gu Qinghan lowered her head, not looking at him. She picked up the bowl of still-warm noodles, took a bite with her chopsticks, slowly ate it, and then put down her chopsticks, her voice very soft.

"Because my master asked me to watch over you, but he never said that you shouldn't know the truth."

She looked up at Wen Zhaoye's eyes, her lips twitched as if she wanted to laugh, but didn't.

"My master knows about your father's affairs. But whether he tells anyone is his business. Whether I tell anyone is my business."

Wen Zhaoye held the note, looked at her, and remained silent for a long time.

Then he folded the note, put it in his inner pocket, and placed it with the jade pendant, keeping it close to his body.

He stood up and looked at Gu Qinghan: "Thanks." Gu Qinghan didn't reply, but simply lowered her head and continued eating her noodles. Wen Zhaoye turned and walked towards the door. As he reached the door, he glanced back at her.

She sat by the window, eating noodles with her head down. The dim light cast a long shadow on her against the wall. He didn't say anything, pushed open the door, and went out.

The night wind blew in, chilling to the bone.

He stood on Wutong Street, took out his phone, and glanced at the time—one in the morning.

He opened his contacts, found Qin Fei's name, and sent a message: "Help me find someone named Xuan Kongzi, from the Xuanji Pavilion."

Qin Fei's phone vibrated, and she replied, "Xuanji Pavilion? Why are you investigating this?"

"My dad's matter."

The phone was silent for a few seconds, then vibrated: "Okay, I'll check. But this name... I feel like I've heard it somewhere before." Wen Zhaoye put the phone back in his pocket and looked up at the night sky.

The night sky over the provincial capital was dark, with few stars visible, only the lights of a few distant buildings twinkling. He held the note in his inner pocket, feeling the weight of those four words.

Kunlun Mountain, our ancestral home.

The place where his father disappeared.

He stood there for a long time, until the night wind made his face numb, before turning around and walking towards the other end of Wutong Street.

Behind me, the signboard of the "Han" teahouse glowed faintly under the streetlights.