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

The next morning, just as dawn was breaking.

At the entrance of the waiting hall of the provincial capital's railway station, Wen Zhaoye stood there with a canvas bag on his back. There weren't many things in the bag, but each item was heavy—a broken bracelet, a yellowed photograph, the hand-drawn map given to him by Gu Qinghan, and the bronze fragment he found at No. 13 Wutong Street last night.

He glanced up at the clock in the ticket hall; it was 6:47.

Gu Qinghan has arrived.

She leaned against a pillar next to the ticket gate, an old travel bag slung over her shoulder, its contents unknown. A short sword was tucked into her waistband, its scabbard reflecting a cold glint in the morning light. She saw Wen Zhaoye approaching, but didn't speak, only nodded.

Wen Zhaoye didn't say anything, but walked over and stood next to her.

The two of them stood there silently, like two strangers waiting for a bus.

The ticket gates opened, and the crowd began to surge forward. Gu Qinghan turned around and walked through the ticket gate first, with Wen Zhaoye following behind her, the two of them one in front of the other, about three or four steps apart.

The carriage wasn't crowded, and a row of window seats was empty.

Gu Qinghan walked to a seat by the window and sat down, placing her travel bag at her feet. Wen Zhaoye sat down opposite her and placed his canvas bag on the table.

The train started moving.

The buildings of the provincial capital outside the window began to recede, first the dusty old residential buildings, then the freight yard by the railway, and then a gray-green plain. The view gradually widened, the sky was a grayish-white, and the clouds hung low. Wen Zhaoye looked out the window, his fingers unconsciously stroking the strap of his canvas bag.

Gu Qinghan didn't look out the window. She took an old notebook out of her travel bag, flipped to a piece of paper tucked in the middle, pulled it out, and pushed it in front of Wen Zhaoye. Wen Zhaoye looked down and was stunned.

The paper contained a detailed topographic map, with every ridgeline marked in red and several key locations crossed out. Altitude figures were also noted beside the map. The paper was yellowed and the edges were worn, clearly indicating it had been examined many times.

"What is this?" Wen Zhaoye asked.

"A topographical map of the abandoned Taoist temple on the northern slope of Kunlun Mountain," Gu Qinghan said calmly. "It was drawn by my master thirty years ago."

Wen Zhaoye's gaze lingered on the paper. He saw a few words marked on the map—the entrance was marked with the four characters "Four Symbols Formation Base," and next to it was a line of smaller text: "The formation's core is on the ninth level of the stone steps, using blood as a catalyst."

Using blood as a catalyst.

Wen Zhaoye's fingers paused on the writing, his fingertips gently stroking the paper, as if trying to uncover some secret from those words.

"Where did you get this?" He looked up at Gu Qinghan.

"I copied it," Gu Qinghan said calmly. "There's a painting in my master's study, a topographical map of the Kunlun Mountains, that's been hanging on the wall for over ten years. I secretly copied it when he wasn't looking."

Wen Zhaoye held the paper, his fingers fidgeting at the edge. "Does your master know?"

"I don't know," Gu Qinghan said. "If I knew, I'd probably still be facing the wall in meditation right now." She closed her notebook and looked out the window. The scenery outside was beginning to change; the plains were gradually being replaced by rolling hills, and some grayish-white mountain ridges could be seen in the distance. "What my master and your father did back in the Kunlun Mountains—only when we get there will we know."

Wen Zhaoye did not answer.

He folded the map and placed it in the inner pocket of his canvas bag, next to the bronze fragment. Then he reached into the inner pocket and touched the broken bracelet, his fingers gently tracing the characters "Tian Kuo" (meaning "vast sky").

"Using blood as a catalyst." He repeated those four words in a low voice, as if confirming something.

"Hmm," Gu Qinghan said, turning to look at him. "When my master drew this picture, he also wrote a sentence next to it—'Only those of the Wen family bloodline may enter.'"

Wen Zhaoye stopped. He looked up and met Gu Qinghan's eyes.

"Does your master know who my father is?"

"I know," Gu Qinghan said. "He not only knows, he's been there."

She paused, then added, "They went together thirty years ago."

The train continued westward.

The mountain ridges outside the window began to turn white, not a snowy white, but a grayish-white, like a layer of lime powder. In the distance, I could see even higher peaks, and on their summits, I could vaguely make out some white things, I couldn't tell if it was snow or clouds.

Wen Zhaoye leaned back in his chair, his fingers tightening and loosening on the strap of his canvas bag.

His mind was in turmoil, like a tangled mess of threads.

He recalled Sun Bo'an's words—"What your father did is beyond the comprehension of ordinary people." He remembered the message Qin Fei had sent—"Zhou Huaiyuan left the country last night, his whereabouts unknown." He remembered the bronze fragment he had picked up last night in the warehouse at No. 13 Wutong Street, with half of the character "Zhou" remaining at the bottom.

But now, none of that matters anymore.

The important thing is that he will be able to reach Kunlun Mountain soon.

He'll find the answer soon.

Where did his father go back then? Is his father still alive? Why did his father say "Don't mention the surname Wen" back then?

He touched the broken bracelet in the inner pocket, his fingertips lingering on the engravings on the inside of the bracelet.

"The sky is vast."

His father's name. The last trace his father left in this world. "Are you sure you want to come with me?" Wen Zhaoye asked, looking at Gu Qinghan.

Gu Qinghan didn't answer, but instead took a thermos from her travel bag, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip of water. "If I don't go," she said, her voice flat, "you won't even be able to find the entrance to the Taoist temple."

She closed the thermos, looked out the window, and added, "Besides, I also have something to ask my master." Wen Zhaoye looked at her but didn't ask any further questions.

The train rumbled along the tracks, and the mountains outside the window grew closer and closer until the varying depths of the veins on the rocks were clearly visible.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The words on the map flashed through my mind: "The key to the formation is on the ninth level of the stone steps, using blood as the catalyst."

Using blood as a catalyst.

He opened his eyes and glanced at his fingers. The scars from the cuts from the broken glass were still there, scabbed over and a little hard to the touch. He lowered his hand and closed his eyes again.

The train continued westward. The mountain ridges outside the window grew increasingly white.