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

Jianzhen Pavilion's provincial capital branch has been open for three years.

Wen Zhaoye stood at the shop entrance, watching Ma Xiaoxiao teach a new intern in the appraisal room how to identify the outer skin of jadeite. The intern was a girl who had just graduated from a university in the provincial capital. Her eyes were clear, and the way her fingers touched the stone reminded Wen Zhaoye of himself many years ago when he cut his first piece of black jadeite at the Jiangcheng Jade City.

"Uncle Wen, I'm not sure about this piece of material," Ma Xiaoxiao said, peeking out from the appraisal room.

Wen Zhaoye walked over, picked up the stone, and flipped it over. He didn't use his Divine Eyes—he rarely used those eyes anymore. Not that he couldn't use them, but there were many things he no longer needed. He felt the stone's temperature and weight with his palm, examined the texture of its outer layer under the bright light, and then put the stone down.

"The skin of this jadeite from the Moxi Sha mine is above average, but whether it will yield green inside depends on luck. Let your student decide for themselves."

The intern nervously picked up a magnifying glass to examine the item again, while Ma Xiaoxiao stood by without offering any guidance. This was the rule at Jianzhen Pavilion—appraisers must make their own decisions; judgments made by others are not their responsibility.

As Wen Zhaoye walked out of the appraisal room and crossed the lobby, he glanced up at the stone-cutting knife on the wall. It was Ma Guoliang's knife. Most of the blade had been worn away, each grinding mark like a tree ring. Beneath the knife lay a calligraphy piece Sun Bo'an had recently written last month: "Truth is not expensive, lies are too expensive."

Sun Bo'an sat under the osmanthus tree in the backyard, with the never-ending manuscript spread out on his lap. He rarely came to the shop anymore, but he would still come at least once a month, to "check if Wen Xiaozi was selling counterfeit goods," as he put it.

"Don't sell that jade, keep it," Sun Bo'an said without looking up.

Wen Zhaoye sat down behind the counter, picked up the pot of chrysanthemum tea that Gu Qinghan had brought that morning, and poured two cups. "Which piece are you referring to?"

"Keep the piece you brought back from Myanmar for Xiaoxiao as her dowry." Sun Bo'an closed the manuscript, took the teacup, and said, "Her jewelry is all designed by Tinglan now. Leave her a piece of the raw stone so she can remember how her father cut stones back then."

Wen Zhaoye took a sip of tea. The tea was warm, with a slightly bitter aftertaste, but a sweet aftertaste lingered in his mouth after swallowing. Gu Qinghan's tea-brewing skills were getting better and better.

Ma Xiaoxiao has been married for two years. The wedding was held at a branch of Jianzhen Pavilion, which was her own idea—she said she wanted to make up for the wedding her father missed in a place he knew best. Wen Zhaoye remembers that he was the officiant that day, and when they exchanged rings, Ma Xiaoxiao looked at the stone-cutting knife on the wall and said, "Dad, I'm married." All the guests cried.

"She wants to open her own testing lab," Wen Zhaoye said.

Sun Bo'an nodded: "I know. She mentioned it to me last year."

"Do you think this is a good idea?"

"She's better than you and me combined." Sun Bo'an put down his teacup, his tone serious. "Her father can't tell if jade is real or fake, but he never cuts up fake stones. She has more eyes than her father, and she has his heart too. If someone like that doesn't open an appraisal lab, who will?"

Wen Zhaoye remained silent. The leaves on the osmanthus tree rustled, and a few fell onto Sun Bo'an's shoulder.

Ma Xiaoxiao's appraisal center wasn't located in the provincial capital. She chose Jiangcheng—the jade market where Wen Zhaoye had been pinned to the ground years ago. Yu Mantang had long been acquired by Jianzhen Pavilion, and the shop had been vacant since its renovation. Wen Zhaoye had originally intended to use it as a warehouse, but Ma Xiaoxiao said that the location should be used as an appraisal center.

"That's where I met you," she said. "My dad met you there too. The forensic lab was there, and people came in every day to tell the truth, so there were fewer lies on that ground."

Wen Zhaoye agreed. He took down the original signboard of Yumantang and put it in the storage room of Jianzhen Pavilion's provincial branch, along with the broken black leather shell and Ma Guoliang's old work clothes.

"Is Boss Wen here?"

A man entered through the door. He was a regular at Gu Qinghan's teahouse, a retired teacher who came twice a week to drink Xueju tea. He was carrying an old wooden box.

Wen Zhaoye stood up: "You were looking for me?"

The retired teacher placed the wooden box on the counter and opened it. Inside was a blue-and-white porcelain bowl with the inscription "Made in the Kangxi Reign of the Great Qing Dynasty" on the bottom. Wen Zhaoye glanced at it and knew it was a Guangxu imitation of a Kangxi piece; the workmanship was good, but the year was wrong. He didn't use his divine eye. This thing could be seen without the divine eye, just like what he had slowly learned over the years—some things are seen with the eyes, and some things are seen with the heart.

"It's a copy made during the Guangxu era," he said. "The painting is quite good; it's nice to keep it for myself to enjoy with tea."

The retired teacher wasn't disappointed; instead, she smiled and said, "I knew you'd tell the truth. My son bought it for 30,000 yuan at the antique market, and I told him to let you take a look before I paid."

"Thirty thousand is too expensive. The market price is probably around eight thousand."

"Then I'll tell him not to buy it." The retired teacher closed the wooden box and placed a paper package on the counter. "Homemade dumplings, with chives and eggs."

Wen Zhaoye smiled. This was a rule that had gradually formed over the three years that Jianzhen Pavilion had been operating on Wutong Street—neighbors could come for appraisals for free, but if they wished, they could bring something with them afterward. Sometimes it was a bag of oranges, sometimes homemade steamed buns, and sometimes a packet of tea. Wen Zhaoye never refused these things.

After the retired teacher left, Wen Zhaoye put the bag of dumplings in the refrigerator. Ma Xiaoxiao came out of the appraisal room, poured herself a glass of water, and her eyes lit up when she saw the dumplings.

"Shall we cook dumplings for dinner?"

"Didn't your mom just make you some yesterday?"

"Those were made by my mother-in-law, they're different," Ma Xiaoxiao said matter-of-factly. "Uncle Wen, will you cook them or should I?"

"You cook it. Your dad used to burn the pot when he cooked dumplings."

Ma Xiaoxiao smiled and went into the kitchen. Wen Zhaoye sat back behind the counter. The light outside the window slowly dimmed, and the streetlights on Wutong Street lit up one by one.

At six o'clock in the evening, Yu Tinglan pushed open the door and came in right on time. She had just finished a jewelry design lecture at the provincial museum and was carrying a thermos in her hand.

"This is soup that Sister Jiang made. She said you should drink it while it's hot." She placed the thermos on the counter. "She's going to stay by the sea for a few days tomorrow, so she wants you to come over and visit when you have time."

Wen Zhaoye opened the thermos, and the aroma of pork rib and yam soup wafted out. "How has she been feeling lately?"

"It's all good. I just keep talking about you guys." Yu Tinglan sat down at the counter. "She said everything is going smoothly at the Gui Tu Foundation, the successor is very capable, and she can retire with peace of mind."

"She's been talking about retiring for years."

"This time it's for real." Yu Tinglan looked at him. "Everyone has to retire eventually."

Wen Zhaoye drank his soup without saying a word.

At seven o'clock in the evening, Gu Qinghan came over from next door after closing up shop. She carried a tea tray with a batch of newly roasted snow chrysanthemums. She said the snow chrysanthemums sent from Kunlun Mountain this year were particularly good, perhaps because the camellias her master planted under the crooked tree had finally bloomed. When Wen Zhaoye took the tea tray, he noticed that there was another bamboo stick on her sword scabbard. Over the years, the scabbard had been filled with bamboo sticks, each one bearing the name of a customer who had drunk their third cup of tea.

When Qin Fei arrived, the dumplings were just cooked. After retiring, she moved back to the provincial capital, living in an old residential area two alleys away from Wutong Street. Every morning, she would go to the Hancha Tea House to drink the first cup of free snow chrysanthemum tea. She said that retirement was busier than working—she had to serve as a consultant for the Return Journey Project Team, and occasionally give lectures at the provincial government. Su Xiaoman had also arranged for her a nominal position as a "remote system monitor," which actually meant that she had to click the confirmation button on the system interface every day to confirm that the system was still running.

"I pressed the button again today." Qin Fei picked up a dumpling. "After pressing it for so many years, I feel like I've worn that button out of shape."

Su Xiaoman rolled her eyes on the other end of the video call: "Those are virtual buttons, they won't go bald." She didn't come over tonight; she was in her studio doing quarterly maintenance on the cultural relic security big data platform. She pointed the camera at the screen so Qin Fei could remotely check the system's status, then switched back to say that she had just taken on her fourth apprentice, a Chinese-American girl who grew up overseas and wanted to learn how to use data to protect cultural relics.

Su Xiaoman paused, then added, "She's about your age back then, Sister Luo."

Luo Shen sat in the corner peeling an apple, the dagger flashing between her fingers. She had just returned from Paris that afternoon, having recovered a bronze mirror—the Return Journey No. 633—that had been lost from the vicinity of the Kunlun Mountains. This was also the last artifact she had personally recovered. She had already completed the handover within the Return Journey project team and would continue working as the deputy director of the Cultural Relics Repatriation Department of the Sihai Chamber of Commerce, but would no longer be going on fieldwork.

After hearing Su Xiaoman's words, she looked up and smiled: "Back then, I was stealing when I was sixteen, while she was learning how to protect things. She was better than me."

When Jiang Zhirou called via video, everyone had just finished their second plate of dumplings. She was sitting on the balcony of the seaside cottage, with the evening sea and the slowly darkening sky behind her. She said the wind wasn't strong today, and the mint on the plant wall had sprouted new leaves; she had cut a few to make tea. She turned the camera towards the house, showing everyone a newly pasted photo on the wall—an old picture of Ma Guoliang holding a stone-cutting knife at a jade gambling convention. The photo was restored by Su Xiaoman from a screenshot of a news article from years ago; the resolution wasn't high, but the smile was clear.

Ma Xiaoxiao was washing dishes when she saw the photo. She dried her hands, walked to the screen, looked at it for a long time, and said, "My dad looks really handsome in this photo."

On the other end of the screen, Jiang Zhirou turned the camera back. Wen Zhaoye noticed fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but her eyes were still those of the woman holding a purple clay teacup on the top floor of the Sihai Chamber of Commerce years ago. Jiang Zhirou explained that tomorrow she would take Shen Sihai's diary to an old craftsman in town who did restoration work to have the cover rebound—the diary had been read too many times, and the spine was almost falling apart. She turned the camera back to herself and asked, "When are you coming to see me?"

Wen Zhaoye said next month.

After hanging up the video call, Wen Zhaoye stood alone at the shop entrance for a while. The night on Wutong Street was quiet, the streetlights casting the shadows of the plane tree leaves onto the bluestone pavement. The lights in the Cold Tea House were still on; Gu Qinghan was probably still polishing her sword. Several windows in the new headquarters on the twelfth floor were lit—Su Xiaoman was probably still coding, and Luo Shen was probably organizing the files from the last mission.

He heard footsteps behind him. It was Yu Tinglan.

"What are you thinking about?" She stood beside him, holding two cups of tea. They were Gu Qinghan's newly roasted snow chrysanthemum tea, the color of which looked very dark under the streetlights at night.

"I was thinking about many years ago." Wen Zhaoye took the teacup but didn't drink. "My dad squatted down and told me, 'Don't mention your surname is Wen.'"

Yu Tinglan remained silent.

"Then I thought—if he were still here, would he say to me, 'Son, you did a good job'?"

Yu Tinglan placed her hand on the back of his hand, which was holding a teacup. Her fingers bore thin calluses from years of jewelry design; their temperature was neither high nor low, but very steady. "He said it," she said. "The image he left for you in the cauldron. He said he was sorry for leaving you alone. He said, 'Don't change your surname.'"

Wen Zhaoye looked down at his reflection in the teacup. The tea surface reflected the white hair at his temples—the lifespan he had consumed when he activated the Breakthrough Realm in the ancestral land of Kunlun Mountain. It had turned white many years ago. He had grown accustomed to it.

"Let's go." He finished the last sip of tea. "There's a bunch of stones waiting to be appraised tomorrow."

"I'll go help Gu Qinghan organize the bamboo skewers at the teahouse tomorrow," Yu Tinglan said. "She said the scabbard is full again and she needs a third one."

"This is the third scabbard," Wen Zhaoye laughed.

"Because more and more people are drinking their third cup of tea," Yu Tinglan said with a smile.

They turned and walked back. The lights in Jianzhen Pavilion were still on, and Ma Xiaoxiao was organizing today's appraisal records behind the counter. Ma Guoliang's stone-cutting knife on the wall gleamed old under the light, and next to the knife were Sun Bo'an's words—"Fakes are not sold, genuine items are not cheated." Below the words, the broken jade lay quietly in the display case, the label reading "Green Jade Dragon Plaque. Dyed. Machine-carved. Authenticity: Fake. Historical Value: Priceless."

Chapter 648 Kunlun Mountains Sixty Years Later

Deep within the Kunlun Mountains, at the entrance to the ancestral land. The crooked-necked tree has grown into a towering giant, its branches carpeting the ground beneath Xuan Kongzi's grave, where snow chrysanthemums bloom. Wen Zhaoye, eighty-four years old, sits on a stone beneath the tree, brewing tea. Gu Qinghan stands beside him, whittling a new bamboo stick from an old sword sheath.

"Over the years of guarding the cauldron, it has become increasingly quiet. This winter, it hasn't made a sound at all," Gu Qinghan said.

"Silence is what it most wants to say."

Gu Qinghan inserted the sharpened bamboo skewer into the new sword sheath and said, "This one is yours—the third thousandth cup of tea, it's free."

Wen Zhaoye took the tea and drank a sip. Snowflakes fell on their white hair, making it impossible to tell whose hair was whose.

Chapter 649 The Temperature of Broken Jade

In the winter of his eighty-fourth year, Wen Zhaoye sat alone in the backyard of the Jianzhen Pavilion branch. The sunlight was bright. He stroked the broken piece of the jade dragon plaque he had kept since the first chapter. The golden characters no longer appeared in his divine eyes. He simply felt the warmth of his palm. The jade was warm—after being held in his palm for decades, even the coldest thing should have warmed up.

The backyard door opened, and Yu Tinglan came out and sat down beside him, holding a cup of tea. The tea steamed, appearing like a wisp of smoke in the sunlight.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking back to many years ago. My dad squatted down and told me, 'Don't mention your surname Wen.'" Wen Zhaoye looked at the broken jade in his hand. "Then I thought—if he were still here, would he say to me—'Son, you did a good job.'"

Yu Tinglan put down her teacup and took his hand.

Wen Zhaoye turned the broken jade over, and on the back was a line of words he had carved later: "Truth and falsehood can be distinguished, but the human heart cannot." He put the broken jade into his pocket and stood up.

"Let's go, Xiaoxiao is waiting at the store."

They walked out of the backyard, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows of the two of them.