One divination a day, a trainee celestial master

"Beep~ Alipay payment received, 500 yuan."

The mechanical female voice sounded particularly crisp at the corner of the noisy antique street.

Upon hearing the voice and seeing Jiang Shou's face stiff with shock, the old man with the mustache was secretly delighted and almost burst out laughing.

He bought these tattered books by weight from the scrap yard. The cost of the books was less than one yuan, but he sold them for five hundred yuan.

Although he was secretly pleased, the old man didn't show it on his face; instead, he became even more enthusiastic. As if by magic, he pulled out a copper bell covered in verdigris, clearly aged with acidic chemicals, from under the yellow cloth.

"Young man, since you have a connection with Taoism, why not take a look at this demon-listening bell?" The old man pushed the bell forward, lowered his voice, and said mysteriously, "This was once the personal item of the ninth generation successor of Maoshan. A slight shake, and all the little demons and ghosts within a ten-mile radius would have to detour. I see you have extraordinary talent, and we seem to get along well. Three thousand yuan, consider it making friends..."

Jiang Shou looked at the obviously fake bronze bell and his lips twitched slightly.

Without saying a word, he stuffed the red plastic bag containing the tattered ancient book into his backpack, zipped it up, stood up, and turned to leave.

The old man wasn't annoyed that his trick hadn't worked. He smiled and waved at Jiang Shou's retreating figure, saying, "Take care, young man, come again next time!"

Jiang Shou walked for dozens of meters without looking back, his face dark, until he turned into a deserted alleyway and stopped.

The annoyance on his face vanished instantly, and the corners of his mouth suddenly turned up, revealing an extremely smug smile.

"Tch, it's only five hundred yuan. How could my vision, imbued with true essence, be wrong? This is definitely a steal."

Jiang Shou wasn't in a hurry to take out the ancient book of talismans to study right now. Anyway, the item was already in his bag and couldn't possibly run away.

He took out his phone and glanced at the screen. It was exactly one o'clock in the afternoon.

The most important thing now is to find the person who "sells fake paintings" mentioned in the divination of the year's cold season. The hour of Wei (1-3 PM) has arrived, and that person should appear at any time.

Jiang Shou emerged from the alley, his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit, and wandered aimlessly through the antique street like a street urchin. On the surface, he appeared to be looking at the scenery along the street, but in reality, his gaze swept over every passerby.

Time passed by, second by second.

More than half an hour later, a middle-aged man walked in at the entrance of the antique street.

Jiang Shou's gaze instantly locked onto that direction.

The man, probably in his forties, was wearing a faded gray jacket and was hurrying into the street. What caught Jiang Shou's attention most was the blue canvas painting bag he was clutching tightly. The bag was tied with two rough hemp ropes in a crisscross pattern, and the opening wasn't fully closed, revealing a section of a slightly yellowed scroll end.

The man stood at the street corner, looking left and right as if searching for a target. Then, he identified the direction and strode towards the "Guya Zhai" calligraphy and painting shop, which had a rather exquisite decor, located on the opposite corner of the street.

Jiang Shou glanced down at the time on his phone. 1:35.

"The time, the place, the items—everything matches. This must be the person."

Jiang Shou didn't go in immediately, but waited patiently outside the door for half a minute. Estimating that the other party had already taken out the painting, he then casually stepped into the threshold of Guyazhai.

The air conditioning in the calligraphy and painting shop was blasting, and a faint scent of sandalwood filled the air. Various calligraphy and paintings hung on all four walls, with a large, long, rectangular huanghuali wood altar table in the very center.

The owner was a middle-aged, overweight man dressed in a Tang suit, sitting behind the tea table brewing tea. Next to him stood a thin old man wearing reading glasses and holding a high-powered magnifying glass; he was clearly the master appraiser in charge of the shop.

"Handsome, what would you like to see? Calligraphy and paintings or the Four Treasures of the Study?" A young shop assistant greeted Jiang Shou politely as he entered.

"I'm just browsing, you go about your business." Jiang Shou waved his hand, declining the waiter's offer of service, and pretended to browse the collection on the nearby display shelf, but in reality, his eyes and ears were fixed on the movements from the altar.

The middle-aged man was carefully untying the hemp rope on the painting bag and pulling out a scroll that was half a meter wide and more than a meter long, which he slowly unfurled on the rosewood altar.

As the scroll slowly unfurled, the eyes of both the shop owner and the old appraiser lit up simultaneously.

"A splashed-ink landscape by Shi Tao of the Qing Dynasty?" the shopkeeper exclaimed softly.

The two immediately perked up, and the old man even took a magnifying glass and practically lay on the painting, carefully examining every detail, from the texture of the paper and the ink wash to the signature seal.

However, a few minutes later, the light in their eyes gradually dimmed. They looked at each other and both showed a hint of disappointment.

To be honest, this painting is a very well done imitation.

The brushstrokes, varying in dryness and wetness, and the unique "ten thousand dots of bad ink" technique of Shi Tao, are all imitated with seven or eight tenths of their spirit. The paper and mounting are indeed quite old; judging from the natural yellowing marks, they are at least old objects left over from the Republican era.

However, an imitation is still an imitation. It may resemble the form, but it lacks the spirit. The true essence of a master's work cannot be captured through mere copying. Furthermore, the ink paste, when viewed under a magnifying glass, lacks the unique depth and richness characteristic of the early Qing dynasty.

It's acceptable as a collection of older art pieces. But if you're looking to acquire genuine works by Shi Tao, that's absolutely impossible.

The shopkeeper in the traditional Chinese suit understood immediately. He picked up his teacup, took a sip, and looked at the middle-aged man, his tone polite yet distant: "Sir, this painting... we're not sure about it."

"Can't tell" is slang in the antique and calligraphy trade. It's a euphemism for telling you: this is a fake, we don't accept it.

The middle-aged man had clearly done his homework beforehand, and upon hearing this, his face instantly turned pale. He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to argue, but seeing the confident expressions of the boss and the appraiser, he ultimately said nothing.

He awkwardly rolled up the scroll again, stuffed it back into the canvas bag, and silently turned and walked out of the calligraphy and painting shop.

Seeing this, Jiang Shou stopped pretending in front of the Tiger Descending the Mountain painting and immediately turned around and followed him out.

Over the next half hour, the man, carrying his painting bag, went into three more calligraphy and painting shops. This time, Jiang Shou didn't follow him in; he just strolled around a short distance outside the shops.

Unsurprisingly, the middle-aged man would come out looking dejected after less than ten minutes each time he went in.

When the man came out of the last shop called "Jubaozhen", he was trembling with anger, cursing under his breath, as if the shopkeeper had given him an outrageous and insulting price.

The man looked somewhat dejected. He walked to a slightly more spacious corner on the street and plopped down on the steps. He placed the painting directly on top of his blue canvas bag, half-open, and weighed down the corners with two small stones, clearly intending to give up and try his luck by setting up a stall.

Jiang Shou stood not far away, looking at the man's stall, and couldn't help but laugh.

What a coincidence! This place is right next to the stall of that old man in the melon-shaped hat who sells used books.

Jiang Shou leaned against the telephone pole and waited for a while. Although he knew that haste makes waste, he was still a little anxious.

He kept in mind the saying "the truth is hidden in the painting" in the poem "The Coldest Month," fearing that something might happen if he waited too long.

In less than half a minute, he couldn't hold back any longer.

He casually walked past the stall, squatted down naturally, and grabbed the book he hadn't finished reading, "Huang Rong vs. Ximen Qing".

The old man at the stall was dozing off while fanning himself with a palm leaf fan. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was that brat who had only looked but not bought anything. He was furious.

"Hey, hey, hey! Young man, what brings you here again?" The old man tapped the tarpaulin with his palm-leaf fan, shouting repeatedly, "If you really like it, spend ten or twenty yuan to buy it and take it home to read! Don't just stay here and freeload off me, okay?"

Jiang Shou wasn't annoyed. Holding the book, he looked at the old man seriously and said, "Grandpa, do I look like the kind of stingy person who can't even afford a few dollars and only knows how to freeload books?"

The old man rolled his eyes, his expression seeming to say: You don't look like it, you are.

"Fine, fine, I give up." Jiang Shou took out his phone, scanned the QR code on the stall, and said, "Ding, Alipay received, fifteen yuan."

To conceal his true purpose, Jiang Shou "suppressed his guilt towards the Three Pure Ones" and "gritted his teeth" to roll up the "unparalleled book" and stuff it into his backpack.

Sigh. He knew perfectly well that he bought the book purely as a cover, not to see the later plot.

The transaction was completed, and Jiang Shou slowly stood up.

He brushed the dust off his trousers, glanced casually to the side, and then let out a perfectly timed soft "Eh":

"what?"

Jiang Shou turned around and stopped in front of the middle-aged man's stall, looking down to carefully examine the half-unfolded landscape painting.

The middle-aged man was smoking irritably when he glanced up at Jiang Shou. Seeing the handsome young man dressed in sportswear and carrying a backpack, looking like an ungraduated college student, he didn't even raise an eyebrow, harboring absolutely no expectations.

In fact, after being rejected by several large stores and even ridiculed, the middle-aged man had a general idea that his painting, which he regarded as his lifeblood, was a fake imitation of the Qing Dynasty painter Shi Tao from the Republican era.

This painting was acquired by his grandfather during the war by exchanging a few bags of flour from a down-on-his-luck landlord. The family always believed it to be a priceless original.

He took it out this time, thinking he could sell his ancestral treasure while housing prices were low in the county and use the money for a down payment on a house in the city for his son who was getting married soon. Little did he expect that reality would slap him hard in the face; the ancestral treasure turned out to be a counterfeit. The last shop owner was even willing to pay only 800 yuan for a framed scroll. Forget about a down payment on a house, he couldn't even afford a down payment on four wheels.

"Uncle."

Jiang Shou's clear voice interrupted the man's sorrow.

The young student pointed to the painting on the ground and politely asked, "This painting is quite interesting. May I pick it up and take a closer look?"

The middle-aged man exhaled a smoke ring, nodded noncommittally, and said in a flat tone without any emotion, "See? Just be careful not to tear it."