When Chen Yao hung up the phone, his palm was soaked with sweat.
The city outside the window was immersed in the gloom before the storm, and on the glass was reflected his own face—twenty-five years old, clear features, but with a kind of chased-after confusion in his eyes. Zhou Zhenghua's voice still echoed in his ears: "...There was another incident at the construction site, this time with a tower crane. No one was hurt, but... Elder Chen said before, if there are more strange occurrences, I could come find you..."
The honorific "you" made Chen Yao's throat tighten. He wasn't a "you," he was just Chen Yao, a data analyst who used SQL statements to analyze user behavior, not someone who could handle "strange occurrences."
But his grandfather's letter was in his backpack. "A merchant surnamed Zhou will certainly come seeking you within three years."
Not within three years—today. On this day when he cast the Guai hexagram and dodged the concrete block.
He needed to return to the old house. Not because he believed in these mysterious things, but because—if the "strange occurrences" at Zhou's construction site really were related to his grandfather, if that place really was some kind of "karmic sediment pool," then there must be clues left in his grandfather's study.
At the very least, he needed to know what his grandfather had done back then.
He grabbed his backpack and went downstairs to hail a cab. The rain had started, fine threads slanting against the car window, blurring the street scenes into watercolor smears. The driver was a talkative middle-aged man, chatting about the weather, housing prices, his child's cram school. Chen Yao responded with noncommittal sounds, his eyes fixed on the window.
The old house was in the old district south of the city, a cluster of late Qing and early Republican architecture not yet swallowed by the demolition wave. Blue bricks and gray tiles, narrow alleys, streetlights glowing yellow in the rain curtain. The car couldn't drive in; he got off at the alley entrance, opened his umbrella, and walked into the wet night.
The moment he pushed open that heavy door, the scent of sandalwood surged toward him like a physical entity.
Not the crisp fragrance of freshly lit incense, but the aged, soaked-into-wood-and-paper, slightly sweet and decaying scent of old sandalwood. It permeated every inch of air in the house, like an invisible veil separating inside from outside.
Chen Yao stood on the threshold, taking a deep breath of this familiar yet strange scent. The last time he smelled it was three years ago at his grandfather's funeral. The time before that, childhood.
He reached up and turned on the hallway light. In the dim yellow light, the hall remained as it was: the faded plaque "Tao Follows Nature" hanging in the center, the offering table below empty—the spirit tablets and incense burner had been put away after the funeral. On either side, rows of armchairs with armrests polished shiny from handling, one of which still bore the shallow scar he had carved with a small knife at age seven, like a crooked "Yao" character.
His grandfather hadn't scolded him then, only stared at that mark for a long time, saying: "Yao means intersection. Where Yin and Yang intersect, fortune and misfortune begin. That cut of yours, it could be considered a hexagram."
Young Chen Yao hadn't understood. Now, he walked over, his fingers brushing that mark, the wood warm.
He went straight to the study.
The study light was brighter. He entered, opened all the windows, let the rain-bearing wind blow in. Dust danced in the slanted light columns like countless tiny hexagrams reorganizing.
He was looking for the Book of Burial.
The annotated volume had mentioned Zhou's construction site as a "karmic sediment pool," a phrase that unsettled him. He needed to check his grandfather's interpretation of the Book of Burial, especially regarding "abnormal gathering of earth qi." Before meeting Zhou, he needed to understand as much as possible what his grandfather had actually done.
The bookshelf stood against the wall, floor to ceiling. He searched along the labels, his fingers passing over Collected Explanations of the Zhouyi, Jing's Yi Transmission, Three Essentials of Fate, and found Guo Pu's Book of Burial under the "Form and Qi" category. As he pulled it out, a thin booklet beside it fell to the floor.
He picked it up; it was a handwritten Fire Pearl Forest. On the title page was his grandfather's inscription: "Divination shortcut method, yet too direct and exposed, losing the Zhouyi's essence of completeness. Use cautiously, especially avoid determining life and death."
He opened it; the inner pages had many red-ink circles and dots. Beside the phrase "Ghost line holds the world, worry and harm to oneself," his grandfather had annotated: "Not truly ghosts, but the image of karmic reverse flow. 'Holds the world' means the self bears it."
Chen Yao stared at this line. Ghost line holds the world... if this image appeared in divination, it meant the questioner was currently entangled by unfavorable karma. His grandfather said "not truly ghosts," but "karmic reverse flow."
He put back the Fire Pearl Forest and focused on reading the Book of Burial. Many bookmarks were tucked between the pages, all in his grandfather's hand. Beside the phrase "Qi disperses when encountering wind, stops when bounded by water," his grandfather had written: "Dispersion is the beginning of stopping, stopping is the opportunity of dispersion. The way of feng shui lies in adjusting the speed of flow, not seeking permanent fixation. Forcing stopping will cause stagnation; forcing dispersion will cause exhaustion."
Further on, at the chapter "Burial means riding the living qi," his grandfather's annotations were dense:
"Living qi is not living qi (炁), but the smooth state of causal flow at the intersection of time and space. Riding living qi in burial is actually placing the deceased's remaining 'karmic weight' where the flow is slower, allowing it to naturally dissipate without disturbing the living. Yet if the earth meridian itself already has 'stagnation' (ancient battlefields, plague grounds, unjust prisons), then living qi does not exist; instead it becomes a 'dead qi sediment pool.' Moving it is like stirring a cesspit; turbid qi rises and harms the surroundings."
"I once saw a place in late Qing: villagers dug a channel and found an ancient pit of ten thousand skeletons, untreated. Within three years, the strong men of the village contracted strange diseases one after another, dying or going mad. Later a Taoist was invited to perform rituals; actually, he used talismans as guides to slowly export the deposited 'dead qi,' dispersing it into mountains and rivers. This was 'dilution,' not 'elimination.' Yet the Taoist who presided... died vomiting blood before the method was completed—compensation."
Chen Yao felt a chill down his back. His grandfather's description matched exactly his feeling about Zhou's construction site as a "sediment pool." But what chilled him more was that final phrase "compensation."
The feng shui master used himself as the medium to dilute the accumulated ferocity.
This was different from his understanding of "transfer." Transfer was diverting misfortune elsewhere; dilution was using oneself to neutralize, to bear.
He closed the Book of Burial, his gaze roaming the bookshelf. He needed more information. About "compensation," about "karmic weight," about how his grandfather actually viewed this "family profession."
His gaze fell on the top shelf, an inconspicuous purple sandalwood box. In childhood, his grandfather never let him touch that box. Once he had stood on tiptoe wanting to feel it, and his grandfather had sternly stopped him—the most severe he had ever seen his grandfather.
Chen Yao brought over the ladder and climbed up. The box had no lock, only a brass clasp. He carefully opened it.
Inside were no treasures, only a stack of old booklets tied with silk thread. The top one had his grandfather's neat regular script on the cover:
Shouyi Zhai Regulations, Seventh Generation Supplement
He untied the thread and opened the first page.
Not spell formulas, but a series of "operating procedures":
"One: Before accepting a case, must first calculate the client's Eight Characters. If the chart contains 'Emptiness' or 'Lone Star/Widow Star' without remedy, do not accept. Such fate patterns have weak karmic connections; forced intervention may cause them to completely 'detach' and become empty shells."
"Two: After adjustment, detailed records must be kept: client's Eight Characters, requested matter, method used (hexagram image, direction, hour). On a separate page, record the Eight Characters of the 'price bearer' (if known), effects suffered, duration. Place both pages together, do not separate."
"Three: Every winter solstice, review all cases accepted that year, calculate 'net profit and loss.' If loss exceeds profit, reduce case volume the following year, and bear part of the karmic debt oneself (such as fasting, charity, or self-harming health to balance)."
"Four: Strictly prohibit 'double transfer'—that is, after transferring A's misfortune to B, then transferring B's misfortune to C. This will trigger karmic chain reactions, eventually rebounding on oneself, and creating uncontrollable 'empty shell proliferation.'"
"Five: When encountering 'sediment pool' type extremely inauspicious locations, prioritize 'dilution' over 'transfer.' Dilution requires using oneself as the medium, time-consuming and spirit-consuming, with risk of shortened lifespan. Yet this is the virtue upon which this Studio stands, and cannot be completely abandoned."
Chen Yao turned page by page. These "regulations" were cold, rigorous, full of self-constraint, even self-punishment. They didn't read like a sorcerer's secret manual, but more like a hazardous materials operation manual, or radioactive substance handling protocols.
In the latter half of the regulations, many case summaries appeared, all "lessons from violations":
"Sixth month of Renwu year (2002), adjusted ancestral grave for Zhao, greedy for merit and hasty, transferred without sufficient dilution. Three months later, Zhao's eldest son severely injured in car accident; the transferred 'misfortune' fell on his business partner, causing bankruptcy. This was the prototype of double transfer; though not explicitly violating the rule, karmic entanglement was already deep. Note: Self-harmed left ear hearing for three months to balance."
"Winter of Bingxu year (2006), accepted Qian residence case. The location was a Ming-Qing execution ground, deeply accumulated. Should have declined, but family finances were strained at the time, so forced acceptance. Used 'Seven Stars Guide' method to forcibly shift ferocity; though temporarily settled, the following spring, Qian residence's young daughter suddenly developed hysteria, incurable. Investigation: the shifted ferocity attached to an old well in the house; the well connected to an underground river,反而 seeping back into the residence. This is the great regret of my life; though I tried my best to remedy afterward, the young daughter was permanently harmed. Note: After this case, swore never to accept 'sediment pool' type dangerous locations."
Chen Yao's fingers stopped on this page. Bingxu year, 2006. He was ten then. He remembered that spring, his grandfather had been away from home for a long time; when he returned, he was much thinner, his left leg slightly lame, said to be from a fall. But the exhaustion in his eyes and something deeper couldn't be explained by a fall.
So that's what happened.
He put down the Regulations and took out the second booklet from the box. This one was older, the cover indigo thick paper, no words on it. He opened it; the inner pages had handwriting from different eras, from neat standard script to flowing running script, to his grandfather's dignified regular script.
This was a summary of work logs from successive generations of Shouyi Zhai masters.
The earliest entry was signed "Shouyi," dated "Renchen year of Chongzhen" (1642), only one sentence:
"Hungry, borrowing tomorrow's meal for today. Full, yet how to cook tomorrow?"
Chen Yao stared at this sentence. Renchen year of Chongzhen, the Ming dynasty was collapsing, the world was starving. "Borrowing tomorrow's meal for today"—was this literal, or... a metaphor for "borrowing life"?
Further on, the records gradually increased:
"Wuyin year of Kangxi (1698), Shouer recorded: Father (Shouyi) in later years appeared foolish, yet whenever asked, could point to Cantong Qi page such-and-such, line such-and-such, without error. As if the person was empty, yet all learning had transformed into bone. Is this the final outcome of 'borrowing life'?"
"Xinsi year of Qianlong (1761), Shousan recorded: Adjusted residence for salt merchant, received one hundred taels of silver. Yet that winter, mother coughed blood and died. Hexagram showed the adjusted fortune was taken from kinship. From this established rule: Eight Characters of closest kin, never enter divination."
"Gengshen year of Xianfeng (1860), Shouw recorded: In chaotic times seeking survival, techniques cheap as dirt. For a mouthful of food, could shift disaster for others. Yet each shift, nighttime tinnitus grew worse, like ten thousand ghosts whispering. Only then realized the disasters shifted had not disappeared, only temporarily stored at the ear. Debt, must always be repaid."
Chen Yao turned page by page, as if watching a condensed family history. Each generation "Shou-X" struggled with the same dilemma: using techniques to exchange for survival or profit, but every exchange left debt. Some tried to regulate (establishing rules), some recorded prices (self-harm), some fell into numbness (techniques cheap in chaotic times).
Until his grandfather, Chen Shouyi, the seventh generation.
Grandfather's recording style changed. No longer simple records, but filled with large amounts of reflection, questioning, even confession:
"Thirty-seventh year of the Republic (1948), accepted dock gang case. At that time soldiers and bandits ran rampant, gang power was great, could not refuse. Yet methods used were excessive, causing the opponent's enemy family to die violently. Though not by my own hand, the hexagram was raised by me, karma guided by me. For three years afterward, nightmares of blood seas every night."
"Yiwei year (1955), movements just beginning. Fate calculation was viewed as feudal dregs, yet those secretly seeking were more numerous. All wished to 'hide' outside the waves. I helped several, yet the price... cannot be said. Only record: From then on, my fate pattern gradually 'faded,' in official records and documents, often omitted. Not forgotten by people, but karmic weight self-diminished."
"Renyin year (1962), great famine. A woman sought to extend life for sick child, kneeling and weeping for three days. My heart softened, broke precedent to help. Yet the life borrowed must come from somewhere. That winter, a youth drowned in neighboring county; his Eight Characters matched the 'lender' shown in the hexagram. Though I did not kill Bo Ren... After this case, swore never to accept 'life extension' requests."
Chen Yao found it hard to breathe. These records were too concrete, too real, carrying the dust of the eras and the blood and tears of individuals. This wasn't fictional storytelling; this was a family over hundreds of years, using their own fates to write an experimental report and confession about "intervening in causality."
He put the generational logs back in the box, his fingers touching a hard object at the bottom.
He took it out: a dark wooden tablet, about one foot long, three inches wide, half an inch thick. The wood was heavy, warm to touch, as if often rubbed. The front was smooth, without a single character.
Nameless spirit tablet.
Chen Yao had heard of this. The symbol of Shouyi Zhai, not bearing a name, only the state of "guarding the one." Before each generation's master died, they would write their true name in blood on the back of the tablet, then hand it to the next generation for safekeeping. The tablet itself bore no name because—according to his grandfather—"names and forms are all empty, only cause and effect are real."
He turned the tablet over.
There were indeed characters on the back, dried dark red, deeply soaked into the wood grain. The bottom line was his grandfather's hand: "Chen Shouyi, died Dinghai day of Yiwei month of Xinwei year." Above, six lines of earlier handwriting, ink or blood traces already faded, but still barely discernible:
Chen Shouye (Shouliu), Guangxu Wushen year...
Chen Shouheng (Shouw), Xianfeng Xinyou year...
Chen Shoujing (Shousi), Jiaqing Gengchen year...
Chen Shoupu (Shousan), Qianlong Guiwei year...
Chen Shouzhuo (Shouer), Kangxi Guiwei year...
Chen Yi (Shouyi), Kangxi Wuyin year...
Seven generations.
Chen Yao's gaze fell on the name "Chen Yi" at the top. This was the first generation, the one who "borrowed tomorrow's meal for today" in the late Ming famine. He lived to the Kangxi era, at least over eighty. But "Shouer's" record said, in his later years he "appeared foolish."
The price of borrowing life.
Thunder rumbled outside the window; the rain fell harder. Chen Yao held the nameless tablet, feeling the weight passed down through hundreds of years. This wasn't a piece of wood; it was a compressed family history, seven generations of choices, prices, struggles, and unfinished questions.
He put the tablet back in the box and closed the lid.
Now he understood. Shouyi Zhai wasn't a mysterious family of metaphysics, but a family in the cracks of history, using dangerous techniques to make a living while constantly trying to draw ethical boundaries for them. They weren't prophets, more like tightrope walkers over an abyss, holding tools in their hands that could save lives or kill, forged by themselves.
And his grandfather said in his letter that he was "the sign of inheriting the profession, the opportunity of resolving the profession."
What did that mean?
Chen Yao walked to the desk and opened the annotated volume again, to the page with "Born on Borrowed Time." His Eight Characters: Xinsi Renchen Wuxu Bingchen.
He recalled what Three Essentials of Fate said about the "Wuxu" day pillar: "Kui Gang day, nature upright and rigid, yet heavy punishment and injury." "Bingchen" hour pillar: "Day pillar Kui Gang, hour pillar again encountered, extreme rigidity easily breaks."
Extreme rigidity easily breaks.
And his grandfather was "Dinghai" day pillar, gentle Yin water.
Chen Yao sat down, found the chart paper and pen his grandfather used from the drawer. Relying on childhood remnants of memory, he began to chart his own Eight Characters four pillars, ten gods, and great luck.
When he charted the great luck, his fingers stopped.
Male chart, year stem Xin is Yin, great luck goes backward. Starting from month pillar Renchen, backward to...
First great luck: Xinmao (2001-2011)
Second great luck: Gengyin (2011-2021)
Third great luck: Jichou (2021-2031)
Fourth great luck: Wuzi (2031-2041)
Third great luck, Jichou. Currently underway.
And Jichou, with his day pillar Wuxu, forms heaven comparison earth punishment—heaven stem Ji earth and Wu earth are shoulder-to-shoulder, earth branch Chou earth and Xu earth mutually punish.
Punishment, in fate calculation means torture, injury, repeated entanglement.
What made Chen Yao's back grow colder was that the "Chou" of Jichou great luck, with his hour branch "Chen," and the "Chen" and "Xu" inherently in his Eight Characters, together formed "Chen Xu Chou Wei" four storages complete—known in fate calculation as "four storages opened, heaven and earth overturned," the most turbulent pattern most likely to trigger fundamental change.
Usually appearing in late-life great luck.
And he, at twenty-five, had crashed into it.
"Born on Borrowed Time..." Chen Yao murmured. His Eight Characters were inherently fierce with punishment, and he entered this heaven-and-earth-overturning great luck so young. This didn't look like a naturally formed fate pattern, but rather... carefully "designed" or "triggered."
For what purpose?
To "inherit the profession"? Or to "resolve the profession"?
His phone buzzed. Zhou sent a message: "Mr. Chen, tomorrow morning at ten, construction site office, is that convenient?"
Chen Yao stared at the screen, rain tapping the window frame. He recalled what his grandfather wrote in the Regulations: "When encountering 'sediment pool' type extremely inauspicious locations, prioritize 'dilution' over 'transfer'... this is the virtue upon which this Studio stands, and cannot be completely abandoned."
And his grandfather's warning in the letter: "His situation is extremely dangerous; be cautious in accepting."
But there was a second half: "If you must..."
He slowly typed his reply: "Yes."
Send.
Then he looked up, toward the purple sandalwood box on the top shelf. In the darkness, it was only a vague outline.
But Chen Yao knew that the booklets inside, the nameless tablet, and the seven lines of names on the back of the tablet, were all quietly watching him now.
Just as for over three hundred years, successive generations of Shouyi Zhai masters had watched him, this eighth generation potential heir.
And he, hadn't even finished his first lesson.
Outside the window, a flash of lightning tore through the night sky, instantly illuminating the study.
Chen Yao saw that on the desk, the needle of the brass compass was trembling slightly in the thunder light.
Still pointing at him.