The spot where the wall tile had peeled off was still cordoned off with caution tape.
The next morning during his run, Chen Yao deliberately detoured to the section of the old retaining wall along the riverside path. The municipal department had already surrounded the hazardous area with blue barriers, and a temporary protective net had been added to the top of the wall. A few elderly people doing their morning exercises were chatting nearby, saying this wall was built in the 1970s and was long overdue for repair.
"That young man yesterday was incredibly lucky," one older man gestured. "That cement chunk weighed about twenty pounds. It fell just as he stumbled. A little closer and he wouldn't be here."
"Absolutely, I saw it myself," a woman chimed in. "The way he fell was strange, not like a trip, more like... he deliberately threw himself to the side."
Chen Yao stood on the periphery of the small group, listening. The post-rain morning air was crisp and clean. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the plane tree leaves, casting dancing spots of light on the ground. Everything looked utterly ordinary, like any minor accident caused by aging urban infrastructure.
But he knew it wasn't.
He turned and walked away, moving slowly along the path. He wasn't wearing headphones; he was listening to his own breathing and heartbeat, the sound of his footsteps on the damp pavement, how the distant city noise was sliced into fragments by the morning breeze.
He had barely slept last night.
After returning from the old house, he had sat at his apartment desk, spreading out the three Qianlong coins, his grandfather's commentary, and his own plotted destiny chart like he was analyzing a set of anomalous data. His rationality was making a last stand: wall tiles peeling was a probabilistic event; stumbling and dodging was instinct; the hexagram's apparent fulfillment was coincidence amplified by psychological suggestion.
But some things couldn't be explained by probability.
Like the sensation in that split second before he fell—it wasn't a considered decision, but his body reacting before his conscious mind. Like pulling your hand back from fire without thinking. But dodging a falling object isn't a simple reflex; it's a complex action requiring trajectory calculation and directional choice.
Unless... there was another operating system within his body.
Chen Yao remembered his childhood training in divination. He was only seven or eight then, required to sit in the study every afternoon memorizing the names, judgments, and line statements of the sixty-four hexagrams. Get one character wrong, and his palm would meet the ruler.
"Hexagram images aren't just memorized," his grandfather often said. "They are 'seen.' Hold the image in your mind, and it will move on its own, showing you where it's blocked, where it flows."
Young Chen Yao didn't understand, finding it only tedious. But he had a good memory and mastered them quickly. One day, his grandfather told him to stop reciting and just look at the hexagram.
It was the "Ji Ji" (既济) hexagram, Water over Fire. His grandfather asked, "What does this image look like to you?"
Chen Yao stared at the six lines—three solid (yang), three broken (yin)—stacked and alternating. He suddenly said, "It looks like... a bridge. The piers are in the water, the deck is being burned by fire."
His grandfather was silent for a long time, then patted his head. "Yes. The Ji Ji hexagram is about crossing a river, 'initial good fortune, final disorder.' Piers in water means an unstable foundation; the deck burning means surface hardship. You see, the hexagram itself told you the problem."
From then on, Chen Yao's ability to "see" hexagrams grew. He could see the turning point of "the arrogant dragon will have cause for regret" within the six solid yang lines of the Qian hexagram; he could feel the gradual progression of "treading on frost, the solid ice is near" within the six broken yin lines of the Kun hexagram. Hexagram images were no longer abstract symbols to him, but dynamic pictures of energy flow.
But at age twelve, he voluntarily stopped it all.
The trigger was a small incident. A neighbor lost their cat and asked his grandfather to divine if it could be found. His grandfather cast a hexagram, got "Tong Ren" (同人, Fellowship with Men), and said the cat went southeast and would be found within three days. The next day, the cat was indeed found in a small park to the southeast, but its leg was injured, limping.
Chen Yao, who could already read hexagrams by then, asked, "The Tong Ren hexagram is about 'uniting with people.' The cat was found, so why was it injured?"
His grandfather looked at him, his expression complex. "Because the 'good fortune' of finding the cat required a little 'misfortune' to exchange for it. The hexagram shows the cat's leg injury corresponds to... the youngest daughter of the family that lost the cat getting a fever in three days, but she'll recover quickly."
"So the cat's leg was exchanged for the child's fever?"
"Not exchanged, but... balanced." His grandfather chose his words carefully. "Cause and effect have weight. If it gets lighter on one side, it gets heavier on the other. What we do is just try to keep the weight from concentrating too much on one person or one thing."
Chen Yao couldn't accept it. That cat was friendly, often sunning itself in his yard. He imagined it hiding in the park, limping, and imagined the neighbor's little sister suffering with a fever. Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn't the cat return unharmed and the sister not get sick?
"Because the world doesn't work that way," his grandfather finally said. "If you want something to 'increase,' something else must 'decrease.' That is the Dao."
That night, Chen Yao made a decision: he would stop learning this. He didn't want to see those invisible "exchanges," didn't want to know that every "gain" had a "loss" priced in. He would study mathematics, physics, knowledge that was clean, definite, free from ethical dilemmas.
He succeeded. He tested into a top university with excellent grades, studied data science, graduated, and joined an internet company, using algorithms to predict user behavior. In his world, everything could be quantified, optimized, a "Pareto optimal solution" found—improving the whole without harming anyone.
Until yesterday.
Until the compass pointing at him, the commentary with "Living on Borrowed Time," the fulfilled Guài hexagram, and the cement block from the sky.
"So I never really escaped," Chen Yao murmured to the morning river surface.
He took out his phone, opened the address and location Manager Zhou had sent. The construction site was in the newly developed western suburbs, a distance from the city center. The appointment was for 10 a.m. It was now 8:30.
Should he go?
Reason said: No. This has nothing to do with you. You're a data analyst, not a Feng Shui master. If the site has problems, call an engineer, a safety inspector, even the police.
But another voice asked: What if Grandfather really did something there years ago? What if those "strange occurrences" are side effects of that old intervention? What if... the workers getting hurt are paying the price for some "adjustment" made years ago?
Chen Yao stopped walking.
He thought of those cold records in the commentary: "Such-and-such year, month, day, adjusted such-and-such direction for such-and-such client, effect noted. Separate note: Three days later, such-and-such person at such-and-such place suddenly fell ill with such-and-such." Two records side-by-side, separated only by a page.
What if the issues at Manager Zhou's site were the continuation of just such a record?
He opened a ride-hailing app and entered the destination.
The car sped along the elevated highway. Chen Yao watched the city skyline flash by outside the window, the glass curtain wall buildings gleaming in the morning light. This was a world built on logic and efficiency, where the height of every building, the width of every road, the timing of every traffic light were precisely calculated.
But beneath this glossy order, was another, older, more obscure set of rules still running? Like the underlying code of a computer, invisible to the user but determining everything displayed on the screen.
The site arrived.
The perimeter fence was high, emblazoned with lavish renderings of the residential complex: "Cloud Brocade Manor—A Tribute to the Urban Elite." Guards at the entrance; Chen Yao gave Manager Zhou's name and was let in.
Inside was different from what he'd imagined. It wasn't a dusty, chaotic construction zone but unusually tidy. Materials were stacked neatly, roads were paved and level, there were even绿化带 (green belts). But the site was sparsely populated. A few tower cranes stood still, excavators idle. Only a few workers chatted in the distance. The atmosphere was subdued.
Manager Zhou's office was a temporary prefab, but furnished decently inside: a redwood desk, leather sofa, a Gongfu tea set on the coffee table. Zhou Zhenghua himself was around fifty, slightly overweight, with heavy bags under his eyes. His suit was wrinkled, as if he hadn't slept all night.
"Mr. Chen, you're here." He stood up to greet him, his handshake damp with sweat. "Thank you for coming, really... I'm at my wits' end."
Chen Yao sat. Manager Zhou busied himself making tea, his hands trembling slightly.
"Manager Zhou, you said on the phone there was another incident at the site?"
"Yes, the tower crane." Zhou poured tea, splashing some. "Yesterday afternoon, the arm of Tower Crane No. 3 suddenly rotated on its own. There were workers underneath; thankfully they moved fast, no one was hit. But the guy in the control cabin was terrified, said the control lever never moved, the machine turned by itself."
"Mechanical failure?"
"Checked. The manufacturer came. Said everything's normal." Zhou lowered his voice. "This is the third 'accident' this month. Last week, the basement of Building No. 2 suddenly started seeping water. We pumped it out, it came back. Water quality tests... well, let's just say it had a strange smell. Not sewage, not groundwater. Before that, a worker on night shift said he heard crying from underground."
Chen Yao listened quietly. Each phenomenon alone could be explained: mechanical glitch, geological issue, psychological effect. But combined, occurring at the same site, especially—if this place was indeed a "causal sedimentation pool" as Grandfather suggested.
"Manager Zhou, when did you first seek out my grandfather?"
"Three years ago, right after we acquired the land." Zhou recalled. "The initial survey found an ancient tomb underneath, sizable. I was worried it would affect construction, so I was referred to Old Master Chen. He came, said this place... had 'impure earth energy,' needed handling."
"Did he handle it?"
"He did." Zhou nodded. "The old master performed a rite, revised the construction blueprints, reset the groundbreaking time. Everything went smoothly for over two years after, until last month."
"Did my grandfather say anything specific then? Like... precautions, or warnings?"
Zhou thought. "He said if there were any abnormal movements within three years, to stop work immediately, not to disturb anything underground anymore. And... if truly unsolvable problems arose, I could seek him out, or his descendants." He looked at Chen Yao. "The old master mentioned once, that he had a grandson with a special fate pattern, who might be able to resolve this situation in the future."
Chen Yao's heart tightened. Grandfather had foreseen even this?
"Can I see the site? Especially where the tomb was found."
"Of course, of course." Zhou stood up. "I'll take you."
They crossed the site. Chen Yao noticed the deeper they went, the less that sense of "tidiness" held. Tiny cracks began appearing in the ground, some sprouting dark green moss that seemed out of season. The air held a faint, metallic smell mixed with damp earth.
The tomb location was now a large pit, protectively backfilled, with a rain shelter built over it. A sign stood at the edge: "Cultural Relics Protection Area, No Excavation."
Zhou pointed at the pit. "It's a Ming Dynasty official's family tomb, well-preserved. After the archaeology team finished excavating, we backfilled as required. The old master said the tomb itself wasn't the problem, the problem was... what's under the tomb."
"There's something underneath?"
"The old master didn't specify, just called it 'accumulated resentment,' older than the tomb itself. The tomb built on top actually served to suppress it. Our digging broke the seal." Zhou smiled bitterly. "I didn't understand any of that then, thought it was mystical nonsense. But now... I believe."
Chen Yao approached the pit's edge. He closed his eyes, trying to "see" this place as he once "saw" hexagrams.
At first, just darkness. Then, vague images surfaced: dark, viscous, oil-like substance flowing slowly deep underground. It was pressed down by a thin, faintly glowing "membrane." The membrane was torn in places, black stuff seeping from the ruptures, creeping upward...
He snapped his eyes open and stepped back.
"Mr. Chen?" Zhou asked with concern.
"It's nothing." Chen Yao shook his head, but his breathing was slightly ragged. The vision was too vivid, not like imagination. "How did my grandfather handle it back then?"
"He performed a rite here, used many talismans, buried things." Zhou pointed to the four corners of the pit. "A copper box buried at each cardinal direction, east, south, west, north. Don't know what was inside. The old master called it the 'Four Symbols Seal' (四象镇), could temporarily contain what's below, let it dissipate slowly."
"'Temporarily' for how long?"
"He said... five years at most."
Chen Yao calculated. Handled three years ago, five-year limit, two years left. But strange occurrences had already appeared, meaning the "Four Symbols Seal" was weakening or had been damaged.
"Manager Zhou, has there been any excavation on the site recently? Even small-scale?"
"None, absolutely none." Zhou was firm. "Since the old master's warning, I've strictly forbidden anyone from disturbing this area. Not even getting close."
"What about elsewhere on the site? Any new pits, pilings, or... things buried?"
Zhou hesitated. "Elsewhere... normal construction, yes. Last month, we dug a septic tank at the northeast corner. Does that count?"
Northeast corner.
Chen Yao's heart sank. In Feng Shui, the northeast is the "Ghost Gate" (鬼门) direction, the Gen (艮) trigram, associated with stillness and accumulation. Digging a pit there, especially a septic tank—a repository for filth—was practically opening a discharge port for the underground "accumulated resentment."
"Take me there."
The septic tank was already built, sealed with a concrete lid. It was at the very edge of the site, near the perimeter wall. Chen Yao walked closer; that metallic, earthy smell was stronger. He crouched, touched the edge of the lid—damp, not from rain, but moisture seeping out, carrying a faint, fishy odor.
"When was it built?"
"Mid-last month."
"And the strange occurrences started after that?"
Zhou thought, his face changing. "Yes... pretty much just a few days after."
Chen Yao stood. His gaze swept over the site, his mind integrating information rapidly: "Accumulated resentment" under the tomb, the Four Symbols Seal containing it, the septic tank at the northeast Ghost Gate disrupting local balance, the seal leaking faster, causing various "abnormalities."
But a key question remained: When Grandfather used the "Four Symbols Seal," was it for "suppression" or "dilution"? The commentary said for sedimentation pools, prioritize dilution. If it was dilution, then the seal's purpose wasn't permanent containment, but to let what's below release slowly, dissipate naturally.
Then building the septic tank might have accidentally accelerated this process, turning "release" into "eruption."
"Manager Zhou, I need some quiet time." Chen Yao said. "Please go back to the office. I'll look around here."
Zhou seemed to want to say more, but finally nodded and left.
Chen Yao stood alone by the septic tank. He took the three Qianlong coins from his backpack. This time, he didn't ask "will there be trouble," but: "How should the 'accumulated resentment' here be handled?"
He shook the coins, cast them.
First cast: Two heads, one tail. Lesser Yin.
Second cast: One tail, two heads. Lesser Yang.
Third cast: Two heads, one tail. Lesser Yin.
Fourth cast: Two tails, one head. Lesser Yang.
Fifth cast: Two tails, one head. Lesser Yang.
Sixth cast: Two heads, one tail. Lesser Yin.
Lower trigram: Lesser Yin, Lesser Yang, Lesser Yin — Kan (☵), Water.
Upper trigram: Lesser Yang, Lesser Yang, Lesser Yin — Xun (☴), Wind.
Wind over Water: the Huan (涣) Hexagram.
The Huan Hexagram. The judgment: "Huan. Success. The king approaches his temple. It furthers one to cross the great water. Perseverance furthers." The image: "Wind blows over water, Huan. The ancient kings sacrificed to the Lord of Heaven and established temples."
Huan means dispersion, dissipation, unblocking. Wind over water, scattering what has gathered. This seemed like a good omen, aligning with the "dilution" approach.
But looking at the line images: The sixth line (top line) was a moving line, yang changing to yin. The changed hexagram became: Upper Kan, lower Kan — double Kan, the Kan (坎) Hexagram.
The Kan Hexagram. Danger upon danger, pitfall.
The line statement for the top line of Huan reads: "He dissolves his blood. Departing, keeping at a distance, going out. No blame." Meaning: Dispersing a bloodshed injury, leaving, keeping far away, going out. No misfortune.
But after the line change, the whole hexagram became double Kan, layered danger. What did that mean?
Chen Yao mentally interpreted: The Huan hexagram advises dispersion, but the top line changing suggests "bloodshed" (涣其血) might occur during the dispersion process, and ultimately one might fall into deeper peril (changed to Kan hexagram).
Dispersion would cause harm. Not dispersing, the sedimented "resentment" would continue erupting, harming people on site.
A dilemma.
He put the coins away and looked toward the tomb pit. Sunlight reflected harshly off the white rain shelter. The site was still quiet, but the quiet held a tautness, like a string pulled to its limit.
His phone buzzed. A message from Manager Zhou: "Mr. Chen, just got a call. A worker didn't show up this morning. His family says he went home last night, started running a fever, delirious, keeps shouting 'don't crush me'... Could this be related?"
Chen Yao gripped his phone.
涣其血 - "He dissolves his blood."
Had it already begun?
He looked toward the four cardinal directions of the site. The "Four Symbols Seal" boxes Grandfather buried should be there. If he wanted to reinforce the seal, or guide the "resentment" to dissipate more safely, he needed to find those four copper boxes, check their condition, maybe do something.
But he didn't know how. Grandfather never taught him specific rituals, only taught him to see hexagrams.
Perhaps... seeing hexagrams was enough?
Chen Yao closed his eyes again, this time trying to clear his mind, visualizing the site layout—the tomb at the center, the Four Symbols at the four directions, the septic tank at the northeast like a breached dam. Then, he superimposed the Huan hexagram image he just cast: Wind over water.
Which direction does the wind come from? Where does the water flow?
He "saw" wind coming from the southeast, carrying warmth (Xun is Wind, southeast). The water flow (Kan is Water), originally suppressed under the tomb, now seeped from the northeast breach. If he could make the southeast wind stronger, blowing across the entire site, perhaps it could scatter, dilute the seeping "water vapor," preventing it from concentrating harmfully.
But how to make the "wind" stronger?
Chen Yao opened his eyes and walked toward the southeast corner of the site. Construction materials were piled there—steel pipes, formwork, cement. Reaching the southeast corner, he closed his eyes to sense—indeed, the airflow here seemed more通畅 (unobstructed), a slight breeze brushed his face.
He crouched, brushing aside some gravel and loose soil with his hands. Digging down about twenty centimeters, his fingertips touched something hard.
A copper box, palm-sized, surface oxidized black, engraved with faint patterns—a Blue Dragon, the Azure Dragon of the Four Symbols in the east.
The box wasn't locked. He opened it gently.
It was empty.
No, not completely. At the bottom was a thin layer of greyish-white powder, like incense ash or some ground mineral. In the center of the powder lay a small, corroded copper coin—a Kangxi Tongbao.
Chen Yao dipped a finger in the powder, smelled it—a faint sandalwood scent, similar to his grandfather's study.
He placed the box back, covered the soil. Then he went to the southwest, northwest, and northeast corners in turn. At the southwest, he found the White Tiger box; northwest, the Black Tortoise box; northeast, the Vermilion Bird box.
All four copper boxes were empty, holding only ash and a coin.
But the Vermilion Bird box at the northeast corner was clearly different. The box body had fine cracks; the ash inside was dark red, like mixed with blood. The coin was more severely corroded, almost crumbling.
Northeast. Ghost Gate. Septic tank.
The seal was weakest here, already eroded.
Chen Yao stood at the northeast corner, holding the Vermilion Bird box. The cracks were clear in the sunlight. He remembered the Huan hexagram's top line statement: "He dissolves his blood. Departing, keeping at a distance, going out."
Blood had already appeared—the feverish, delirious worker.
What next? "Departing, keeping at a distance, going out," or falling into double Kan?
He didn't know.
But he knew he had to do something. Not because he believed in all this, but because—if it was true, then the harm happening now had roots partly in his grandfather's intervention three years ago. And he was his grandfather's grandson, the one who might "inherit the vocation."
Even just the possibility meant he couldn't turn and walk away.
Chen Yao placed the Vermilion Bird box back in the soil but didn't fully bury it. He stood, walked back to the office.
Zhou Zhenghua was pacing anxiously and hurried over upon seeing him.
"Manager Zhou," Chen Yao said, his voice calm, surprising even himself. "I need you to do a few things."
"Please, tell me!"
"First, immediately evacuate all workers from the site, for at least three days. Pay them as usual; make up a reason."
"Second, contact the archaeology department, apply for secondary protective treatment of the tomb area, cite new water seepage hazards."
"Third," Chen Yao paused, "I need cinnabar, yellow paper, a new writing brush, and... a bowl of clean glutinous rice."
Zhou's eyes widened. "You're going to..."
"I'm going to try," Chen Yao said, looking out the window at the overly quiet site, "to draw the wind here."
After saying it, he himself was taken aback.
Draw the wind here—that phrase sounded exactly like something Grandfather would say.