A chilly wind swept through the room, blotting out the bright moonlight with a thin veil of black mist. The fluorescent lights flickered before plunging the room into darkness, followed by the clinking of chains. My body temperature plummeted to freezing.
The thunder subsided, and the wind outside died down. In the deathly silence, I saw Zhao Na had fainted from fear. As a feng shui master, though less professional than a Taoist priest, I understood the principles of yin-yang—this was a judgment from the Underworld.
Whether one believes in ghosts or not, the saying "gods reside three feet above your head" holds weight. Meng Jiangnu's wails toppled the Great Wall, and Dou E's (injustice) brought snow in June. Angering heaven rarely ends well, for the Dao is relentless.
Fu Wei's Li tribe witchcraft had reached the heavens—a rare feat, as "Heaven's path is ruthless."
In pitch darkness, the chain sounds grew louder, as if dragging something. Suddenly, two giant lanterns appeared by the security room window, their yellow candles casting wavering shadows. The figures holding them were invisible, but their identical height and tall hats were clear.
My scalp tingled—Black and White Impermanence! I froze, (dared not move), fearing they might take me too. The impermanence spirits circled Zhao Zhiyong and Fu Wei before vanishing with their lanterns.
When order returned, I wiped cold sweat—my clothes were drenched. Zhao Zhiyong seemed asleep, but Fu Wei's body was swarming with rats, their "squeaks" turning his flesh to bones in seconds. The rats even carried off the bones.
I sighed—black magic's backlash was fierce, and few dark masters met a good end. Fu Wei was the true victim.
Zhao Na remained unconscious from fright. Though "father's debt falls to son," she was a daughter, and her father still lived, so the debt was Zhao Zhiyong's alone.
Carrying Zhao Na in my arms, her soft body made my heart race. At 22, I'd never had a girlfriend—truly a pitiful otaku.
By the time I dragged Zhao Zhiyong home, dawn was breaking. Assuring they were safe, I left—Zhao Zhiyong's ancestors must have accumulated great virtue to survive heaven's wrath. Exhausted, I slept till noon.
Washing up, I noticed Grandpa had been away long. He'd left me 300 yuan, saving his pension for my future wife. With Shenyang's sky-high (housing prices), earning a home from feng shui seemed hopeless.
For survival, I headed to Zhongjie as usual. I could've charged 80,000 to 100,000 yuan for last night's job, but integrity mattered—1,000 yuan was the deal. Grandpa would thrash me for price-gouging.
The night's events taught me: no risky jobs without proper skills. I'd meddled in karma, triggering Fu Wei's curse and his eternal damnation. New rules: avoid love-hate cases, charge more for difficult jobs—risk must match reward.
Calling Grandpa, he brushed me off, too busy. Alone, I bought an egg pancake and set up my stall. It was weekend, couples strolled by, mocking my loneliness. I'd never been to internet cafes or karaoke, never dated—even thinking of Zhao Na's figure flustered me.
A quarrel erupted at the neighboring fortune-teller's stall. A middle-aged woman yelled: "You old fraud! You took my money, gave me a useless talisman, and my husband still died! Refund me, or I'll beat you!"
The old man, Wang, in his 50s, was a Blue Taoist who knew I Ching and excelled at reading people. "Miss, calm down—let me explain."
"Explain your ass! Refund now, or I'll report you!"
Wang stroked his goatee. "I'm the 81st leader of Zhongnan Mountain. Disrespect me, and you'll face retribution! The money's offered to the Three Mao Zhenjun!"