The sandalwood incense burned out.
The last wisp of blue smoke spiraled in a column of afternoon light, dispersing into the stale air of the old mansion. Chen Yao stared at the trajectory of the falling ash, suddenly recalling his grandfather's words: "Whichever direction the incense ash falls, the karma on that side is heavier."
Of course, he didn't believe it.
Just as he didn't believe a compass could point to fortune or misfortune, that a birth date could determine destiny, or that one could "borrow" something from fate. He was a data analyst. He believed in regression models, A/B testing, in the predictability of user behavior—because those were verifiable, repeatable logics that could be broken down into 0 and 1.
But at this moment, sitting in his grandfather's study in Shouyizhai, facing walls of yellowed ancient texts, his fingertips stained with incense ash, something in his heart was beginning to loosen.
Three days ago, his father's voice on the phone was weary: "Your grandfather's things need handling. You're the eldest grandson, you do it." The tone held no room for discussion, only the relief of a burden being set down. The Chen family seemed to have a collective avoidance of this old mansion, of the name "Shouyizhai." Chen Yao was twenty-five. This was his third time back. The first was in childhood, the second was for his grandfather's funeral, and this was the third.
He stood up and began tidying the desk.
The most prominent item on the desk was that square brass compass. Eight inches in diameter, with its Heaven's Pool (天池), inner dial, and outer dial, layered and densely engraved with fine characters: the Twenty-Four Mountains (二十四山), Seventy-Two Dragons (七十二龙), and the 360-degree divisions. His grandfather often called it the "Ruler of Heaven and Earth," capable of measuring the energy of mountains, rivers, and fortune. Chen Yao remembered trying to play with it as a child and being sternly rebuked—the only time he'd ever seen his grandfather angry.
He reached out to pick it up. As his fingertips just touched the cool brass edge—
The compass needle moved.
Not from being jostled. It was a slow, steady, self-spinning motion, as if turned by an invisible hand. The magnetic needle in the Heaven's Pool slid past the direction of Wu Mountain and Ding (午山丁向), brushed past Zi Mountain and Wu (子山午向), and finally trembled to a stop.
The needle tip pointed unerringly, directly at him.
Chen Yao froze. There was no wind in the room; the plane tree leaves outside the window were still. He waited ten seconds. The needle didn't move a hair, as if nailed dead in the direction of his chest.
"A battery?" he muttered to himself, then scoffed. This was a purely mechanical compass. What battery? Carefully, he turned the compass a different direction.
The needle moved with it, still pointing at him.
A chill crawled up from his tailbone. He took a deep breath, set the compass back in place, and turned to the bookshelf. His movements were hurried, as if fleeing something.
The bookshelf was mostly thread-bound books, pages brittle and yellow. Collected Explanations of the Zhou Yi, Jing's Commentary on the Zhou Yi, Comprehensive Treatise on the Three Fates, Deep and Vast Subtiety of Ping... Many spines also bore labels in his grandfather's tiny, meticulous handwriting: "Flow of Energy and Fortune, Observe Cautiously," "Subtleties of the Eight Characters, Important Volume," "Methods for Yin Dwellings (Tombs), Dangerous—Do Not Use." Between the lines, one could sense the user's prudence, even fear.
Chen Yao's gaze fell on a blue cloth-encased volume of Zhou Yi Can Tong Qi. He remembered this book vividly. In his later years, his grandfather had almost never let it out of his hand; the page edges were frayed from constant handling. He pulled it out. It was heavy.
Inside the cloth case, besides the main text of Can Tong Qi, there was a thin, hand-copied booklet of annotations, bound with thread on rice paper. He opened it.
The handwriting was his grandfather's, from youth to old age, the ink shifting from a glossy black to a dry, faded hue. The first few pages were mostly excerpts from the original text, interspersed with annotations: "This line refers to the 'fire phases' (timing), but actually indicates the point of exchange between time and fate," "Lead and Mercury are not external substances, but the innate life-breath (命炁) and postnatal fortune." Further on, the annotations grew denser, the handwriting more scribbled, filled with hexagram symbols, Heavenly Stems and Earthly Branches, and brief event records.
"Guixu Year, 3rd Month, 7th Day: Adjusted the southeast position for a client named Li. His son fell and injured his left leg three days later. Note: Excessive Wood overcomes Earth, manifests in limbs."
"Bingzi Year, 12th Month: Relocated the grave for the Wang household, chose the Chou (丑) hour to break ground. Family had a new son that year. However, the head of household contracted lung disease the following year. Note: Earth energy stimulated too fiercely, conversely injuring the Dui (兑) Metal."
Chen Yao flipped page by page. These cold records were like a secret ledger. Every "adjustment" corresponded to a "price." Some prices were minor, some severe. In the later annotations, words like "Be cautious," "Regret," and "Must not do again" often appeared.
Flipping to a middle page, his finger paused.
At the top of that page was written a birth date:
Xinsi, Renchen, Wuxu, Bingchen
Chen Yao was sensitive to numbers. This was his own birth date. May 12, 2001, 8 a.m. Below the Eight Characters were four powerfully written words, the ink deep, forceful enough to pierce the paper:
Borrowing Life to Be Born
There was no explanation after, no annotation. Only these four words hung there alone, like a verdict.
Chen Yao felt his mouth go dry. Subconsciously, he glanced at the compass on the desk—the needle still stubbornly pointed at him.
"Borrowing life to be born..." He chewed on the words. Whose life was borrowed? How? And why "to be born"?
He continued flipping. Near the end, he saw a longer passage, the handwriting shaky, seemingly written in his grandfather's later years:
"Renyin Year, winter. Upon reviewing old volumes, only now realize the depth of accumulated debt. The good fortune that was adjusted always came from somewhere; the misfortune that was avoided always went somewhere. What we call feng shui and fate reading is nothing but tearing down the east wall to patch the west, shifting misfortune onto others. But the bricks of the east wall will eventually run out; the misfortune shifted away, will it not eventually circle back?"
"For seven generations, the Shouyizhai inheritance has spoken of 'carrying on the profession,' but in truth, it is 'carrying on the debt.' The founder, First Generation Chen Yi, created the method of 'lending and borrowing time and fate' in the late Ming dynasty, originally to preserve life in chaotic times and continue scholarship amidst extinction. But once this method began, it was like drinking poison to quench thirst. Descendants for generations fell into it, treating borrowing and lending as normal, making shifting fortunes their trade, forgetting that cause and effect are one whole, that both misfortune and fortune require personal repayment."
"In my lifetime, I have adjusted 731 cases, large and small. Over 400 brought good fortune, but those secretly harmed, shifted, or burdened in the process—how could they not be double that? Thinking of this, I cannot sleep at night. But the debt is already incurred, the karma already created. What can be done?"
"My only hope is that future descendants, those with wisdom, can comprehend two words: 'Acknowledge the Account.' This is not about repaying the debt (debt cannot be repaid), not about atoning for sin (sin cannot be atoned), but..."
The writing stopped abruptly here, leaving a blank space. On the page were a few faint yellow stains, like water droplets.
Chen Yao closed the annotation booklet, his palms clammy with cold sweat. The silence in the study gained weight, pressing against his eardrums. The mystical talk he had resisted since childhood, dismissed as superstition, was now spread out before him in such a systematic, cold, and verifiable manner.
It wasn't that he didn't believe in the mysterious; he just didn't believe in things without logic. And what his grandfather left behind had data, cases, causal connections, even technical details that were "not falsifiable"—precisely the kind of "reality" he feared most.
The light outside the window dimmed. He checked his phone: 4 p.m. Time to leave.
He put the annotation booklet back in its cloth case, hesitated, then stuffed it into his backpack. Turning, he caught a glimpse of a corner of yellowish paper protruding from the corner of the desk.
He pulled it out. It was an old-style vertical-lined red-grid letter paper. The handwriting was from his grandfather's final years, written slowly but clearly:
"My grandson Yao, upon reading this:"
"When you see these words, I will be gone. The items of Shouyizhai await those with affinity. Only the annotation booklet and the compass must be handled by you personally."
"Your Eight Characters are special, covertly matching those of First Generation Chen Yi. This is an omen of 'inheriting the profession,' but also an opportunity to 'resolve the profession.' However, the crucial mechanism, I exhausted my heart and mind yet could not penetrate it fully, dare not mislead with wild words."
"Only one phrase as a gift: Do not believe in the fortune or misfortune indicated by hexagrams, but observe the structure of cause and effect. Good fortune is not blessing, misfortune is not disaster, both are merely the visible manifestations of vibrations in the network. If you truly wish to escape, you must see the source of the vibration, not just avoid the manifested waves."
"Additionally: A merchant client named Zhou will certainly come seeking you within three years. His situation is very dangerous, be cautious in accepting it. If you have no choice, remember: 'Already received' cannot be received again, 'empty shells' cannot be created anew."
"Grandfather, Chen Shouyi, final words."
There was no date at the end.
Chen Yao folded the letter and placed it in the inner pocket of his backpack. He took one last look at the study, his gaze sweeping over the shelves of classics, the compass, the empty rosewood chair, and the lingering scent of sandalwood not yet fully dissipated.
He closed the door and locked it.
The old mansion sank into twilight.
As he reached the alley entrance, he suddenly felt something and looked back. In the small window of the second-floor study, a faint glint of reflected light seemed to flash—like moving brass.
He shook his head and quickened his pace toward the subway station.
In his backpack, that volume of Zhou Yi Can Tong Qi with annotations felt heavy, like carrying a stone tablet.
That night, back in his rented high-rise apartment, Chen Yao placed the annotation booklet and letter on his desk, made a cup of coffee, and tried to use his usual rationality to sort through the day's events.
"It can be explained by cognitive bias," he muttered to the computer screen. "Confirmation bias—I only noticed the events that fit 'fate theory.' Survivorship bias—Grandfather only recorded the 'fulfilled' cases. The compass pointing... could be magnetic interference nearby, or maybe I was carrying some metal."
He was convincing himself until 1 a.m.
Before bed, almost involuntarily, he took out three Qianlong Tongbao coins—the method of casting hexagrams his grandfather had forced him to learn as a child, saying coins passed through many hands had "human energy" and were more sensitive than yarrow stalks. He hadn't touched them in years, but the motions somehow came back.
"Just testing grandfather's theory," he thought self-mockingly. "Ask what? Ask... if there will be trouble in the next three days."
Silently formulating the question in his mind, he cupped the three coins in his palms, shook them, and scattered them on the table.
Two tails, one head. Lesser Yang.
Two tails, one head. Lesser Yang.
Two heads, one tail. Lesser Yin.
Two heads, one tail. Lesser Yin.
One tail, two heads. Lesser Yang.
Two tails, one head. Lesser Yang.
Chen Yao looked at the resulting hexagram lines, his fingers tracing them in the air. The lower trigram was three solid lines: Qian ☰ (Heaven). The upper trigram was two broken lines and one solid line: Dui ☱ (Lake). Upper Dui over lower Qian formed the hexagram Guai (夬, Resolution).
Hexagram Guai. The Judgment says: "One must resolutely make the matter known at the court of the king. It must be announced truthfully. Danger." The Image says: "The lake has risen up to heaven: the image of Resolution. Thus the superior person dispenses riches downward and shuns resting on his virtue."
Not a good hexagram. It implies rupture, danger, the need for decisive action.
He frowned, then looked at the changing lines. All six lines were still, no moving lines. The hexagram remained unchanged.
"Coincidence," he said, putting the coins away and turning off the light.
In the darkness, he seemed to see the compass needle again, slowly turning toward him.