The talisman paper was still stuck to the concrete lid of the septic tank, trembling slightly in the night wind.
Chen Yao stood at the doorway of the modular office, his flashlight beam slicing through the darkness, aiming directly at the inconspicuous concrete square in the northeast corner. Twenty minutes had passed since he had applied the talisman. During that time, the eerie hammering had not returned, nor had any fresh dark red liquid seeped out.
But the sweet, metallic scent in the air remained. It had faded somewhat, yet it was still clearly distinguishable.
He should leave. Boss Zhou had already gone, and the workers had been evacuated. This construction site was now a total wasteland. He could lock the modular office door, call a taxi home, take a hot shower, and put this bizarre night behind him.
But his feet felt as if they were nailed to the ground.
Inside his backpack, the three Qianlong coins felt heavy. The annotated ledger was in the outermost layer. His grandfather's letter was folded neatly in an inner pocket. All of these things were pushing him in a certain direction—not away from the site, but deeper into it.
Chen Yao switched off the flashlight, letting the darkness swallow him whole. His eyes needed time to adapt, but darkness had its own advantages—it weakened the interference of sight and amplified the other senses.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
The smell of rust, the scent of damp earth, the sweet metallic tang of blood. And... a very faint, musty smell, like ancient books, drifting from the direction of the tomb pit.
Then, there was the wind. It wasn't just an ordinary night breeze, but a flow that produced a slight whistling sound as it passed through the gaps in the buildings. That whistle had a certain rhythm, like... breathing?
Chen Yao opened his eyes. He decided to cast another hexagram. Not for anything else, but to confirm his next course of action.
He walked back into the office and flicked on the light. The glare was piercing, causing the sharp sensitivity he had cultivated in the darkness to instantly recate. But he needed the light.
Three copper coins slid from his palm, rolling and spinning on the coffee table before finally settling.
First: Two heads, one tail—Shao Yin.
Second: Two tails, one head—Shao Yang.
Third: Two heads, one tail—Shao Yin.
Fourth: Two tails, one head—Shao Yang.
Fifth: Two heads, one tail—Shao Yin.
Sixth: Two tails, one head—Shao Yang.
Lower Trigram: Shao Yin, Shao Yang, Shao Yin—Kan (Water). Upper Trigram: Shao Yang, Shao Yang, Shao Yin—Zhen (Thunder).
Upper Thunder, Lower Water: Xie (Deliverance).
Chen Yao stared at the hexagram. Xie, the Hexagram of Deliverance. The judgment read: "Deliverance. The southwest is fruitful. If there is no place to go, his coming back is auspicious. If there is a place to go, speed is auspicious." The Symbolism said: "Thunder and rain bring Deliverance. Thus the superior man pardons faults and forgives crimes."
Xie meant alleviation, removal, or release. The clashing of thunder and rain washed away impurities. It seemed like a positive omen, pointing toward the resolution of the problem.
But he looked closer at the lines. This time, there were no moving lines; all six were static. The hexagram was stable.
Was stability a good thing or a bad thing? In the context of the Deliverance hexagram, stability could mean "no action is required," or "the time has not yet come."
Chen Yao frowned. He had asked, "What should I do next?" and the answer was "Deliverance," yet also "Do nothing." Was it a contradiction?
He flipped open the annotated ledger and found his grandfather's notes on the Xie hexagram:
"Xie means to scatter. But scattering requires 'Force'—Thunder is movement, Rain is nourishment. Only when the two stimulate each other can the purging be achieved. If the thunder does not arrive and the rain does not fall, 'Deliverance' is mere empty talk."
"When this hexagram is cast, one must judge the situation: If external forces are ready (thunder and rain are imminent), then one may act with the flow to purge the rot. If the external forces have not arrived, one should remain still and wait for the opportunity to ripen. To move recklessly will only lead to further blockage."
External force. Chen Yao chewed on the words. What was the "external force" needed here? Thunder? Rain? Or something more abstract?
He put away the coins and looked out the window. The construction site was silent as a graveyard. There was no thunder, no rain—only the endless night.
According to the hexagram's prompt, he should "remain still" and wait for the opportunity.
But what about the worker with the fever? What about the potential danger at the site? Could it wait?
Chen Yao paced the room. The light cast his shadow against the wall, stretching and warping as he moved. He felt an unprecedented agitation—he could see the problem, he had the tools (even if he only half-understood them), yet he was told by the hexagram to "remain still."
Was this what his grandfather often called the "Divination Paradox"? You seek guidance from a hexagram, but the hexagram itself becomes a new shackle.
He stopped, his gaze falling upon the cinnabar and yellow paper on the coffee table. These items left by Boss Zhou now seemed like a silent invitation, or rather, a test.
Should he use them?
Chen Yao sat down, picked up a sheet of yellow paper, and then set it back down. He didn't know how to draw a truly effective talisman. The "House-Stabilizing Talisman" he drew this afternoon was more of a psychological comfort. Moreover, his grandfather had warned in the notes: "Talismans are no joke; every stroke triggers causality. Drawing a talisman is like picking a lock—if the lock is wrong and the key is wrong, it will be ineffective at best and backfire at worst."
He did not know how to pick this lock.
What else could be done?
Chen Yao closed his eyes, trying to recall cases where his grandfather handled similar issues. The ledger recorded many, but most were vague or required specific materials, rituals, or even specific hours.
One page caught his attention:
"Spring of the Year of Wu-Yin (1998). Handled a plot of land at the old dye-works in the west of the city. The land was once a mass grave during the late Qing and early Republic periods, and later the dye-works polluted the groundwater with chemicals, accumulating filth over a century. After the developers broke ground, the workers suffered nightmares and machinery failed without cause."
"Action: No talismans used. Planted Locust trees (Locust being a 'ghost-wood,' capable of absorbing Yin) at the four corners of the plot. In the center, dug a shallow pond and introduced 'living water' (sourced from the Clear Water River three kilometers away). Placed thirty-six black pebbles (the number of the 'Heavenly Spirits') in the pond. Used water as the guide, wood as the vessel, and stone as the stabilizer to build a simple circulation. Three years later, two Locust trees withered and died, but the filth of the land was completely dispersed, and development proceeded smoothly."
The logic of this case was clear: instead of forcibly "exorcising" or "suppressing" the energy, a system was built to give the accumulated filth a place to go and a path to follow. Water guided, wood absorbed, and stone stabilized, forming a closed loop.
The principle of the Four Directions Suppression should be similar, only more refined.
So, what was wrong with the site's Four Directions Suppression? Chen Yao had checked this afternoon; all four copper boxes were present, but the Vermilion Bird box in the northeast corner was cracked, and the powder inside had turned dark red.
The crack could be physical damage, or it could be a sign of "erosion." The discoloration of the powder indicated that the "Qi-guiding powder" inside had failed or mutated.
How to fix it? It wasn't in the notes. Perhaps his grandfather believed that once the Four Directions Suppression reached this level of damage, it could not be repaired and had to be rebuilt—which would require more preparation and deeper involvement.
Chen Yao sighed. He was back at the starting point: his skills were insufficient.
Just then, he heard a sound.
It wasn't hammering, and it wasn't the wind. It was... a whisper.
Extremely low, extremely blurred, as if coming from a great distance, yet also appearing directly in his mind. He couldn't hear the content, only catching disjointed syllables carried by the night wind, appearing and disappearing.
Chen Yao pricked up his ears. The sound seemed to come from the direction of the ancient tomb pit.
He grabbed his flashlight and pushed open the door. The cold wind rushed in, carrying that sweet metallic scent. The whispering became slightly clearer in the wind, but it still defied interpretation. It wasn't Chinese, nor any language he recognized; it was more like a groan, or perhaps a prayer?
He walked toward the pit. The flashlight beam cut a trembling path through the darkness. The ground beneath him was uneven, and he walked slowly, his ears straining to catch the eerie sound.
The closer he got to the pit, the clearer the voices became. He could tell now that it wasn't just one person; it was many voices layered together—men, women, old, and young—all murmuring in a low, monotonous rhythm.
The rain-shielding shed was just ahead. The flashlight hit the white plastic sheeting, which flapped and rattled in the wind. The whispers seemed to come from beneath the shed.
Chen Yao stopped about five or six meters from the edge of the pit. Reason told him not to go any closer—it might not be safe. But curiosity—or rather, a deeper pull—prevented him from turning back.
He switched off the flashlight.
Darkness instantly swallowed everything. Without the interference of sight, the whispers became more prominent. they surged up from the depths beneath his feet, like groundwater seeping through rock fissures.
Chen Yao closed his eyes, trying not to "hear" the content of the voices, but to feel their "texture."
These were not the voices of the living. No.
The voices of the living have temperature, emotional fluctuations, and the gaps of breath. But this... this was flat and cold, like an infinitely looping fragment of a jammed tape. Moreover, it didn't come from a single point; it permeated the entire pit area, as if the land itself were "speaking."
The Memory of the Land.
This thought suddenly jumped into Chen Yao's mind. His grandfather had mentioned this concept in the ledger: "Veins of the earth have memories, especially in places where fierce malice has accumulated. A century of resentment, a millennium of blood and tears—all are branded into the soil and stone. When triggered by the right conditions, they will 'Echo'."
An Echo.
So these whispers were not ghosts or supernatural entities, but "recordings" of painful events that had occurred on this land in the past? Because the ancient tomb had been disturbed and the Four Directions Suppression was damaged, these sealed "memories" were beginning to leak?
Chen Yao felt a chill. If this were true, then the hammering he heard from the septic tank and the dark red liquid he saw were also "echoes"—not that something was actually knocking, but that a "knock" from the past was being replayed.
And the worker who was shouting "Don't press me" and "It's so heavy"... was it because he had accidentally "received" these echoes? Like a radio tuned to a frequency it shouldn't have reached?
This explanation made Chen Yao feel slightly relieved. At least it wasn't a haunting or something that defied logic. This was a malfunction in the structure of causality; it was an information leak.
But the problem remained: how to fix it?
He switched the flashlight back on. The beam hit the rain shed. The whispering weakened the moment the light came on, but it didn't disappear completely, turning into a persistent low hum in the background.
Chen Yao circled to the other side of the pit. He was further from the septic tank here, and the sweet metallic smell was much fainter. He crouched down and aimed the flashlight carefully at the pit wall.
The backfilled soil looked firm, but near the bottom, there were some fine cracks. They were very thin, like a spiderweb, and almost unnoticeable. Chen Yao leaned in and saw that the soil at the edges of the cracks was darker, as if it had been soaked by some liquid.
He reached out, his fingertip lightly touching a crack.
Ice-cold. Not the cold of the night wind, but a chill rising from deep underground, carrying a dampness. Furthermore, the touch was somewhat... viscous.
Chen Yao withdrew his hand and looked at his fingertip in the light. It was stained with a bit of dark soil, nothing unusual. But he felt that something was wrong.
He stood up, stepped back, and looked around the entire site. In the night, the outlines of the cranes, material piles, and temporary buildings stood in silent vigil. The septic tank in the northeast was hidden in the shadows; the talisman he had applied should still be there.
A thought suddenly flashed: The Four Directions Suppression needed four points to form a cycle. The Vermilion Bird box in the northeast was broken, causing the cycle to break and the stagnant Qi to leak. So, if he could establish a "temporary substitute point" in the northeast, could he temporarily restore the cycle and stop the leak?
Even if he couldn't fix it completely, at least he could buy time—and time might be the "external force" he needed.
But how to establish a substitute point? He couldn't draw talismans or set arrays. All he had was...
Chen Yao looked down at his backpack. Inside was the ledger, the three coins, and... his grandfather's letter.
The letter.
He suddenly remembered the sentence his grandfather wrote at the end of the letter: "Do not trust the omens of the hexagram; only observe the structure of causality."
And the earlier one: "Your Bazi is unique, aligning with the first master, Chen Yi; this is a sign of 'Inheritance,' but also an opportunity for 'Resolving the Debt'."
A unique Bazi. Aligning with Chen Yi.
Chen Yao's heart leaped. He thought of a crazy possibility—if his Bazi truly resonated with Chen Yi, then could he himself be a "node"? A node that could temporarily plug into the Four Directions Suppression?
Just as a damaged component in a circuit can be temporarily bypassed with a human body.
The thought was absurd. How could a human body be used as a Feng Shui stabilizer?
But his grandfather's voice echoed in his mind: "Accepting the bill... you must see the source of the vibration, rather than trying to hide from the waves."
The source of the vibration. Perhaps it wasn't a physical vibration, but a disturbance on the causal level. And he, because of his special Bazi, might be particularly sensitive to such disturbances—and particularly influential?
Chen Yao's palms began to sweat. He needed to verify this.
He walked back to the office, pulled out a pen and paper, and quickly wrote down his own Bazi: Xin-Si, Ren-Chen, Wu-Xu, Bing-Chen.
Then he recalled Chen Yi's Bazi. It should be in the ledger; the birth and death dates of the masters of Shou Yi Zhai were recorded on the back of the blank spirit tablet. He flipped through the ledger and found the line for Chen Yi: "Chen Yi (Shou Yi), Year of Wu-Yin..."
The Year of Wu-Yin was 1698. He didn't know the specific month or day, but the Year Pillar was certain: Wu-Yin.
Wu-Yin.
Chen Yao looked at his own Year Pillar: Xin-Si.
Heavenly Stems: Xin-Metal overcomes Wu-Earth. Earthly Branches: Si-Fire generates Yin-Wood.
They weren't identical, but there was a generative-overcoming connection. And most importantly—Chen Yi was "like a fool" in his later years, as if his consciousness had been hollowed out, leaving only a shell of knowledge. Could that have been the ultimate price of "Borrowing Life"? To mortgage one's entire "narrative weight" in exchange for the preservation of knowledge?
And he himself, "Living on Borrowed Time"...
Chen Yao dared not think further. He put away the paper and took a deep breath.
Now he had to make a choice: believe this crazy idea and try to plug himself into the Four Directions Suppression as a temporary node, or stop here, leave the site, and wait for Boss Zhou to find another way tomorrow.
The whispers still drifted in the wind. In the distance, the faint sound of a city siren reminded him that this was a real world with real problems to solve.
Chen Yao stepped out of the office and looked toward the northeast again. In the beam of his flashlight, the septic tank lid lay quietly, the talisman paper partially loose and fluttering in the wind.
He thought of the worker with the fever, Boss Zhou's desperate eyes, and the cold records of prices in his grandfather's ledger.
Then he remembered the hexagram he had cast: Xie. Deliverance. Thunder and rain bring Deliverance.
Perhaps he was the "Thunder"? Or he needed to become the "Thunder"?
Chen Yao walked toward the northeast corner.
With every step, he could feel a faint, nearly imperceptible vibration coming from the ground beneath his feet. It wasn't an earthquake; it was more like... resonance. It was as if every step he took was striking a string on this sleeping land.
Coming to the edge of the septic tank, he crouched down and peeled off the loose talisman. The red cinnabar was still vivid in the darkness.
He folded the talisman carefully and put it in his pocket. Then, he extended his right hand, palm down, hovering about ten centimeters above the concrete lid.
He closed his eyes.
He tried to "feel." Not with his sense of touch, but with an internal perception—just like how he had "seen" the hexagrams as a child.
At first, there was only darkness and cold. Then, vague images began to surface: dark, viscous flows seeping upward from deep underground, passing through the soil and the concrete, accumulating beneath the lid. They were searching for an exit, a crack, any channel to release their pressure.
And deeper down, there was more. Like a dark sea, pressed beneath the layers of rock, churning slowly. The four boxes of the Four Directions Suppression were originally like four pipes inserted into this dark sea, guiding its slow release. But now the northeast pipe was broken, and the dark sea was accelerating its leak from here.
Chen Yao's breathing became slow. He tried to imagine his hand not as flesh and bone, but as an interface. An interface that could temporarily replace the damaged copper box.
He didn't know how to do it; he could only rely on instinct, concentrating his attention on his palm, imagining that it was glowing, radiating heat, forming an invisible "plug" to stop the gap of the leak.
Time passed. The night wind brushed against his face, carrying the scent of rust from the site and the sweet metallic tang from nearby. His arm began to ache, but he didn't dare move.
Then, he felt a slight change.
It wasn't a physical change. The concrete lid didn't move, and the liquid didn't recede. But the "pressure" surging from underground seemed to... weaken? Like a leaking tire where the hole is temporarily pressed shut; it was still leaking, but much slower.
Simultaneously, Chen Yao felt a faint wave of dizziness—the kind you get when you stand up too quickly, but more lingering and internal. There was also a chill that spread from his palm along his arm, reaching straight for his heart.
He opened his eyes and withdrew his hand.
His palm was unmarked, but the surface was covered in a fine cold sweat that quickly turned icy in the wind. The sweet metallic scent had indeed faded, and the whispers were almost inaudible.
Did it work? Or was it psychological?
Chen Yao didn't know. He only knew that at this moment, the construction site was "quieter" than before. The invisible, taut pressure seemed to have eased.
He stood up, his legs feeling a bit weak. The dizziness remained, but it wasn't severe. He looked at his palm—it was a normal hand, nothing special.
But in those few minutes, he had truly "done" something. It wasn't drawing talismans or chanting incantations; it was simply... existence. Using his own existence as a temporary regulatory node.
Was this the beginning of "Accepting the Bill"? Acknowledging his connection to this land and this causality, and then bearing a tiny bit of it in his own way?
Chen Yao turned and walked back to the modular office. His steps were heavier than when he arrived, but there was a strange peace in his heart.
He knew this was only temporary. He didn't understand the principles, he didn't know how long it would last, and he wasn't even sure if it was truly effective. But at least he had tried. In the only, incomplete way he could.
Locking the office door, he took one last look at the site. The night was still deep, but those whispers were gone.
He took out his phone and sent a message to Boss Zhou: "Temporarily stabilized, but it won't hold for long. Find a real solution as soon as possible."
Sent.
Then he walked out of the construction site gates and onto the road home.
The city was still asleep. The streetlights diffused in the damp, cold air, and the streets were empty. Chen Yao walked along the sidewalk, his shadow stretching and shrinking beneath his feet.
The chill still lingered in his palm, like he had been holding a piece of ice.
Living on borrowed time, he thought. Perhaps from this day on, he would have to start learning how to pay the interest on this borrowed life.
And he had just finished his first lesson—on a construction site in the middle of the night, using his palm as a talisman and himself as the suppressor.