The cinnabar was top-grade Chensha (辰砂), ground into fine powder and packed in a blue-and-white porcelain box, its color dark red like coagulated blood. The yellow paper was specially made talisman paper, cotton texture, slightly yellowed, cut to one foot long and three inches wide. The brush was new wolf hair (狼毫), the handle warm to touch. The glutinous rice was served in a celadon bowl, each grain crystal clear.
These objects lay on the coffee table in Mr. Zhou's office, glowing with inappropriate antiquity under the fluorescent light. Mr. Zhou rubbed his hands, his eyes shifting between Chen Yao and these objects, both expectant and uneasy.
"Mr. Chen, do you think these... are enough?" he asked carefully, as if inquiring about the specifications of some precision instrument.
Chen Yao didn't answer immediately. He picked up the cinnabar box, opened it, touched a bit with his finger. The powder was fine, cool to touch. His grandfather's annotated volume had mentioned cinnabar: "Chensha (辰砂), essence of Bing fire, red in color, governs suppression, stabilization, and guidance. Yet fire nature is dry and fierce; dosage must be accurate—excess causes ignition, insufficiency renders ineffective."
Ignition of what? Chen Yao didn't know. He only knew that when Mr. Zhou actually brought these things, some last sliver of hope in his heart was completely extinguished—this was no joke, no urban legend, but a tangible "problem" requiring these ancient materials.
"Enough." Chen Yao closed the cinnabar box, his voice calm. He couldn't show weakness, not now. "Mr. Zhou, have the workers been evacuated?"
"Evacuated, all evacuated." Mr. Zhou nodded quickly, "I told them the site needed comprehensive safety inspection, three days off, paid. The archaeology department has also been contacted, they'll send someone tomorrow."
"Good." Chen Yao paused, "You should go home too. Don't leave anyone here tonight."
"You alone?" Mr. Zhou hesitated, "Is... is it safe?"
"I need quiet." Chen Yao said, "More people, more mixed qi (气)."
This phrase slipped out naturally, as if he had long been proficient in this. Mr. Zhou was apparently convinced; he picked up his coat and car keys: "Then... Mr. Chen, be careful. If you need anything, call me anytime."
"Mm."
Mr. Zhou left. The temporary prefab was empty except for Chen Yao. The air conditioner was still running, humming low. Outside the window, the site was completely quiet, tower crane silhouettes standing against the dusk like giant, motionless question marks.
Chen Yao sat on the sofa, looking at the objects on the coffee table. What should he do? Draw talismans? Perform rituals? Or like his grandfather, use some method he didn't understand at all to "bring the wind over"?
He felt a wave of absurdity. Hours ago, he was still writing data cleaning scripts in Python, thinking about how to optimize recommendation algorithms. Now he sat in a temporary prefab at a construction site, facing cinnabar and yellow paper, trying to solve a "karmic sediment pool" problem whose definition was still vague.
What had happened to this world?
Or, what had happened to him?
Chen Yao stood up, walked to the window. The sky had darkened; a few temporary lights automatically turned on in the site, casting lonely circles of light on the empty ground. The septic tank at the northeast corner was hidden in shadows, indistinct. The ancient tomb pit's rain shelter reflected pale white light under the lamps.
He needed to make a decision.
Intervene, or leave.
Intervene meant he would try to use those half-understood knowledges to handle a problem clearly beyond his capability. Might fail, might make things worse, might even—like the warnings in his grandfather's annotations—get himself entangled in karma, paying the price.
Leave meant he could return to his familiar world, continue analyzing data, writing code, living a clear, controllable life without ancient horrors. But then what about that feverish, delirious worker? What about other potential victims? And Mr. Zhou, this man clearly driven to desperation?
Chen Yao recalled a sentence his grandfather wrote in the annotated volume: "Seeing karma and not acting is not wisdom, but cowardice. Yet acting blindly is not courage, but folly."
Not acting is cowardice; blind action is folly.
He needed more information.
Chen Yao walked back to the coffee table, but didn't touch the cinnabar or yellow paper. He took out his grandfather's annotated volume from his backpack, turning to the section on feng shui suppression objects. His grandfather's notes were detailed:
"Four Images Suppression (四象镇), using Azure Dragon (青龙), White Tiger (白虎), Vermilion Bird (朱雀), Black Tortoise (玄武) four copper boxes, placed at southeast, southwest, northwest, northeast. Boxes contain 'qi-guiding powder' (引气粉) (sandalwood ash mixed with cinnabar, realgar (雄黄), mica (云母)), and one 'array-anchoring coin' (压阵钱) (must be a copper coin circulated over a hundred years, rich in human qi (人气), can serve as anchor point)."
"Principle: Using Four Images corresponding to four seasons and five elements, constructing local energy circulation, guiding deposited 'turbid qi' to slowly release and dilute. Like opening four small channels for a blocked lake, slowly draining without damaging the dam."
"Precautions: Four boxes must remain intact, not damaged or displaced. Especially Vermilion Bird box (northeast) belongs to fire; fire nature fierce, easily eroded by Yin turbidity, needs regular inspection. If box cracks, powder changes color (turns dark red), then suppression method is breaking, turbid qi will seek gaps to erupt."
Chen Yao recalled the four copper boxes he dug out this afternoon. The Vermilion Bird box indeed had cracks; the powder inside was dark red. The suppression method was on the verge of breaking.
Then, the repair method?
He continued turning. In the margin of one page, he found a small line: "If Four Images Suppression is about to break, cannot forcibly repair, for by then turbid qi has already invaded the box body; forced repair is like blocking a breached dam, will cause greater eruption. Urgent priority is 'guidance' (疏导)—at northeast direction open temporary outlet, guide turbid qi to slowly exit, while strengthening suppression power of other three directions, maintaining circulation without collapse."
Guidance.
Chen Yao's gaze fell toward the northeast. The septic tank was right there—did that count as a "temporary outlet"? Though dug unintentionally, it did break some underground balance, giving the deposited matter a vent.
The problem was, this outlet was opened too suddenly, too crudely, causing "venting" to become "eruption." And the septic tank itself was a place for storing filth, making the vented turbid qi more foul, aggravating its impact on people and environment.
So what he needed to do was not seal the septic tank, but... purify it? Or at least, make the turbid qi passing through less harmful?
How to purify?
Chen Yao's gaze returned to the cinnabar and yellow paper. Cinnabar suppressed evil, yellow paper bore talismans. His grandfather's notes had many talisman drawing methods: house-peace talisman, evil-suppression talisman, qi-guiding talisman... but he had never practiced, didn't know if they worked, or even what principles these talismans operated on.
Psychological suggestion? Or was there really some energy structure?
He recalled an anthropology book he read in college, A General Theory of Magic by Marcel Mauss. Mauss believed magic rituals worked because society collectively believed they worked. This was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Talismans, ritual objects, etc., were essentially "symbolic media"; through them, practitioner and recipient jointly constructed a psychological reality, thereby influencing physical reality.
If understood this way, then his drawing talismans, using cinnabar, was actually giving Mr. Zhou, the workers, even himself a psychological suggestion that "the problem is being solved." As long as everyone believed the site had been "handled," abnormal phenomena might really decrease—because many so-called "strange occurrences" were closely related to people's psychological states.
But this couldn't explain that worker's fever and delirium. Unless... that was some physiological manifestation of collective psychological pressure?
Chen Yao wasn't sure. He always felt that the knowledge his grandfather left behind wasn't pure psychology. Those descriptions of "karmic structure," "energy circulation" were too concrete, too systematic, like describing some physical phenomenon not yet fully understood by modern science.
His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. It was Mr. Zhou calling.
Chen Yao answered.
"Mr. Chen!" Mr. Zhou's voice was urgent, "I just received a call, that feverish worker... his condition worsened, now in hospital, doctors say they can't find the cause, but his temperature keeps rising, delirium getting worse, keeps shouting 'so heavy' 'pressing me to death'..."
Chen Yao closed his eyes.
"Mr. Chen, how are things on your end...? Do you need me to come over?"
Silence for several seconds, then Chen Yao spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse: "Mr. Zhou."
"Please say."
"I can't handle this." He said, each word difficult, "I haven't inherited the profession, haven't learned real methods. Tonight I only... temporarily stabilized things. But the root problem isn't solved, that worker won't get better, the site will have other incidents."
Silence on the other end.
"Then... what should we do?" Mr. Zhou's voice held despair, "Elder Chen said, you might be able to resolve this situation..."
"He said 'might.'" Chen Yao interrupted, "And now I'm certain, I cannot. At least not now." He paused, "Mr. Zhou, I suggest you immediately stop work, completely seal the site, and wait... wait for someone who truly understands to handle it."
"Someone who truly understands? Where do I find them?"
Chen Yao didn't know. His grandfather's generation of peers were mostly gone. Even if still alive, they might not be willing to take on such thorny "sediment pool" cases.
"Or," Chen Yao said slowly, "you can wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Wait for me." Chen Yao said, surprised by his own words, "But I need time. I need... to learn."
Learn what? Learn how to become a true Shouyi Zhai master? Learn how to use those knowledges he once resisted, to solve those problems he once denied?
"Mr. Zhou, I... can't wait too long." Mr. Zhou sighed heavily, "This project has my entire fortune invested, every day of work stoppage is huge loss. And the workers... I'm afraid of more deaths."
"I know." Chen Yao said, "So, you also need to be mentally prepared. Some prices may be unavoidable."
After saying this, he hung up.
Price.
This word had been echoing in his mind tonight. The worker's fever was a price. The site's strange occurrences were a price. Even his current fear and helplessness sitting here were some kind of price—for his grandfather's intervention back then, for the Chen family's generations of "inheriting the profession," for his own "born on borrowed time."
He looked out the window. The site remained quiet, no strange sounds from the septic tank direction. The talisman might still be working, or it was only temporary calm.
Chen Yao picked up the annotated volume, turned to the last page, his grandfather's final writing: "Karma already clear. Fifth path: acknowledge the debt."
Acknowledge the debt.
Acknowledge the existence of debt, acknowledge one's connection to this debt, and then... and then what? His grandfather didn't write.
Chen Yao closed the book. The night was long. He needed to think, to decide, to choose a direction between "escape" and "deepening."
And whichever he chose, it wouldn't be easy.
Outside the window, the city lights were bright. And in this small patch of darkness enclosed by barriers, ancient karma was awakening, waiting for an answer.
Chen Yao sat under the light, his shadow cast on the wall, stretched very long.