Chapter 2: The Heir of the Celestial Master (2)

As the old saying goes, when you’re in a good mood, everything looks pleasant. Thus, the rainy day that Liu Dashao had previously cursed relentlessly now seemed poetic and picturesque, even acquiring a touch of bourgeois sentimentality (a classic case of pretentiousness).

Raindrops pattered ceaselessly against the glass window as Liu Dashao dozed lazily in his chair the entire afternoon. When thirst finally awoke him, he groped around the table for his large teacup, only to realize it was already the hour of the monkey.

Straightening his suit, he yanked open the rusty drawer, rummaging through it for quite some time before finally uncovering three uneven incense sticks hidden beneath several basketball magazines. Turning around, he headed toward the shrine behind him. Though small, the shrine was exquisitely decorated, crafted entirely from fine vermilion wood, and even the incense burner gleamed with golden splendor.

On either side of the shrine, flickering candle flames cast swirling wisps of smoke. Oddly enough, instead of statues of deities or Buddhas, there was a cartoon sketch drawn in pencil—a half-length portrait of an old Taoist priest. However, the artist’s skill was questionable at best; not a single line in the entire drawing was straight, the whole thing crooked and chaotic, like the scribbles of a three-year-old. One could barely discern that the figure was male, sporting a beard, but beyond that, all else was indistinct…

Beneath the cartoon sketch lay a memorial tablet inscribed in flowing calligraphic strokes: “Spirit Tablet of Zhang Enpu, the 63rd Generation Taoist Master of the Celestial Masters Sect.”

The inscription was lengthy and awkward to read, but since it was placed here for incense offerings, it must have had a deep connection with the protagonist.

“What? You’re curious why a solemn shrine would display a cartoon sketch? Alright, let me explain.

As Liu Dashao explained, when his cheap master passed away back then, cameras were still unheard of in the countryside, let alone photographs. As a result, no proper portrait could be produced, so he had to draw one himself based on memory—hence the saying, “Self-reliance brings self-sufficiency.” What? You say that doesn’t sound like something a real person would say? Don’t you know Liu Dashao studied abstract art? That’s right, the Picasso kind.

Lighting the incense stick against the candle flame, Liu Dashao gave a perfunctory bow towards the central tablet: “Master, it’s time for dinner. Business has been bad these past two days, so you’ll have to eat a little less. Once I get back to work tomorrow, I’ll immediately buy you a pound of braised duck wings from the duck restaurant.”

“Squeak squeak…” Mentioning the duck wings immediately stirred up Liu Dashao’s cravings. He rubbed his hands together, drool nearly dripping from his mouth. That new duck restaurant next door was a real delicacy—so good that even immortals couldn’t resist, and the Jade Emperor himself would descend from heaven for a taste. Let alone him, a mere opportunist.

“Hehe, as usual, I’ll eat, and you can just smell.”

“Besides, at your age, overeating isn’t good for digestion.”

With that, Liu Dashao chattered on while inserting the incense into the burner, and on his way back, he grabbed the last apple from the offering table.

A faint mist rose from Zhang Enpu’s spirit tablet, as if it were weeping…

China boasts a long and glorious history, with cultural traditions stretching back thousands of years. Among these, the diversity of trades is particularly vast—so much so that a detailed census would likely reveal tens of thousands of professions.

Since ancient times, trades have carried no distinction of honor or shame. As the saying goes, “There are 360 trades, and each can produce its champion.”

You’ve probably seen countless TV programs filled with tedious stories of entrepreneurship—like someone cultivating land to build China’s largest eco-friendly farm, or another rising from selling pork to become CEO of a national meat processing company, or someone else conquering the real estate market and listing in the United States, or yet another becoming a globally renowned tycoon through a secret family beverage recipe…

Of course, compared to these successful “someones,” Liu Dashao was merely an insignificant figure, a practitioner of a unique trade—nothing more.

By now, you probably know what he does, right?

“What? A brothel’s henchman?”

Who said that unique trades only refer to that? Drag him away and beat him!

Ahem, back to the topic. Although Liu Dashao couldn’t write essays like the scholars, nor defend the nation like generals, he did have a little knowledge and a brain full of mush. Yet he still managed a legitimate trade. See that sign in the shop? Yes, that one—genuine business license, issued by the Administration for Industry and Commerce: “Fushun Taoist Association, Feng Shui Consulting Center.”

As the saying goes, when you’re in a good mood, everything seems more pleasant. Even the rainy day that Liu Dashao had previously cursed to high heaven now appeared increasingly poetic and picturesque, even evoking a touch of petty bourgeois sentiment. (Typical pretentious behavior.)

The raindrops tapped incessantly on the windowpane, and Liu Dashao dozed off in his chair all afternoon. When he woke up thirsty and fumbled around the table for his large tea mug, he realized it was already late afternoon.

Straightening his suit, he pulled open a rusty drawer and rummaged through it for a long time before finally finding three incense sticks of varying lengths beneath a stack of basketball magazines. Turning around, he walked towards a small but exquisitely crafted shrine behind him. The shrine, made of high-quality red lacquered wood, was adorned with a large, golden incense burner, giving it an air of grandeur.

On either side of the shrine, two candle flames flickered, sending up wisps of smoke. Strangely, instead of a statue of a deity or Buddha, the shrine housed a pencil-drawn cartoon of a half-portrait of an old Taoist priest. However, the artist’s skill was far from commendable—the lines were crooked and messy, resembling the scribbles of a three-year-old. One could barely make out that the old priest was a male with a beard, but the rest was unclear…

Beneath the cartoon was a memorial tablet inscribed with the words: “The Spirit Tablet of Zhang Enpu, the 63rd Generation Patriarch of the Celestial Master Sect.”

The inscription was lengthy and difficult to pronounce, but since it was placed here for offerings, it must have some deep connection with the protagonist.

What? You want to know why a serious shrine would have a cartoon sketch? Well, let me explain.

Liu Dashao said that when his cheap master passed away, there were no cameras in the countryside, let alone photographs. As a result, they couldn’t even make a proper portrait, so he had to rely on his memory to sketch one. Isn’t that what they mean by “self-reliance”? What? You think the artist isn’t human? Don’t you know Liu Dashao studied abstract art? Yes, the kind Picasso did.

Lighting the incense with the candle, Liu Dashao perfunctorily bowed to the central tablet: “Master, it’s time to eat. Business hasn’t been good these days, so you’ll have to eat less. When I get back to work tomorrow, I’ll buy you a pound of braised duck wings from the duck restaurant.”

“Chirp chirp…” At the mention of duck wings, Liu Dashao’s appetite was immediately whetted. His hands rubbed together eagerly, and he was practically drooling. The newly opened duck restaurant next door was absolutely divine when it came to pairing dishes with alcohol! Even immortals would be tempted, and the Jade Emperor himself would descend to taste it, let alone a fence-sitter like Liu Dashao.

“Hehe, as usual, I’ll eat the food, and you can enjoy the aroma.”

“Besides, at your age, eating too much isn’t good for digestion.”

After rambling on, Liu Dashao stuck the incense into the burner and, on his way back, grabbed the last apple from the offering table.

A faint mist seemed to rise from Zhang Enpu’s memorial tablet, as if he were crying…

The Chinese nation has a long history and a rich cultural tradition, with professions being one of the most extensive aspects. If one were to count them all, there would likely be tens of thousands.

Since ancient times, no profession has been considered inherently noble or humble. As the saying goes, “There are 360 professions, and each can produce a champion.”

I’m sure you’ve seen those TV shows that love to broadcast tedious entrepreneurial stories since you were a kid. For example, so-and-so started farming and built the largest ecological plantation in China, so-and-so became the CEO of a national meat processing company by selling pork, so-and-so made it big in real estate and successfully listed in the U.S., and so-and-so became a globally renowned tycoon with a secret family beverage recipe…

Of course, compared to these successful “so-and-sos,” Liu Dashao is just a minor figure, a practitioner of a special profession, nothing more.

Speaking of which, you should know what he does by now, right?

What? A pimp in a brothel?

Who said a special profession means that? Drag him out and beat him to death!

Ahem, back to the topic. Although our Liu Dashao is neither a scholar nor a warrior, with just a bit of knowledge and a head full of confusion, he still holds a legitimate profession. See that sign in the shop? Yes, that’s it—a genuine business license issued by the Commerce Bureau. Fushun Taoist Association, Feng Shui Consultation Center.

What? You think it’s small? Well, it took Liu Dashao eight tables of drinks with the Commerce Bureau officials to get it. Use a magnifying glass if you have to!

Hey, what now? What? You can’t read? Never mind, forget I said anything.

Actually, when it comes to Liu Dashao’s profession, it’s both complex and simple. The term “Yin-Yang Master” encapsulates his entire life. He is humble and unnoticed, yet fulfilled and proud, because these four simple words have given him an extraordinary life experience and a fate filled with both joy and sorrow.

As the saying goes, the world is full of wonders, many of which we don’t understand and which science cannot yet explain. For example, encounters with evil spirits, possession, reincarnation, and ghostly attachments—all these are beyond scientific explanation.

These phenomena, which science cannot explain, can be rationalized through traditional folk customs. Therefore, since ancient times, there have been people who specialize in dealing with such strange events. They are called by various names: spirit mediums, fortune-tellers, palm readers, exorcists, shamans, and more. Abroad, they are known as Yin-Yang masters, demon hunters, etc. Though the names differ, their methods share similarities. They navigate between the realms of the living and the dead, delivering messages to departed loved ones or resolving disputes between the living and the dead.

Of course, among them, some are truly skilled, like reclusive sages with an air of immortality, while others are mere charlatans, deceiving and swindling, even groping the hands of young wives. Our Liu Dashao, however, falls somewhere in between. If you call him a fraud, he does have some skills—why else would all the blind fortune-tellers in the area weep and move elsewhere when he opened his shop? Compared to Liu Dashao’s professional competence, they couldn’t compete. But if you say he’s not a fraud, he only has a couple of tricks up his sleeve, like the proverbial “three axes of Chen Yaojin,” and once those are used up, he has to rely on deception. So, he’s a mix—a full bottle that’s heavy, and a half bottle that sloshes around.

In this day and age, it’s all about keeping up with the times. The traditional profession of a Yin-Yang master is no longer in vogue. After all, there aren’t many ghosts left on the streets, and encountering a fierce ghost could be life-threatening. Fortune-telling and palm reading, being feudal superstitions, are something Liu Dashao, who would rather face the King of Hell than the urban management team, absolutely wants to avoid. With both options out, Liu Dashao had to resort to his ultimate weapon: Feng Shui!

Speaking of Feng Shui, don’t dismiss it—it’s a discipline passed down by our ancestors! Take, for example, a newlywed couple choosing a home.

The first rule is “strong winds are unfavorable.” Feng Shui emphasizes “gathering and retaining energy,” so a place with strong winds is not auspicious. The ideal living environment has a gentle breeze, which aligns with the principles of Feng Shui.

The second rule is “direct street alignment is unfavorable.” Feng Shui favors winding paths and dislikes straight alignments, as direct alignments bring rapid and intense energy, which can be harmful if a residence is directly in its path. For example, if a house’s front door faces a straight road, the longer the road, the greater the danger, and the more roads, the more potential disasters. Such a house is called a “tiger’s mouth,” indicating it’s difficult to live peacefully there.

The third rule is “curved streets are unfavorable.” A “curved street” refers to a street that bends in front of a house, with the curve directly facing the front door. In Feng Shui, this is called a “sickle cutting the waist,” and such houses are best avoided. As the “Yang House Summary” states: If the street in front of the house curves, the household often suffers casualties, fires, or chronic illnesses.

Since ancient times, there have been many Feng Shui anecdotes. Here’s a little story for amusement.

In ancient times, a hardworking family saved up some money and decided to rebuild their house. They gathered materials and invited neighbors to help. Since they lived in a poor neighborhood, there were all sorts of craftsmen—masons, carpenters, painters—and they quickly assembled a team. With a few laborers, construction began.

The family was kind and honest, treating the workers well with good food and drink, so the work progressed quickly and smoothly. Among the neighbors was a carpenter who was very jealous. He thought: “For so many years, I’ve been showing my tools in the marketplace, and no one has the money to build a house, let alone repair one. We used to live in the same neighborhood, seeing each other every day, and he wasn’t any more capable than me. How did he suddenly get so rich? Not only can he afford to build a house, but he also feeds the workers fried noodles every day. This guy is flaunting his wealth too much!”

On the fifth day, the house frame was up, and the walls were nearly complete. It was time to install the roof beam. According to tradition, they pasted a charm on the beam, set off firecrackers, drank wine, ate stewed meat, and handed out red envelopes to the workers. The carpenter became even more resentful: “He dares to eat stewed meat and hand out red envelopes? He’s showing off! This is too much! I’ll teach him a lesson and make him lose some money.” So, he went to a Feng Shui master for advice.

The Feng Shui master said: “Since the roof beam has just been installed, you can place something on it to drain his wealth.” The carpenter asked: “What should I place?” The Feng Shui master replied: “Make a small wooden figure pulling a cart filled with wooden gold ingots, and place it on the roof beam facing outward. It will pull out his wealth every day. Once the roof is finished and the ceiling is plastered, no one will see it. Within two years, his family will be ruined without him even realizing it.” The carpenter thanked the Feng Shui master and followed his instructions, placing the figure on the roof beam.

After the house was completed, the carpenter returned home, eagerly watching for the family’s downfall. However, after two years, instead of becoming poorer, the family grew even wealthier. The carpenter was furious. While drinking with another carpenter, he couldn’t hold back and revealed: “I followed the Feng Shui master’s advice and placed a figure pulling a cart of gold ingots on his roof beam. It should have drained his wealth by now, but instead, he’s getting richer!”

The other carpenter said: “Exactly! To be honest, I was also jealous of his brothers helping each other and their growing family. I also consulted a Feng Shui master for a way to ruin them. The master said: ‘Make a small wooden archer in the roof of the gatehouse, aiming arrows inward—it will shoot his family every day. Once the roof is tiled, no one will see it. Within two years, his family will suffer unexplained deaths and injuries.’ But look at them now—not only are they unharmed, but they’ve even added more members.” The two carpenters discussed this and realized something was wrong. They decided to confront the Feng Shui master.

When they found the Feng Shui master, he said: “My advice was correct, but who knew you were both cursing the same family?” The carpenters replied: “Whether it’s the same family or not, our curses should have worked—one targeting his family, the other his wealth. They should have taken effect!”

The Feng Shui master explained: “That’s not how it works. When two curses are placed on the same family, their effects change. Think about it: the figure pulling the cart was meant to drain his wealth, but the archer in the gatehouse was aiming at it, saying: ‘If you dare to pull out the wealth, I’ll shoot you!’ So, the gold ingots couldn’t be pulled out, and the family’s wealth only grew. How could they not prosper?”

The two carpenters were dumbfounded.

Though this is a joke, it highlights the depth of Feng Shui and its impact on our lives. Over the past year, with his limited understanding of Feng Shui, Liu Dashao has managed to make a name for himself in this small city. At least his reputation has spread, and when his aunts and uncles mention his name, they all respectfully call him “Old Immortal.”

Tossing aside the apple core he had gnawed clean, Liu Dashao let out a satisfied burp. His gaze lingered on the layout of the Green Dragon on the left and the White Tiger on the right that he had arranged, before finally settling once more on the memorial tablet, his expression serious.

Looking at the three striking characters “Celestial Master Sect,” Liu Dashao’s lips moved, and his previously playful expression underwent a complete transformation. The contours of his face became firm and resolute. The air seemed to freeze in that moment, creating a stark contrast to his earlier behavior. It was as if one person had suddenly split into two, performing two different actions.

After a long while, he sighed softly: “To end or not to end? The 63rd generation takes a break! Master, is this folk saying true or false? Has our Celestial Master Sect really come to an end?”

The air was eerily silent, as if the words had come from beyond the clouds. With a complicated gaze fixed on the memorial tablet, Liu Dashao finally chuckled bitterly: “Then again, even if it has ended, what does it matter to me? I’m just a guy who doesn’t know where his next meal is coming from!”

With that, he tremblingly pulled a pure cotton handkerchief from his pocket, picked up the memorial tablet, and carefully wiped it, muttering to himself: “But you were right about one thing—some things still need to be done! Back then, you had no regrets, and today, your disciple will also have no regrets!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, tears streamed down Liu Dashao’s cheeks. At the same time, the painful memories he had buried deep in his heart for twenty years began to sprout like seeds in fertile soil.

What now? You can’t read it? Forget it, never mind.

Actually, Liu Dashao’s profession could be both complex and simple. The term “Yin-Yang Master” alone encompassed his entire life’s work. Thus, he was both humble and unnoticed, yet simultaneously fulfilled and proud. For within those four simple words lay a lifetime of extraordinary experiences and twists of fate, filled with both joy and sorrow.

As the saying goes, the world is vast and full of wonders, many of which science cannot yet explain—such as possession by evil spirits, encounters with ghosts (often called “faceless ones,” “smoke spirits,” or “dirty things”), resurrection through others’ bodies, reincarnation, spirit possession, and so on.

While science struggles to explain these phenomena, traditional folk customs often provide plausible explanations. Thus, throughout history, a special group of people emerged—those capable of dealing with such strange occurrences. They were known by various names: spirit mediums, fortune tellers, physiognomists, spirit callers, old immortals, great immortals, half-immortals, spirit women, and exorcists. Abroad, they were called Onmyōji or demon exorcists. Though the names differ, their methods often bear striking similarities, for they all walk between the realms of life and death, navigating the unpredictable. They might deliver messages from the deceased to their loved ones or resolve disputes between the living and the dead.

Among them, some truly possessed genuine skills and were revered sages; others were mere frauds, deceiving people with lies and often taking liberties with young housewives. Liu Dashao, however, fell somewhere in between. You could call him a fraud, but he did have some real abilities—otherwise, why would all the blind fortune-tellers in the area be forced to leave town once he opened shop? Compared to Liu Dashao’s professional expertise, they simply couldn’t compete. Yet, if you called him honest, he only had a few tricks up his sleeve—like Chen Youliang’s three axe strokes—once they were used up, he’d be back to swindling. Hence, he was the classic “half-bottle,” swaying between competence and deception.

In today’s world of rapid change, the traditional role of Yin-Yang masters had lost its appeal. Ghosts were rare on the streets, and once they were gone, they were gone. Encountering malevolent spirits even posed life-threatening risks. Fortune-telling and physiognomy fell under the category of feudal superstition, which Liu Dashao, who would rather visit the King of Hell than confront the city management squad, had no interest in. With both options eliminated, Liu Dashao could only resort to his ultimate weapon: Feng Shui!

Speaking of Feng Shui, don’t dismiss it as nonsense. After all, it’s an ancient discipline passed down by our ancestors. Take newlywed couples choosing a home, for example.

First rule: “Avoid windy areas.” Feng Shui emphasizes “hiding the wind and gathering energy,” so a place with strong winds is unlikely to be prosperous. The ideal living environment is one where gentle breezes blow softly, bringing coolness and comfort—this is the essence of Feng Shui.

Second rule: “Avoid direct alignment with streets.” Feng Shui favors “curves over straight lines,” because a direct approach brings sudden force. If a residence is directly in the line of fire, the danger is significant. For example, if a house’s front door faces a long, straight road, the longer the road, the greater the danger; the more roads intersecting, the more misfortunes multiply. Hence, such a house is often called the “Tiger’s Mouth House,” implying it’s hard to live in peace.

Third rule: “Avoid streets with a reverse bow shape.” A “reverse bow” street refers to a curved road in front of a house where the curve directly faces the door. Feng Shui calls this “the sickle cutting the waist,” and such houses should be avoided. As the classic text Yang Zhai Cui Yao states: “If the street in front of the house is in a reverse bow shape, the household may suffer injuries, fires, or chronic illnesses.”

Feng Shui has many historical anecdotes—here’s a small story to entertain.

Long ago, a family worked diligently, saved some money, and decided to rebuild their home. They bought materials and invited neighbors to help. Living in a poor neighborhood, their neighbors included bricklayers, carpenters, and painters—soon, all the craftsmen were gathered, and a few laborers were hired to start construction.

The homeowner was generous and kind, treating everyone well with good food and rewards. The work was fast and excellent. Among the neighbors was a carpenter who grew envious. He thought: “For years, I’ve had to stand in the job market with my tools, while everyone else couldn’t even afford repairs. We used to be neighbors, seeing each other daily, and I don’t think he’s any more skilled than me. Why has he become so wealthy? Not only does he dare to build a house, but he even serves noodles to the workers every day. He’s flaunting his wealth too much!”

On the fifth day, the frame was up, walls were built, and it was time to install the roof beam. Following tradition, they pasted talismans, installed the beam, set off firecrackers, drank wine, ate braised pork, and gave red envelopes to all workers. The carpenter grew even more resentful: “He dares to serve braised pork and give red envelopes—showing off again! How annoying! I’ll teach him a lesson and make him lose some money.”

He went to a Feng Shui master for advice. The master said: “Now that the beam is installed, place something on it to drain his wealth.” The carpenter asked, “What should I place?” The master replied: “Carve a wooden figure pulling a cart loaded with wooden gold ingots, place it on the beam facing outward—every day it will carry his wealth away. Once the ceiling is plastered, no one will see it. Within two years, his fortune will quietly vanish.” The carpenter thanked the master and did as instructed, placing the figure on the beam.

After the house was completed, the carpenter returned home, smugly watching the family’s downfall. But two years passed, and instead of becoming poorer, the family grew wealthier. The carpenter was furious. During a drinking session with another carpenter, he finally blurted out: “I followed the Feng Shui master’s advice and placed a wooden figure pulling a cart of gold ingots on their beam, intending to drain their wealth. But instead of declining, they’ve become even richer!”

The other carpenter said: “Actually, I also tried to curse them. I consulted the Feng Shui master, who suggested carving a wooden archer aiming an arrow at the house’s entrance, hidden under the roof. Within two years, their family would suffer unexplained deaths and injuries. But instead, they’ve grown even healthier and added new members!”

The two carpenters discussed and realized something was wrong. They went back to the Feng Shui master. He insisted his advice was correct: “But who knew you two were cursing the same family?” They replied: “Even if it’s the same family, our curses were strong enough—one targeted their people, the other their wealth. Something should have happened!”

The master explained: “When two curses target the same family, they can counteract each other. The figure pulling gold away was blocked by the archer aiming at it—‘If you dare to pull gold away, I’ll shoot you!’ Thus, the wealth couldn’t escape, and the family’s fortune only grew. Hence, they became richer.”

The two carpenters were stunned.

Though a joke, this story highlights the depth and influence of Feng Shui on our lives. Over the past year, relying on his limited knowledge of Feng Shui, Liu Dashao had managed to carve out a decent reputation in this small city. At least, his name was now well-known—whenever the aunts and uncles heard of Liu Dashao, they’d nod solemnly and call him “Old Immortal.”

Tossing away the apple core he had gnawed clean, Liu Dashao let out a satisfied belch. His eyes wandered over his carefully arranged “Azure Dragon on the left, White Tiger on the right” formation, finally settling once more on the spirit tablet, lingering there.

Gazing at the bold cursive characters “Celestial Masters Sect,” Liu Dashao’s lips trembled. His previously playful expression underwent a 360-degree transformation, his features hardening with determination. The air itself seemed to freeze in that moment, sharply contrasting with his earlier demeanor—as if one person had split into two, performing two entirely different roles.

After a long silence, he sighed softly: “Unbelievable, unfathomable—sixty-three generations, and now a pause! Master, is this old saying true? Has our Celestial Masters Sect truly come to an end?”

The air was silent, as if the question had echoed from the heavens. Staring at the tablet, Liu Dashao gave a bitter smile: “But then again, who cares? What does it have to do with me? I can barely feed myself these days!”

With that, he trembled slightly, pulling out a cotton handkerchief from his pocket, gently lifting the tablet to wipe it clean while muttering to himself: “But you were right about one thing—some things must still be done. Back then, you never regretted it. Today, neither will I.”

As the words left his lips, tears streamed down Liu Dashao’s cheeks, uncontrollably. At that moment, the painful memories buried deep within his heart for twenty years sprouted anew, breaking through the fertile soil of his mind.