The cinnabar was top-grade Chensha, 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, the handle warm to the 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, emanating an anachronistic sense of antiquity under the fluorescent lights. Zhou Zhenghua rubbed his hands together, his gaze shifting between Chen Yao and the objects, a mixture of anticipation and unease.
"Mr. Chen, are these... sufficient?" he asked cautiously, as if inquiring about the specifications of some precision instrument.
Chen Yao did not answer immediately. He picked up the cinnabar box, opened it, and dabbed a little with his finger. The powder was fine, cool to the touch. Grandfather's annotations mentioned cinnabar: "Chensha, the essence of the Bing (丙) Fire element, red in color, primarily used for suppression, stabilization, and guidance. However, its fire nature is dry and intense. Dosage must be precise; too much can ignite, too little is ineffective."
Ignite what? Chen Yao didn't know. He only knew that when Zhou Zhenghua actually produced these items, any lingering hope inside him extinguished completely—this wasn't a joke, not an urban legend, but a tangible "problem" requiring the use of such ancient materials.
And he had no idea how to use them.
"It's enough." Chen Yao closed the cinnabar box, his voice calm. He couldn't show weakness, at least not now. "Mr. Zhou, have the workers been evacuated?"
"Yes, all evacuated." Zhou Zhenghua nodded hurriedly. "I told them the site needs a comprehensive safety check, three days off with pay. The archaeological team has also been contacted; they'll send someone tomorrow."
"Good." Chen Yao paused. "You should leave too. No one should stay here tonight."
"Just you alone?" Zhou Zhenghua hesitated. "Is that... safe?"
"I need quiet," Chen Yao said. "Too many people, the energy becomes chaotic."
The words slipped out, as naturally as if he were well-versed in this. Zhou Zhenghua seemed convinced. He picked up his jacket and car keys. "Then... Mr. Chen, be careful. If you need anything, call me anytime."
"Mm."
Zhou Zhenghua left. The temporary prefab room was now empty save for Chen Yao. The air conditioner hummed softly. Outside, the construction site fell utterly silent, the silhouettes of the tower cranes standing against the twilight like giant, stationary question marks.
Chen Yao sat on the sofa, looking at the objects on the table. What should he do? Draw talismans? Perform a ritual? Or, like his grandfather, use some completely unknown ceremony to "draw the wind"?
He felt a wave of absurdity. Just hours ago, he was writing Python scripts for data cleaning, thinking about optimizing recommendation algorithms. Now, he was sitting in a temporary office on a construction site, facing cinnabar and yellow paper, trying to solve a vaguely defined problem of a "causal sedimentation pool."
What had happened to the world?
Or, what had happened to him?
Chen Yao stood up and walked to the window. Darkness had fallen; several temporary floodlights on the site automatically switched on, casting lonely circles of light on the empty ground. The location of the septic tank in the northeast corner was hidden in shadow, indistinct. The rain shelter over the ancient tomb pit reflected a pallid white light under the lamps.
He needed to make a decision.
Intervene, or leave.
Intervening meant he would attempt to handle a problem clearly beyond his capabilities with half-understood knowledge. He might fail, might make things worse, might even—as Grandfather's annotations warned—get himself entangled in the causality and pay a price.
Leaving meant he could return to his familiar world, continue analyzing data, writing code, live a clear, controllable life untouched by ancient horrors. But then, what about that feverish, delirious worker? Other potential victims? And Mr. Zhou, this man clearly pushed to his limit?
Chen Yao recalled a line from Grandfather's annotations: "To see causality and do nothing is not wisdom, but cowardice. Yet to act recklessly is not courage, but folly."
To see suffering and not act is cowardice, but blind action is stupidity.
He needed more information.
Chen Yao walked back to the coffee table but didn't touch the cinnabar or paper. He took out Grandfather's annotation booklet from his backpack and flipped to the section on feng shui "sealing objects." Grandfather's notes were detailed:
"'Four Symbols Seal': Uses four bronze boxes—Azure Dragon, White Tiger, Vermilion Bird, Black Tortoise—placed at the southeast, southwest, northwest, and northeast corners. Inside each box is 'Qi-guiding powder' (sandalwood ash mixed with chensha, realgar, mica) and a single 'seal-array coin' (must be a copper coin circulated for over a century, imbued with sufficient human energy to serve as an anchor point)."
"Principle: Using the Four Symbols corresponding to the four seasons and five elements, constructs a local energy circulation to guide the stagnant 'turbid energy' to release and dilute slowly. Like opening four small channels for a silted lake, releasing gradually without damaging the embankment."
"Precautions: The four boxes must remain intact, not damaged or moved. Especially the Vermilion Bird box (northeast) belongs to the Fire element; fire nature is intense, easily eroded by Yin turbidity, requires regular inspection. If the box cracks or the powder changes color (turns dark red), the seal is about to break; turbid energy will seek gaps to erupt."
Chen Yao recalled the four bronze boxes he dug up that afternoon. The Vermilion Bird box did have cracks; the powder inside was dark red. The seal was on the verge of breaking.
Then, the method of repair?
He continued flipping. On the edge of a page, he found a line of small text: "If the Four Symbols Seal is about to break, do not attempt forceful repair, as the turbid energy has already invaded the box. Forcing repair is like plugging a breached dam, guaranteed to cause a greater eruption. The immediate priority is 'diversion'—open a temporary outlet at the northeast location to guide the turbid energy out slowly, while strengthening the sealing power of the other three directions to maintain the circulation and prevent collapse."
Diversion.
Chen Yao's gaze turned to the northeast corner. The septic tank was there—was that not a "temporary outlet"? Though dug unintentionally, it had indeed broken some underground balance, giving the sediment an outlet.
The problem was, this outlet was opened too suddenly, too crudely, turning "release" into "eruption." Moreover, the septic tank itself, a repository for filth, would make the released turbid energy even more foul, exacerbating its impact on people and the environment.
So, what he needed to do wasn't to block the septic tank, but... purify it? Or at least make the turbid energy passing through it less harmful?
How to purify?
Chen Yao's eyes returned to the cinnabar and yellow paper. Cinnabar suppresses baleful energy; yellow paper bears talismans. Grandfather's notes contained many talisman drawings: house-pacifying talismans, evil-suppressing talismans, qi-guiding talismans... But he had never practiced them, didn't know if they worked, didn't even know the principles behind them.
Was it psychological suggestion? Or did they truly possess some kind of energy structure?
He recalled an anthropology book he read in college, A General Theory of Magic. The author, Marcel Mauss, argued that magical rituals work because the collective society believes they work—a self-fulfilling prophecy. Talismans, ritual objects, were essentially "symbolic media." Through them, the practitioner and the subject jointly constructed a psychological reality, thereby influencing the 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 indeed decrease—because many so-called "strange occurrences" were closely related to people's psychological states.
But this couldn't explain the worker's fever and delirium. Unless... that was some physiological manifestation of collective psychological stress?
Chen Yao wasn't sure. He always felt that the knowledge Grandfather left behind wasn't mere psychology. Those descriptions of "causal structure," "energy circulation," were too specific, too systematic, like describing a physical phenomenon not yet recognized by modern science.
His phone vibrated, interrupting his thoughts. A message from his mother: "Xiao Yao, coming home for dinner this weekend? Your dad made soup."
A simple, ordinary sentence, yet it made Chen Yao's eyes unexpectedly hot. That was another world, warm, mundane, free of eerie causality. How he longed to return.
He typed a reply: "Might be working overtime this weekend, we'll see."
Send.
Then he put down the phone and took a deep breath. No more escaping. Since he was here, since he saw the problem, since—he had to admit—a voice deep inside said, "You can do something," then he should try.
Start with the simplest.
Chen Yao spread out a sheet of yellow paper, picked up the brush, dipped it in clean water, and practiced drawing talismans on the paper. Grandfather had taught him some basic talisman forms. Though unpracticed for years, muscle memory remained. He drew the simplest variant of the character "安" (peace), enclosed in a circle representing "perfection and stability."
The brush tip scratched softly against the paper. He drew slowly, each stroke as steady as possible. Strangely, when he focused on the movement of the brush, the turmoil in his mind gradually subsided. Drawing talismans required concentration and calm—this, at least, shared common ground with meditation and calligraphy.
After the tenth attempt, he selected the most satisfactory one. Then, he opened the cinnabar box, poured a little into a small dish, added a few drops of water, and slowly ground it into red ink.
The thick red liquid swirled in the dish, like blood, or some concentrated energy.
Chen Yao dipped the brush again, this time in cinnabar. The moment the tip touched the yellow paper, he felt a subtle resistance—not physical, more like pushing against an invisible viscosity. He steadied himself and began.
The cinnabar red flowed onto the yellow paper, startlingly bright. He followed the remembered sequence: first the talisman head (three dots, representing the Three Pure Ones), then the talisman core (a variant of the character "罡"), finally the talisman base (characters meaning "by decree"). Each stroke was slow and deliberate.
As he finished the last stroke, he set down the brush and let out a long breath.
The talisman paper lay quietly on the table, the vermilion lines seeming to shimmer faintly under the light. An illusion? Chen Yao didn't know. But he did feel that after drawing this talisman, the atmosphere in the room... cleared somewhat. That intangible sense of oppression lightened.
Perhaps it was just psychological.
Perhaps not.
Chen Yao carefully set the talisman aside to dry. Then he looked at the bowl of glutinous rice. In folk legends, glutinous rice is used to ward off evil. Grandfather's notes also mentioned: "Glutinous rice, warm nature, primarily adsorptive. Can temporarily hold turbid energy but must be disposed of promptly (burned or deeply buried)."
Adsorptive. So, glutinous rice could serve as a temporary "filter" or "buffer pad," absorbing harmful energy seeping from underground, preventing it from directly impacting living people.
So, could he sprinkle glutinous rice around the northeast septic tank as a buffer layer?
But how much? How to sprinkle? How to dispose of it afterwards?
Questions piled up. Chen Yao felt a wave of helplessness. He was like someone who'd only read a car manual suddenly asked to repair a malfunctioning engine at high speed. He knew some theory but had zero practical experience.
Thud.
A muffled sound came from outside the window.
Chen Yao looked up sharply. The sound came from deep within the site, like something heavy hitting the ground. He walked to the window, peering through the glass into the dark site. Beyond the circles of light from the floodlights lay an impenetrable blackness.
Another thud. Closer this time.
Chen Yao's heart began to race. He checked his phone: 9:17 p.m. Mr. Zhou said all workers were gone, so what was that sound?
A stray cat? Something blown down by the wind?
A third thud. This time he heard it clearly—not something hitting the ground, more like... hammering? Hammering from underground?
Impossible. He immediately dismissed the thought. A hallucination, auditory hallucination from psychological stress.
But the sound continued. Thud. Thud. Thud. Slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat, or like someone striking rock deep below.
Chen Yao clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. The pain cleared his head a little. He needed to go look. If it was just wind or an animal, confirming it would bring peace. If it was really...
He didn't finish the thought.
He picked up the flashlight, pushed open the door of the prefab room. Night wind rushed in, carrying the site's unique smell of cement and dust. The rhythmic hammering was clearer outdoors, definitely from the northeast—the septic tank area.
Chen Yao turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. He walked toward the northeast corner, steps as light as possible. The ground was uneven; he stumbled a little.
As he got closer, the hammering grew louder. Thud. Thud. Thud... Each strike seemed to hit his chest. The iron-and-earthy smell in the air thickened, mixed with a faint, elusive sweetness like decaying vegetation.
Finally, he reached the septic tank.
The concrete lid was intact. The hammering came from beneath it.
Chen Yao crouched, pressing his ear close to the concrete lid. THUD! A loud impact nearly deafened him; he jerked back, almost falling. The sound was too close, as if someone was right on the other side of the lid, striking it with a heavy hammer.
Someone underneath? Impossible. The septic tank was newly built, not yet in use; it should be empty. And who would be locked under there?
THUD! Another strike. This time, the concrete lid vibrated slightly.
Chen Yao's heart pounded wildly. He shone the flashlight on the lid. The surface was clean, no cracks. But when he moved the beam to the edge where the lid met the tank, he saw—
Stains.
Dark red stains were slowly seeping out from the seam between the lid and the tank body, like blood but more viscous, gleaming with an eerie dark light under the beam. That sweet, fishy smell emanated from here.
Chen Yao felt his stomach churn. He forced himself to stay calm, shining the light carefully on the seeping liquid. Not blood, at least not entirely. It contained tiny, black, flocculent matter, like rotten plant roots.
He recalled Grandfather's description of "sedimentation pools" in the notes: "Places where earth veins are congested, accumulating centuries of怨恨 (resentment),病气 (sick energy),死气 (death energy), shaped like black oil, smelling腥甜 (fishy-sweet),触之寒彻骨 (bone-chilling cold to the touch)."
Black oil. Fishy-sweet.
It matched.
THUD! The hammering sounded again, accompanied by a gurgling sound of liquid being stirred. More dark red liquid surged from the seam, beginning to spread on the ground.
Chen Yao took several steps back. He knew he couldn't stay here any longer. This wasn't a situation he could handle. He needed—what did he need? Call the police? Say there's a monster in the construction site septic tank? They'd think he was crazy. Find Mr. Zhou? What could Mr. Zhou do? Find Grandfather? Grandfather was gone.
He suddenly remembered the talisman he'd just drawn in his backpack. Didn't know if it would work, but... better than doing nothing.
He turned, ran back to the prefab room, grabbed the talisman, scooped a handful of glutinous rice, and rushed back to the septic tank.
The liquid had spread to about a meter in diameter, like a huge, breathing wound in the dark. The hammering grew more urgent. THUD! THUD! THUD! As if urging something.
Gritting his teeth, Chen Yao sprinkled the glutinous rice around the liquid, forming an irregular circle. Then he took the talisman and, following Grandfather's note about "using intent to guide energy," focused his attention on it, imagining it glowing, emitting a stabilizing force.
He crouched and pressed the talisman onto the center of the concrete lid.
The moment the talisman touched the lid—
The hammering stopped.
The liquid stopped spreading.
The sweet, fishy smell diminished slightly.
Chen Yao held his breath, waiting. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty... a full minute passed. No more sound. The liquid lay quietly, no longer expanding.
The talisman lay quietly on the lid, its vermilion lines indistinct in the dark.
Chen Yao slowly stood up, legs shaky. He didn't know if the talisman truly worked, or if it was coincidence, or if... whatever was underneath was temporarily tired. But regardless, the present calm was real.
He dared not linger, backing away slowly, eyes fixed on the septic tank. Once at a safe distance, he turned and hurried back to the prefab room.
Closed the door, locked it. He leaned against the door, breathing heavily.
The flashlight was still on, its beam shaking on the ceiling. His heart pounded like a drum; his palms were clammy with cold sweat.
On the coffee table, the cinnabar, yellow paper, brush, glutinous rice still lay. But in Chen Yao's eyes, they were no longer just objects; they were... tools. Dangerous, incompletely understood, yet potentially life-saving tools in certain moments.
He walked to the sofa and sat down, picking up the cinnabar box. It was cool. He opened it, looking at the dark red powder inside.
"Borrowing life to be born," he whispered.
If his life was truly "borrowed," then sitting here now, trying to handle an ancient trouble with ancient methods, was this the moment when that debt began to be repaid?
His phone vibrated again. Mr. Zhou calling.
Chen Yao answered.
"Mr. Chen!" Mr. Zhou's voice was urgent. "I just got a call. That feverish worker... his condition worsened. He's in the hospital now. Doctors can't find the cause, but his temperature keeps rising, and he's talking more nonsense, keeps shouting 'So heavy,' 'Crushing me'..."
Chen Yao closed his eyes.
"Mr. Chen, over there... how is it? Do you need me to come?"
Silence for a few seconds. Chen Yao spoke, his voice hoarse. "Mr. Zhou."
"Yes?"
"I can't handle it," he said, each word forced out with difficulty. "I haven't inherited the profession, haven't learned the real methods. Tonight, I just... temporarily calmed things. But the root problem isn't solved. That worker won't get better, and other incidents will happen at the site."
Silence on the other end.
"Then... what should we do?" Mr. Zhou's voice held despair. "Mr. Chen said you might be able to resolve this situation..."
"He said 'might,'" Chen Yao interrupted. "And I'm certain now, I can't. At least not now." He paused. "Mr. Zhou, I suggest you halt construction immediately, completely seal off the site, wait... for someone who truly understands to handle it."
"Someone who truly understands? Where do I find that?"
Chen Yao didn't know. Grandfather's peers from that generation were mostly gone. Even if they existed, they might not be willing to take on such a thorny "sedimentation pool" case.
"Or," Chen Yao said slowly, "you can wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Wait for me." Chen Yao said, surprising even himself. "But I need time. I need... to learn."
Learn what? Learn how to become a true master of Shouyizhai? Learn how to use the knowledge he once resisted to solve the problems he once denied?
On the other end, Mr. Zhou let out a long sigh. "Mr. Chen, I... I can't wait too long. This project has all my assets tied up. Every day of stoppage is a huge loss. And with the workers... I'm afraid there might be more casualties."
"I know," Chen Yao said. "So, you must also be prepared. Some prices... might be unavoidable."
With that, he hung up.
Price.
That word echoed in his mind tonight. The worker's fever was a price. The site's strange occurrences were a price. Even his fear and helplessness sitting here now was a kind of price—for Grandfather's intervention years ago, for the Chen family's generations of "inheriting the profession," for his own "borrowing life to be born."
He looked out the window. The site remained quiet; no strange sounds from the septic tank direction. The talisman might still be working, or perhaps it was just temporary calm.
Chen Yao picked up the annotation booklet, flipping to the last page, Grandfather's final words: "The karma is settled. The fifth path: Acknowledge the account."
Acknowledge the account.
Admit the existence of the debt, admit his connection to it, then... then what? Grandfather didn't write.
Chen Yao closed the booklet. The night was long. He needed to think, decide, choose a direction between "escape" and "plunge in."
Whichever he chose wouldn't be easy.
Outside, the city's lights blazed. And in this small patch of darkness enclosed by barricades, ancient causality was awakening, awaiting an answer.
Chen Yao sat under the light, his shadow cast long on the wall.
Glossary for Chapter Four
Chensha (辰砂): Also known as cinnabar (mercury sulfide). In Chinese metaphysics and alchemy, it is considered the essence of the Fire element (丙火之精), prized for its bright red color. It is used in rituals, talismans, and medicine for its supposed properties of suppression, stabilization, and guidance of energy (镇,定,引).
Yellow Paper/Talisman Paper (黄纸): Special paper, often slightly yellowed and made from materials like cotton or mulberry bark, used specifically for writing talismans (符). It is believed to be a suitable medium for carrying and transmitting ritual intent and energy.
Wolf Hair Brush (狼毫): A high-quality calligraphy and painting brush made from the hair of wolves (or often, weasels), known for its resilience and sharp tip, ideal for the precise strokes required in talisman drawing.
Glutinous Rice (糯米): In Chinese folk belief and certain Taoist practices, glutinous rice is attributed with the property of absorbing negative or baleful energies (吸附浊气). It is often used in rituals as a temporary purifying agent or barrier, but requires proper disposal (like burning or deep burial) afterward.
Talisman (符): A mystical diagram or written charm, typically using stylized Chinese characters and symbols, drawn on paper or other materials with cinnabar ink. It is believed to possess specific powers (e.g., protection, healing, exorcism) when activated through proper ritual and intention (以意引气).
Three Pure Ones (三清): The three highest deities in the Taoist pantheon: Yuqing (Jade Pure), Shangqing (Upper Pure), and Taiqing (Great Pure). They are often invoked at the beginning of talismans (符头).
Gang (罡): Refers to the "celestial net" or specific powerful stars/constellations. In talismans, a stylized version of this character (符胆, talisman core) represents the activation of celestial power.
Chiling (敕令): Means "by decree/command." Used in talismans (符脚, talisman base) to signify the authority by which the talisman's command is issued, often implying the decree of deities or celestial forces.
Sedimentation Pool (沉积池): A term used metaphorically in the text for a location where negative energies, misfortunes, or traumatic "information" from past events have accumulated over time, like sediment in a pool. It is described as containing "怨戾" (resentment and violence), "病气" (sickly energy), and "死气" (deathly energy).
Substitution (代偿): The concept that negative consequences or "karmic debt" from manipulating fate or energy (e.g., through Feng Shui adjustments) must be borne by someone. Often, the practitioner themselves may end up bearing a portion of this cost as a form of "substitution."
Acknowledge the Account (认账): A key concept introduced by Chen Yao's grandfather. It goes beyond simply recognizing a debt exists. It implies fully accepting responsibility for one's role in the causal web, understanding the structure of cause and effect one has interfered with, and beginning the process of addressing it, not necessarily through repayment, but through clear-eyed acknowledgment and potentially finding a new way to engage with it.