Feng Shui magic

Li Chengfeng left the Ye family's opulent villa with his pride in tatters. The sting of their mockery lingered like a phantom slap. *"Scram, conman!"* Ye Wushuang's shrill voice echoed in his mind as he trudged back to the shabby streets of Qingzhou's old district. For two days, he kept the **Hall of Serendipity** open, but potential clients only peered through the dusty windows before walking away—their eyes dismissing him as another unproven youth peddling superstitions. His wallet held a meager **15 yuan**, barely enough for a week's worth of instant noodles.

Slouching in the rosewood chair, he scrolled listlessly through his phone. A news headline flashed:

**"Tragedy at Qingcheng Reservoir: Two Boys Drown, Bodies Still Missing After 72 Hours."**

The article detailed how five classmates had sneaked into the restricted area for a swim. One slipped into a hidden underwater trench, and 12-year-old Wang Xiaoming—attempting a rescue—was dragged into the depths by his panicking friend. Rescue teams had combed the waters for days, but the currents and murky depths defied even sonar scans.

Li Chengfeng sighed. *Two lives snuffed out before they'd begun.* He imagined the parents' anguish—a void no ritual could fill.

The shop bell jingled.

A couple stumbled in, their faces gaunt from sleepless nights. The woman's blouse was buttoned crookedly; the man's shoes caked in mud. Their eyes, raw and swollen, locked onto Li Chengfeng.

"Master…" The woman's voice trembled like a plucked wire. "Our son… they say he's gone, but we need to *see* him. Please… help us bring Xiaoming home."

Li Chengflinched. *The same boys from the news?* He gestured to the root-carved sofa. "Sit. I'll make tea."

As he poured steaming oolong, the husband, Wang Jun, collapsed to his knees. "We've spent thousands," he rasped, fists clenching. "Temple monks chanted for hours. A 'clairvoyant' charged us 5,000 yuan to wave chicken blood over a map. Last night, a shaman claimed the water ghosts demanded a bride—" His wife, Liu Fen, choked back a sob.

Li Chengfeng's grip tightened on the teapot. *Vultures preying on grief.*

"Then… we passed your shop," Liu Fen whispered. "A red thread… I felt it tug here." She pressed a hand to her chest.

**Cultural Note:**

- **Red Thread (红线)**: In Chinese folklore, an invisible bond connecting those fated to meet, often linked to romantic destiny but sometimes guiding profound encounters.

Li Chengfeng hesitated. Retrieving drowned bodies wasn't a geomancer's craft—it required **yīn-yáng masters** versed in appeasing water spirits. Yet fate had led these broken souls to his door.

"I'll try," he said quietly. "But I need tools."

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**Qingcheng Reservoir – 3:14 PM**

The reservoir sprawled like a liquid bruise under overcast skies. Police boats crisscrossed the surface, dragging grappling hooks through the gloom. Onshore, divers in black wetsuits argued over sonar readings while a bulldog-faced man barked orders—**Captain Zhang Junjie**, head of the search team.

Wang Jun led Li Chengfeng to a stretch of rocky shore where the other victim's parents sat. Yang Dongming, a gaunt mechanic, stared blankly at the water, his wife clutching their son's frayed school backpack.

"Any luck?" Wang Jun asked.

Yang didn't look up. "They say… the currents took them. To the dam." His voice was flat, emptied by despair.

Captain Zhang stomped over, eyeing Li Chengfeng's secondhand jeans. "Who's this?"

"A master from the Hall of Serendipity," Wang Jun said. "He'll find—"

"*Another* swindler?" Zhang snorted. "Kid, know what a side-scan sonar costs? We've mapped every inch. Your 'magic' won't beat technology."

Li Chengfeng ignored him. From his satchel, he withdrew **yellow talisman paper**, a cinnabar inkstone, and a wolf-hair brush. "I need two dried gourds," he told Wang Jun. "Spirit money, sandalwood incense, and… live roosters. One white, one red."

**Symbolism Explained:**

- **Gourds (葫芦)**: Believed to trap malevolent spirits. Their hollow interior symbolizes the transition between realms.

- **Roosters**: The white rooster's crow dispels evil; the red one's blood seals pacts with the underworld.

As Wang Jun hurried off, Li Chengfeng knelt by the water's edge. Dipping his brush, he painted **Thunder Seal sigils** onto the talismans—each stroke channeling the authority of the **Heavenly Courts**.

Captain Zhang loomed behind him. "You're wasting their time. Those boys are fish food by now."

Li Chengfeng's brush paused. "Do your divers enjoy nightmares, Captain? The ones where hands grab their ankles?"

Zhang paled. Two divers had quit that morning, babbling about "skeletal fingers" in the weeds.

By dusk, the items were assembled. Li Chengfeng tied the gourds to a bamboo pole, their mouths pointing downstream. He lit the incense, its smoke coiling like serpents over the water.

"When I call Xiaoming's name," he instructed the parents, "burn the spirit money. Don't stop until the gourds sink."

Liu Fen struck a match. "Xiaoming! Come home!"

The paper money caught fire, ash spiraling upward. Suddenly, the white rooster flapped wildly, its cry piercing the twilight.

Deep below, something stirred.

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