Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

The spot where Xing Zhan marked the circle for me was in the Changbai Mountain Nature Reserve, right on the China–North Korea border. In October, the temperatures in that area are usually low, and in the mountains, the snow often never melts year-round. So, while it looked easy on a map, actually traveling there was extremely difficult. Plus, I needed to verify whether Changbai Mountain was connected to the legendary "Nine Dragon Gate," which made time incredibly tight.

So I found an excuse, saying I needed to "walk the dragon" (survey the mountain ridges), otherwise I couldn't determine the location of any ancient city or tomb. After all, Changbai's mountain range is huge; even if I used the stars to determine direction, in the end, I'd still need to check it out on foot.

Before allowing me to leave, Xing Zhan stared into my eyes with a serious expression and asked, "Dabao, tell me—how exactly did my colleagues die?"

I thought of the old locust tree I prayed to while saving Shiyu recently. After a moment of contemplation, I said, "Their pupils turned white, which looks like death caused by an intense rush of baleful energy. I also found wood shavings on their necks, which looked like fragments left by plant roots. You could have someone test them."

"You mean… a tree demon?" Xing Zhan asked in shock.

Whether it was a tree demon or not, I couldn't be sure—nature is full of mysteries, and who's to say some strange plants don't exist? But I was certain they died from a surge of baleful energy. And baleful energy comes in many forms: aside from evil spirits or monsters, sometimes a unique underground metal's electromagnetic pulses can act as a type of lethal energy.

Xing Zhan immediately began preparations to send people to investigate. Professor He escorted me out of the military zone. Before I left, he returned the green satchel to me exactly as it was, including the three precious books inside.

He arranged a Passat for me. At first, I thought I was being driven straight to Jilin. But then he told the driver, "Drop him at Beijing Railway Station and come back right away. The leaders have a meeting this afternoon—if there's traffic, just leave him at the subway entrance."

My eyes widened—damn it! I thought I was some kind of VIP, but now I felt worthless. Still, I didn't show my frustration; I told myself it was good—after all, I was just an ordinary citizen, and we shouldn't expect any special privileges.

Being dumped at the train station felt like being abandoned. When you're down on your luck, even drinking water can make you choke. I went to buy a ticket, but the ticket seller told me they were all sold out—not even standing tickets left. In disbelief, I asked, "Sister, it's not even the Spring Festival travel rush—how can there be no tickets?"

"How should I know? Who should I ask?" snapped the middle-aged woman behind the window, clearly in a bad mood. I wanted to ask about other trains, but I got shoved out of the line by the crowd.

Realizing I couldn't leave today, I thought about finding a cheap hotel and maybe catching the flag-raising ceremony the next morning. But just as I was about to leave, a ticket scalper quietly approached: "I've got a ticket. Hard seat. Face value 160 yuan—I'll sell it for 300."

Seeing my hesitation, he added, "Okay, look, it's my last ticket—200 yuan and it's yours. This train leaves in an hour. Otherwise, I wouldn't sell for less than 500."

Thinking time was money, I clenched my teeth—200 it was!

As the saying goes: "Those who are chivalrous often come from humble backgrounds; it's the scholars who break your heart."

At first glance, that might sound like an angry rant. But anyone who's taken the train might have noticed: the well-dressed, refined-looking men and women often turn out to be the most pretentious, nitpicking over everything—complaining you're standing too close or that your manners are poor.

On the other hand, the humble farmers and straightforward laborers (except those barefoot guys picking at their toes) are usually the warmest. If they see a young girl or an elderly lady struggling with luggage, they'll often step in to help.

This time was no exception. I boarded the green train heading to Jilin—three people to a bench, the carriage packed, the air stale. Opposite me sat a young man in his twenties, scholarly-looking with glasses, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. By the window was a roughly sixty-year-old peasant woman, and on the aisle side sat a burly, dark-faced man.

From the young man's subtle expressions, I could tell he was impatient. At first, it was fine; I passed the time by reading The Secret Arts of Yin and Yang, filled with classical Chinese text. One passage stuck with me: it described a method to train the soul—refining essence to form a black tortoise, gathering spirit into a red snake, practicing breath to become dragon and tiger; when these four unite, one achieves the Four Symbols in harmony.

After a while, I closed my eyes to practice. But then the elderly woman, clearly eager to chat, caught the young man's eye and immediately started: "Young man, are you going to Jilin for school or work?"

"A student," he replied, a little distracted.

"School is good! My grandson studies in Jilin too—which school? Maybe you're classmates!" she said with a smile.

Impatience flashed across his face: "Jilin's huge—what are the odds we'd be classmates?" He pulled out his phone, hoping to avoid further talk.

"True…" she said, but continued asking random questions about his studies. A bit later, she needed the bathroom; the young man grudgingly stood to let her out. Once she left, he visibly relaxed, even muttering like he was talking to us, "God, what a chatterbox—so annoying."

When she returned, she started chatting with me. To be honest, elderly folks can be a bit talkative, and she mentioned she hadn't seen her son in years, so she was excited. But after a few trips to the bathroom, some luggage fell from the rack—right onto the young man's head.

He exploded: "What the hell! Who put this here?!"

"Oh my, are you okay, young man? I'm so sorry—that was mine," the old lady apologized anxiously.

He seized the chance to vent: "What's wrong with you? No manners at all! You keep chattering on and on—this isn't your damn vegetable market! Can't you just keep quiet?!"

"I'm really sorry—let me see if you're hurt," she said meekly.

"Get lost!" he snapped, pushing her aside and storming into the aisle.

If that were the end of it, fine. But as the old lady apologized, I bent down to pick up her things. She thanked me, and I told her, "Don't worry—he's just upset. I'll go talk to him."

She sighed, "Getting old is just a burden…"

While picking up her luggage, I caught a strange scent—one I knew all too well from my occult background. And a familiar scent like that usually meant something bad.

I planned to check it out, but the loudspeaker suddenly announced: "Langfang North—arriving soon. Passengers, please prepare to disembark."

So I set the scent aside for now and headed to the aisle, already crowded with passengers getting ready to get off. I squeezed my way forward and, before the train stopped, grabbed the young man by the arm.

"What the hell? Why are you grabbing me?" he said, annoyed.

I waved my hand dismissively: "Hand it over."

"What are you talking about?" he looked confused.

I smiled. The crowd around us watched eagerly, giving us space like a live show.

"You know exactly what I mean. That old lady clearly isn't well-off—it's harvest season, and her hands have calluses from farm work. Traveling all the way to Jilin must mean something urgent happened with her son. She was just a bit chatty on the way—stealing her wallet is a low blow. Sooner or later, karma will catch up with you," I said firmly.

"You're full of crap! What proof do you have?" he shouted, clearly panicking.

I shrugged, pointing at him: "Aren't you going to Jilin? Then why are you getting off early? If you're innocent, you wouldn't leave now. Hand it over." My tone grew harsher.

Just then, a shriek came from inside the carriage: "Oh no—my money! My money's gone! That was for my son's medical bills!"

The passengers buzzed with commotion, most glaring at the young man. The train was about to stop. He protested: "Where does it say I can't get off early? Maybe I forgot something in Beijing—what's it to you? You have no proof I stole anything."

Our argument drew the attention of the train staff, who called the railway police. Other passengers got off, but the young man, the old lady, a few onlookers, and I were all brought to the office.

The old lady just sobbed, overwhelmed by the situation. The railway police questioned each of us. Besides me, everyone else said they hadn't seen anything—there was no evidence.

Money all looks the same—how could we prove ownership? I knew the young man must've ditched the wallet—maybe out the window or in the trash.

"Auntie, think carefully—did you lose it yourself?" the police were getting impatient, hoping to end the incident quickly. As the old lady hesitated, I decided to act: "How about this—let me read your fortune. Once I'm done, I promise I'll stop bothering you. Deal?"