Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

Mao Shi burst into hearty laughter and stood up to give me a bear hug. "Little junior brother! I've finally found you!"

His sincerity and straightforwardness touched me deeply. Apart from her, I had never felt such a sense of belonging. Though Mao Shi was tall, thin, and scholarly-looking, I could sense a heroic air about him through his words and demeanor.

"I've heard Master mention you, second senior brother. He said you built a successful career in Hong Kong," I said warmly, feeling an immediate kinship.

But Mao Shi shrugged helplessly. "Did Master scold me? Back then, I didn't listen to him. I was young and ambitious, so I ran off to Hong Kong to make my mark using what I'd learned. But because of a misunderstanding, Master came to Hong Kong, dragged me out, and beat me half to death."

As we chatted, I learned how impressive Mao Shi really was—he was the vice president of the Hong Kong Association for Yi Studies. As for the beating, it stemmed from a news report Master had seen on TV about a supposed Maoshan Daoist raising ghosts to harm people in mainland China. He'd mistakenly thought it was Mao Shi's doing, rushed to Hong Kong, and gave him a savage beating before clearing things up. Mao Shi said that if he hadn't escaped quickly that day, he'd have been crippled for sure.

I could understand it—Master Wang was never one to explain himself.

I told Mao Shi about Master's death, burial, and the circumstances around it. He sighed deeply. "Little junior brother, after we meet with Uncle Yuan, let's visit Mount Maoshan together and pay our respects to our senior brother. He and I grew up together, and now that Master's gone, it's our duty."

"Master had a lonely fate; he couldn't have a grave marker. But I marked the burial site—once we're done here, we'll go together," I said with a smile. Mao Shi stared at me in surprise, then gave me a thumbs up, saying he admired those who could read feng shui.

He led me to a parking lot across the road, where a Mercedes GLK400 awaited—clearly, my second senior brother was doing well for himself. We got in, and on the way, I asked about this mission in Jilin.

Mao Shi shook his head. "I don't know the specifics either. We'll find out when everyone gathers."

Driving through Yanji, he took a deep breath. "From what Uncle Yuan said, it's not just Daoists here—people from Qimen and Miaomen are also coming."

I knew about the Daoist tradition, but what were Qimen and Miaomen?

Mao Shi gave me a strange look. "You don't know?"

I laughed awkwardly. My master had never explained any of this, just gave me a few books to study on my own. Mao Shi was patient, though, and on the way to the hotel, he explained: what people call Xuanmen refers to Daoists, Buddhists, and those who practice spirit mediums—like the folk yin-yang masters who can travel to the underworld and talk to the King of Hell.

Then there's Qimen, which includes three unique branches: martial arts, shamanism, and craftsmanship. Martial practitioners can shift the balance of heaven and earth with their fists; shamans can control spirits and kill from afar; and craftsmen can forge traps or devices that manipulate yin and yang. These Qimen experts are rare and extraordinarily skilled.

Miaomen, on the other hand, is a broader term referring to unorthodox practitioners with no fixed lineage—like barefoot doctors, poison masters, thieves, swindlers, sorcerers, corpse handlers, and insect masters. They're often lethal but lack the ability to deal with ghosts, making them more like eccentric geniuses of the mundane world.

Listening to his explanations, I was stunned. What could possibly require gathering such a diverse and powerful group? It reminded me of the mysterious events at Lop Nur.

"Second senior brother, will everyone come?" I asked.

"I haven't seen them yet, but the meeting is at 4 p.m. today," Mao Shi replied, speeding up to catch a green light and pointing to a hotel up ahead. "This was ordered by high-level officials. Who would dare skip it? Uncle Yuan said everyone should arrive today—once we're together, we'll learn what's going on. But forget that for now—it's our first time meeting as brothers. Tonight, let's have a proper drink. They say Northeasterners can drink—let's see what you've got."

"That's a given—seeing you feels like home," I laughed. His straightforwardness was infectious.

As we reached the hotel, I finally understood the complexity of what I'd stumbled into. Was this really a simple matter if it required assembling so many extraordinary figures?

As they say, when those in power beckon, you dare not refuse.

Walking into the hotel, I immediately spotted Professor He's fat head. I gave him a hard slap. "Old He!"

"Ouch, that hurts!" He clutched his head and turned around, eyes widening when he saw me. "Dabao! I finally found you. I called you so many times yesterday—your phone was out of service!"

I realized that must have been why I got no messages. My phone had probably been cut off right after the last text message at the end of the month.

Professor He greeted Mao Shi. "President Mao, the meeting's at 4 p.m. on the 11th floor."

Just then, a man in Tibetan robes entered the lobby barefoot, despite the freezing weather. He was stocky, with massive feet that looked like they'd need size 50 shoes, and a giant string of prayer beads around his neck engraved with Tibetan scriptures. The hotel staff stared in shock.

Professor He bowed to the lama and guided him to the elevator.

I looked at Mao Shi. "Second senior brother, this lama has powerful energy."

"He's Danba Rinpoche, a direct disciple of a living Buddha, well-versed in Tibetan medicine and herbalism," Mao Shi explained.

I asked how he knew. Mao Shi tapped his temple with a grin. "I'm the vice president of the Yi Studies Association—I keep track of extraordinary figures at home and abroad."

At the front desk, with Professor He busy greeting Danba Rinpoche, I checked myself into a room. Driven by curiosity, I stayed in the lobby with Mao Shi to see who else might arrive. We sat there chatting, and I learned that Mao Shi deeply respected Master Wang. Our senior brother, Hu Zongyan, had been the son of a fallen landlord, while Mao Shi was a child trafficked into the mountains—both had followed Master Wang across China. Mao Shi even said he'd been with him during the unearthing of the jade burial suit at Mawangdui, and that Professor He wasn't new to them.

As we spoke, more people arrived: a man and woman dressed oddly—one in black, the other in white. The woman's white hair floated around her like silk; without her beautiful face and slender figure, she would've looked like an old woman.

"Strange, isn't it?" Mao Shi chuckled.

I took a drag on my cigarette and nodded. "Their energy is pure."

"They're yin-yang twins of the spirit medium clan," he explained. "They're lovers—holding hands lets them sense spirits, kissing can summon lightning, and, well, doing other things is even more incredible." He added quietly, "But they won't live long. They'll both die by thirty, childless. They're born of the Taiji fate: created by the heavens, ended by the heavens."

As we spoke, the couple noticed us. The man looked like a hero out of a wuxia novel, and the woman was ethereal, stunningly beautiful. Even the hotel staff was entranced.

The two nodded politely, and Mao Shi waved back. "We've met before—I hosted them in Hong Kong."

"Incredible!" I chuckled. "I thought I was the only one who knew how to deal with ghosts."

"The world is vast, little brother," he said kindly. "You'll see more as time goes on."

The yin-yang twins headed upstairs, and Mao Shi and I waited a bit longer. Suddenly, the door opened again. Despite the howling northern wind outside, a warm gust swept into the lobby. A towering man stepped in—broad-shouldered like Zhao Dadan, but with three blazing "yang fires" atop his head that looked like roaring flames. Even locked in a room with a ghost king, this man could burn it alive. Mao Shi whispered, "That's Gao Hu, the last heir of Xingyi Boxing. He once crippled Thailand's kickboxing champion Buakaw—don't mess with him. Our Maoshan arts are useless against him."

I nodded. Maoshan texts say pure yang energy breaks all spells. Facing Gao Hu would mean trying to drain his yang, but for a martial arts master, that was nearly impossible.

After Gao Hu, a rotund man waddled in, the spitting image of Professor He. He wore glasses, carried a briefcase, and looked like an ordinary civil servant on a business trip. I would've ignored him if I hadn't been watching the door.

But Mao Shi said quietly, "That's Lu Yilong of the craftsman clan—a master of ancient traps and mechanisms. He once appeared on a CCTV documentary, but his devices were considered potential tools for assassins, so the program was censored and aired as a simple interview."

The chubby man's friendly grin was endearing. After checking in, more unusual figures arrived: a Miao witch, a southern shaman, a Thai black magic master, a thief, a descendant of a Qing dynasty executioner, and a corpse-rearing insect master. According to Mao Shi, insect masters fall into two types: poison-insect tamers and corpse-insect breeders, both originating from Yunnan's ancient Teng sorcery.

By my count, at least ten extraordinary figures had gathered—an unprecedented assembly of China's most enigmatic talents, orchestrated by the government but cloaked in secrecy.

When Lu Yilong went upstairs, Professor He emerged from the elevator and waved. "Enough chit-chat! We're only waiting on you two. Let's go—the meeting's about to start."