Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

Boom! The meeting room exploded with chatter at the shocking revelation. Everyone's reaction was understandable—after all, dragons were legendary creatures. Earlier, in Xingzhan's room, I'd seen photos from the 1934 Yingkou "Fallen Dragon" incident, but they were blurry, taken from bad angles. And if you can't see something clearly, you can't recklessly claim it exists or doesn't—just as you can't judge something you don't understand.

Since the dawn of Chinese recorded history, dragons have frequently appeared in folk legends. According to ancient texts, dragons have the horns of a deer, head of a camel, eyes of a rabbit, neck of a snake, belly of a clam, scales of a fish, claws of an eagle, palms of a tiger, ears of an ox, whiskers by their mouths, a pearl under their chin, and a reverse scale on their throat. Their bodies can expand or contract at will, fly among clouds, swim through water, and bring good fortune.

We Chinese proudly call ourselves the "descendants of the dragon." If dragons turned out to look like the bald, ugly lizards some pseudo-scientists film—uglier than a giant salamander—would you really believe such a creepy creature was your ancestor? Or did those foreign scientists think Chinese emperors had lumps on their heads? Those people are just looking for trouble. In Western myths, dragons are basically oversized turkeys with wings!

Mao Shi slammed the table, glaring at Yuan Beitang. "Master Uncle, is there really a dragon?"

Yuan Beitang didn't answer. Instead, Xingzhan turned on the projector. "Take a look at the photos."

The screen showed a team of lab-coated researchers bustling around a massive apparatus. The area was so crowded you could barely see what was inside—but at the edge of the frame, a pale-blue tail extended out, swaying. A cold chill ran through me. I may not know much about animals, but I'd watched enough documentaries to be sure: that tail belonged to something no one's ever seen!

The room fell dead silent. A dragon wasn't just a creature; it represented higher-dimensional existence, maybe even extraterrestrial life. Xingzhan flipped through more photos. "Finding the lab is your top priority," he said gravely. "Its research data is vital. If you can't secure it, destroy it. Each of you was carefully selected, so remember: absolute secrecy. Another mission: the dragon can't leave water. Since Li Xiaozhang took it, he must be somewhere along the Tumen, Yalu, or Songhua Rivers. Find him and bring him back."

He met each of our gazes one by one, his eyes sharp as blades. Then his voice boomed like a bell: "I promise you nothing—because regardless of your background or sect, you must remember this: you are Chinese first. If you encounter foreign agents—kill them."

Though only in my twenties, my blood boiled at his words. The foreigners were surely coming for the lab too. But sending soldiers into the mountains would be clumsy, and large military movements could alarm neighboring countries. So the nation could only fight mystics with mystics.

Since ancient times, China's rulers have proclaimed, All under heaven belongs to the king, all within the seas are his subjects. Living on this land, you can't refuse a national summons. I also guessed that most of these extraordinary people were already under state control.

Later, Xingzhan distributed maps. In addition to the "Dragon's Mouth" he'd marked for me earlier, three other circled spots were potential lab sites. He explained they'd found a colleague's corpse at one of these locations. Though the maps looked small, the scale was 1:2000—this was going to be anything but easy.

Before dismissing us, everyone received a watch—equipped with GPS. If we found the lab, we'd signal headquarters with the watch, and regroup. I chuckled at this system: most of these so-called experts knew nothing about geomancy—sending them into the mountains was like having Zhang Fei do embroidery!

Mao Shi and I exchanged knowing looks. After the meeting, I greeted the Yin-Yang twins—Daoist boys who exuded startlingly pure auras: one radiating life, the other death. Everyone knows humans are born of the intermingling of yin and yang, but these two embodied each separately; if either died or was separated, the other would perish too.

As Yuan Beitang moved to leave, I strode forward to block the door. "Master Yuan," I demanded, "why did my grandfather take the dragon?"

"I don't know," he replied curtly.

"Then why am I involved?" I pressed.

"The secrets of heaven cannot be revealed," he said, his narrow eyes gleaming with mystery.

Frustration roiled inside me. This was the man who raised me—if the government decided he was a traitor, what then? I refused to believe he'd take a dragon without good reason. Could it be connected to the Nine Dragon Gate? My breath caught—no matter what, we had to enter the mountains without delay!

Mao Shi patted my shoulder reassuringly. "Junior brother, I trust Master Yuan's character. Don't worry. Master Li will be fine."

Yes, I told myself—Grandpa was a famous geomancer, who could turn mountains and rivers into weapons. I had to believe he'd be okay!

The thought of my loved one in danger weighed heavily. That night at the hotel felt endless. Early the next morning, Mao Shi and I set off by car for the Old Pine Ridge Forest. Clues pointed to the researcher's body being found on the banks of the Yalu River.

Others had split up—most teams were scattered, though the Southern mystics moved together.

Driving from Yanji to Old Pine Ridge, I kept pondering what a dragon really looked like. I'd seen Yuanshi Tianzun in visions—so unlike ordinary folk, I didn't picture dragons as primitive animals. I believed they once lived on Earth, but as the environment changed, they lost the conditions to survive and had to leave—just like humanity might one day leave this smoggy planet if our technology advanced far enough.

"Junior brother, you hold the map—I can't make sense of this thing," Mao Shi admitted, tapping the envelope on the console. He sighed, "Nowadays, it's always outsiders telling the experts what to do. Look at us: dumped like sheep into the mountains, and most of these guys have never even been to the northeast—they're in for a world of hurt."

He wasn't wrong—Xingzhan was clearly out of his element.

"They should've sent scouts first, located the place, then had everyone move together," I agreed.

Mao Shi burst out laughing. "Don't overthink it. We're just pawns—lucky for me, my junior brother is a real expert."

The northern wind howled. By late October, Jilin, Heilongjiang, and Inner Mongolia had started seeing snow. A sudden cold snap transformed once-green trees into icy sculptures. The world turned breathtakingly beautiful, a dreamlike wonderland. Legends say the northeast is a land of hidden gold—since the Qing Dynasty, it was considered the "Dragon's Rising Land," where Han Chinese were forbidden beyond the Great Wall. Yet countless migrants risked everything to venture there.

Historically, the northeast's three great treasures were ginseng, sable pelts, and deer antlers—each worth a fortune. The dense forests teemed with rare wildlife: brown bears, Amur tigers, foxes, and wolves.

The next day, after stocking up on outdoor supplies, we arrived at Old Pine Ridge around noon. The northeast wind cut through me, making me hunch my shoulders. Mao Shi pointed ahead. "The road's impassable here. This stupid map leads straight through the worst terrain—if we stay out here, we'll freeze to death."

He stomped his feet rapidly; even with new cotton coats and hats, it wasn't enough. I said, "Second Senior Brother, the map's just an aerial plan—it doesn't show elevation. Ahead won't be flat, and once we're in the mountains, our rations won't last. We should find a village for directions to avoid detours."

"You're right—but where the hell are we going to find people in this godforsaken place? It'll start snowing soon—if it weren't for these damn watches, I'd say we should hole up somewhere until it passes," he muttered.

I glanced at the GPS-equipped watch. While they claimed it was for our safety, it was clearly also for surveillance. There was no bargaining with men like Xingzhan. Pointing to the dense pines, I suggested, "Forests usually have rangers nearby—let's look inside."

Being from Hunan, Mao Shi only knew the northeast from books and films. But my grandfather had crossed into Manchuria and settled in Shenyang, so I'd grown up hearing tales of the northeast. Mao Shi shivered violently, bouncing on his feet. "I can't believe how cold it is. Back in Hong Kong, I'd still be in shorts and a tank top."

I knelt at the base of a pine, pulling up a handful of dry grass. Handing it to Mao Shi, I said, "Put this in your boots—it'll keep your feet warm."

"What is it? Won't it poke me?" he asked in surprise.

I explained it was wula grass, a special northern sedge—soft, flexible, and an excellent insulator. The Qing soldiers' legendary resilience in winter battles owed much to this plant. While ginseng, sable, and antlers were treasures to the rich, for the poor, wula grass was a true lifesaver.

"Learn something new every day," Mao Shi chuckled, slipping the grass into his boots. Once we were ready, we shouldered our packs and entered the forest. The wind whistled fiercely; I had a nagging feeling a heavy snowstorm was coming.

With wula grass warming our feet, we trekked for an hour. Mao Shi's lips were turning purple when, ahead of us, we spotted a red-brick hut—and best of all, smoke was curling from its chimney!