Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

Chen Tiebao was still kowtowing, muttering prayers under his breath. But as I studied the landscape, the truth unfolded before me. The mountain range stretched like the spine of a dragon holding up the heavens, while the distant Tianchi Lake perched high like a bird's nest against the sky.

The Changbai Mountains birthed three dragon veins in feng shui. Only the Yalu River vein had fully matured, but the Tumen and Songhua Rivers still formed the backbone of the region's prosperity.

And right where we stood? The Yalu's path.

Everyone knows—to kill a snake, strike seven inches from its head. But a dragon? Beneath its throat lies the nili scale—the one spot you never touch. The abandoned village ahead looked flat, but the land swelled subtly. The well? Dug right into the dragon's throat.

This wasn't just malicious. It was calculated. A feng shui setup this grand couldn't be the work of one or two people.

First, the well had to be "opened" with something vile. Normally, drilling releases water to cool the bit. But this well? Blood. And every three days, a live sacrifice. Most wells hit water at eight meters. This one went forty-nine.

But that wasn't enough. Shatter the earth's energy, defy the heavens, and when the stars of Qisha, Pojun, and Tanlang aligned? The curse would summon celestial retribution—a blade from the heavens, wiping the village clean.

The dragon's energy would scatter. Dig half a meter deeper, and blood would gush. Then, seven cursed nails would seal the spring. Fifteen days later, the water would run clear.

And the dragon vein? Dead.

In feng shui, this was called the Dragon-Slaying Altar. Brutal. Efficient. If China weren't woven from countless dragon veins, this single strike could've crippled the nation like North Korea—no more greatness, no more heroes.

"See anything, Junior Brother?" Mao Shi asked.

I shook my head, scooping a handful of black soil. Forest land should be rich, but this? Gritty as sand. I yanked Chen Tiebao up. "Stop bowing. This isn't any mountain god."

"You city brats don't get it!" he snapped. "You leave, we live here! Piss off the gods, and we're screwed!"

"Chen shifu, that 'god' was me." I pulled out my Five Emperors coins—family heirlooms, according to my drunk grandpa.

His eyes bulged. "What're you—?"

"Just checking the well." I pointed uphill.

His face paled. "How do you know about the well?!"

Ignoring him, I took off with Tiangang steps. Behind me, Chen Tiebao screamed, "Don't—you'll die!" Then five thunderclaps rang out as the coins dispersed the curse's energy.

Why hadn't it killed him? Simple—even the deadliest trap leaves one escape.

At the hilltop, the well stood, its stone rim carved from basalt—a water barrier. Feng shui could doom a family or cripple a nation. I had to be sure.

Then I saw it.

On the west side, a tiger was etched into the stone—with a cat perched on its head.

No fangs. Claws trimmed. The tiger's majesty remained, but the cat sat smugly on its neck. My fingers traced the carving to its base—a date:

​June 3, 1928.​​

Below it, Japanese script. And at the bottom? A chrysanthemum.

The Nine Chrysanthemum School.

If you've seen Mr. Vampire, you know them. Japanese occultists who grew poisoned chrysanthemums in winter—hence the name. Pioneers of invasion, too. Wherever they went, dragon veins died.

My compass spun. The carving pointed straight to Fengtian (modern Shenyang).

The tiger and cat? My guess: Zhang Zuolin and his son, Zhang Xueliang.

The tiger—Zhang Zuolin. When Japanese killed Chinese, he marched into their consulate. They tossed him 5,000 silver notes to leave. His response? A one-day holiday for his army: 5 silver coins per dead Japanese.

The streets ran red. When Japan protested, he threw 10,000 notes back.

The cat? Zhang Xueliang. Partier. Pacifist. Let Manchuria fall without a fight.

Tiger's might, cat's greed.

If this was the Nine Chrysanthemums' work, they'd cursed more than a well.

Back with Mao Shi, I spat, "They nailed the dragon vein. Turned this place barren."

Mao Shi nearly exploded. "Those animals! They'd sell their grandmas for yen!"

Chen Tiebao wrung his hands. "You're insane! Anger the gods, and—"

"Relax," I said. "We're feng shui masters."

His eyes lit up. "Tian! Heaven sent you!"

By dusk, we reached his village—small but prosperous. His wife greeted us with a shout: "Who's here?!"

"Guests! Kill the chickens!" Chen Tiebao barked.

She didn't hesitate. Soon, a pot bubbled with poultry.

Inside, his four daughters watched us shyly. Country girls, but pretty—especially the youngest, eleven, with pigtails like a New Year's painting.

She tugged my sleeve. "Big Brother, why's Ma cooking chicken?"

Chen Tiebao swatted her away. "None of your business! Beat it!"

Tears welled as her sisters pulled her back.

While I pored over maps, Mao Shi played fortune-teller with the girls.

To the eldest: "Marry far from home. Rich husband, older. Good life."

Giggles.

The second sister: "Me next!"

Mao Shi squinted. "Mother-in-law hates you. Weak husband. Push too hard? Divorced by forty."

The room howled.

Third sister teased, "Told you to chill, Erjie!" Then begged her reading.

"Scholar's aura. You'll teach."

Gasps. In villages, teachers were royalty.

The little one bounced. "Me! Me!"

Mao Shi studied her. Hesitated.

Second sister nudged him. "Well?"

A sigh. "Dark yintang. Collapsed Baoshou Gong. A life-or-death trial comes. Pass it? Glory. Fail?"

His voice dropped.

"You join the ghosts."