Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

Sun Degui's gritted teeth and bloodshot eyes betrayed a hatred so deep it had seeped into his bones. He had watched his child thrown into the well, his wife murdered by the mob. A grudge like that? No one could let that go without seeing every last one of them dead.

"You got the whole story now," he rasped, voice raw. "You better keep your damn promise."

I assured him I would. The "Dragon-Slaying Altar" was a feng shui trap strong enough to sever a dragon vein—no ghost could cross it. But if we carried his daughter's spirit out in my qiankun pouch, she'd be free.

Problem was, the entire village had drunk the tainted water—except Sun Degui. Even Mao Shi and I had sipped it, though our divine protections kept the toxins at bay.

Killing the toad wouldn't cure the villagers. I turned to Mao Shi. "You ever dealt with a golden toad before?"

He rubbed his chin. "Saw one in Hong Kong. Three-legged, like the statues people worship. Lurks at the bottom of wells, waits for suicides to jump in—gulps 'em whole. Comes up to worship the full moon, too."

My hopes lifted. "So you've fought one!"

"Who said that?" He scoffed. "Thing's cunning. Can hibernate for years. Only way I won? Had 'em bulldoze the damn well. Buried it alive." A pause. "But here's the kicker—when that toad prays to the moon, it secretes a healing mucus. Cures any poison, extends life. But when it sleeps? Toxins leak into the water. It blackmails villagers with the plague unless they feed it souls every full moon. Smash the well now, and everyone dies when the next cycle hits."

Sun Degui spat on the floor. "Hu Tainai told me—that toad feeds on a dead dragon's resentment. Once it climbs out, everyone who drank its slime becomes its fertilizer. I'm just waiting for the day they all choke on their own greed."

Mao Shi groaned. "So we're screwed either way. Unless we yank it out alive and milk it for antidotes."

Silence. Then I lit a cigarette. "You ever been fishing, Shi?"

"Obviously. Why—" His eyes widened. "You're not thinking—"

"We're gonna hook a toad."

"With what bait? That thing snacks on kids' souls!"

I unwrapped the qiankun pouch and pulled out the dragon-shed snakeskin—a palm-sized scrap of iridescent hide from a near-ascended serpent. The second Mao Shi saw it, he nearly tripped over himself.

"Holy hell! Where'd you get that? That's—that's dragon-grade alchemy material! Name your price, I'll wire it tomorrow!"

I smirked. "Relax. If I find another, it's yours."

"Tch. Like that'll happen." He eyed the skin hungrily. "You're really wasting this on frog bait? I'll jump in the well myself if you let me lick it."

Sun Degui, meanwhile, dragged out an old peachwood bow. "Made this to kill it years ago. Hu Tainai said—shoot it through the eye, and it dies." His grip trembled. "I hate this village… but that toad took my girl and my fox-god. That's enough."

I thanked him. In all this, he was the only real victim.

We raced back to the village on dog sleds, the blizzard howling around us. By the time we reached the Chen family's hut, night had fallen. Bang-bang-bang! The door flew open—Chen Xiaomei stood there with a shotgun, face lighting up. "Zhang! You're alive!"

No time for hellos. I shoved past her. "Get me fishing nets. Now."

The plan was simple: dangle the dragonskin over the well. When the toad leaped for it, we'd block the well with nets. Easy.

Except the toad wasn't biting.

Two hours in, the snow soaked through our clothes. The well's heat kept us from freezing, but the girls—Xiaomei and her sisters—started dozing off against the stones.

Then midnight struck.

Xiaomei gasped, clawing at her arms. "It burns—it burns!" Her sisters followed, writhing as their skin erupted in weeping boils.

Mao Shi cursed. "Toad's pumping toxins. The well's poisoned the groundwater."

"Zhang—please—" Xiaomei sobbed, nails drawing blood. "Make it stop!"

I was out of time. No more waiting. I reeled in the dragonskin and turned to Mao Shi. "There's gotta be something!"

"Old master once said… liquor neutralizes toad venom. But this? No guarantees."

It was all we had. I sprinted back toward the village through waist-deep snow, the screams of poisoned families guiding me like a hellish beacon.

And with every step, the same question pounded in my skull:

Is saving one life worth dooming a hundred?

Then I remembered Siyi—starving, weeping on the doorstep, waiting to die.

No. A life was a life. Saving one or a thousand, the choice was the same.

I ran faster.