Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

Fat Sister's husband distributed wine honestly—less for the strong, more for the elderly. Some young men tried to hoard, but the ten wolfhounds kept them in line. As order restored, I lit a cigarette, only for Mao Shi to snatch it, eyeing me peculiarly: "Your technique is unique—similar to the killing incantation Master taught Senior Brother. I couldn't learn it—he said my temper was too wild, so I only got ghost-exorcising talismans."

"Master must have his reasons." I thought of the strange book in my pocket—Old Wang had refused to return it to Maoshan, claiming he hated "institutional Daoists."

Mao Shi stretched: "No matter—Senior Brother taught me plenty in secret."

His words hinted Old Wang's refusal might relate to this rule-breaking senior brother. Who was this man that even Xing Zhan called "True Man Hu"?

"An honorable person," Mao Shi said firmly.

"Honorable?" That word fit sages, not some senior brother.

Mao Shi explained Senior Brother Hu Zongyan was honest and simple, avoided conflict, never fought, and couldn't say no. The Daoist world called him "Silly Hu"—he'd take abuse without retaliation, always spouting "a gentleman uses words, not fists," and obsessed over "the way of the gentleman."

But one day, Mao Shi got in trouble—beheading a Malaysian head-flying sorcerer and breaking the Five-Soul Ghost King's curse. Southeast Asian cults hunted him. Poisoned by glass curses and five-venom gu, he fled to Maoshan.

Hu Zongyan broke the curses, nursed him for a week. One day, while teaching disciples (mostly white-collar workers and rich kids seeking an idyllic life), twenty Southeast Asian sorcerers arrived. Knowing Mao Shi was at fault, no one intervened—they wanted to see Maoshan's strength against Southeast Asian black magic.

Hu Zongyan invited them to the main hall. After hearing their grievances, he wrote a talisman with an ordinary brush, stuck it to the bluestone floor: "Whoever can lift this talisman gets Mao Shi."

"Not a single fight," Mao Shi said. "Twenty top sorcerers tried—none could lift it. The Ghost King Sect lost four ghost rings; others vomited blood. Hu Zongyan lifted the talisman, re-stuck it by the gate: 'Come back anytime.' After that, no one called him 'Silly Hu.'" Mao Shi grinned ruefully: "He gave me seven lashes—said they're seven warnings. Eighth lash means feeding pigs."

I was stunned. I'd needed patriarchal artifacts to kill Baden; Hu Zongyan's talisman was a "Mountain Talisman," drawing power from Mount Tai—only a mountain-moving force could lift it. Most talismans use the Eight Trigrams (Heaven, Earth, Water, Fire, Wind, Thunder, Mountain, Lake). His was an "Earth Talisman"—only a virtuous man could wield it, as "a gentleman carries all things with virtue."

"Talisman scripts take years to master—I've been too busy," I sighed.

"Senior Brother says he'll cover any righteous cause," Mao Shi laughed.

Understanding Senior Brother's might, I saw why Mao Shi acted boldly. When the wine distribution ended, I went to retrieve the mirror. "What for?" Mao Shi asked.

"Return her soul." I pointed to Fat Sister's house. "She was greedy, but not deserving death."

As I approached with the mirror wrapped in clothes, three wolfhounds—familiar with me—attacked, sensing their mistress's soul in the mirror. It dropped, bounced off my foot, and her soul entered a wolfhound. The dog's eyes changed, growling at me.

Fat Sister's husband rushed out with a rolling pin, beating the dog: "Scaring people! She spoiled you brutes—bite again and I'll skin you!" The dog wept as he chained it by a bowl of rotten food.

Mao Shi and I exchanged glances: "Karma indeed."

"Are you the yin-yang master?" The husband approached kindly. "No bites, right?"

"None. The disease will end tomorrow." We asked for 2 jin of wine; he gave 5.

Leaving, I saw the miserable wolfhound. "Treat animals kindly—they're alive too," I said.

"Just beasts," he smiled simply.

Karma had come full circle: Fat Sister, who slapped her husband and pampered wolfhounds, now inhabited one.

At Chen Tiebao's, the family was drunk, worrying about the toad. "Xiaomei, unravel fishing nets for lines. Uncle Chen, gather all men!"

By nightfall, a hundred torch-wielding men stood ready. Alcohol emboldened them—drunk, they felt invincible. Chen Tiebao led a cart with a huge iron hook.

The full moon rose, well water dropping ten meters. I had strong men wrap fishing lines around themselves. Hooking the taisui, I lowered it, heart pounding: "Pull together when it bites!"

Torches lit the sky as I gambled on the toad's instincts over reason. The rope swayed—I held my breath.