The sandalwood incense had burned out.
The last wisp of blue smoke curled in the afternoon light, then dispersed into the stale air of the old house. Chen Yao watched the trajectory of the falling ash, suddenly recalling his grandfather's words: "Whichever direction the ash falls, that side carries the heavier karma."
He didn't believe it, of course.
Just as he didn't believe a compass could point to fortune or misfortune, didn't believe the Eight Characters (八字) could determine one's destiny, and certainly didn't believe a person could "borrow" anything from fate. He was a data analyst; he believed in regression models, in A/B testing, in the predictability of user behavior—because those could be verified, repeated, and broken down into zeros and ones.
But now, sitting in his grandfather's study at Shouyi Studio (守一斋), facing walls of yellowed ancient texts, with incense ash on his fingertips, something inside him was beginning to loosen.
Three days ago, his father had called, his voice weary: "Your grandfather's things need to be sorted out. You're the eldest grandson, you go." There was no negotiation in his tone, only the relief of unburdening. The Chen family seemed to share a collective avoidance of this old house, of the name "Shouyi Studio." Chen Yao was twenty-five; this was his third time returning. The first was in childhood, the second was for his grandfather's funeral, and this was the third.
He stood up and began tidying the desk.
The most prominent object on the desk was that brass compass (罗盘). Eight inches in diameter, with the celestial pool, inner plate, and outer plate, densely engraved with characters: the Twenty-Four Mountains (二十四山), the Seventy-Two Dragons (七十二龙), the 360-degree precision divisions. His grandfather often called it the "ruler of heaven and earth," capable of measuring the qi (气) of mountains and rivers. Chen Yao remembered wanting to play with it as a child; his grandfather had sternly stopped him—the only time he had ever seen his grandfather angry.
He reached out to take it, his fingertips just touching the cold brass edge—
The compass needle moved.
Not the tremor of being touched. It was a slow, steady rotation, as if turned by an invisible hand. The magnetic needle in the celestial pool swept past the Wu Mountain (午山) Ding direction (丁向), crossed the Zi Mountain (子山) Wu direction, and finally came to rest, trembling.
The needle pointed unwaveringly at him.
Chen Yao froze. There was no wind indoors; outside the window, the wutong leaves were still. He waited ten seconds; the needle didn't move, as if nailed to the direction of his chest.
"Battery?" he murmured, then laughed at himself. This was a purely mechanical compass; where would it get a battery? Carefully, he turned the compass.
The needle followed, still pointing at him.
A chill climbed up from his tailbone. He took a deep breath, put the compass back, and turned to the bookshelf. His movements were hurried, as if fleeing from something.
The books were mostly thread-bound volumes with brittle, yellowed pages. Collected Explanations of the Zhouyi (周易集解), Jing's Yi Transmission (京氏易传), Three Essentials of Fate (三命通会), Deep Sea of the Eight Characters (渊海子平)... Many spines bore labels in his grandfather's tiny regular script: "Qi flows and transforms, examine carefully," "Eight Characters subtle and profound, this volume weighty," "Yin house methods, dangerous, do not use." The words revealed the user's caution, even fear.
Chen Yao's gaze fell on a blue cloth case containing the Zhouyi Cantong Qi (周易参同契). He remembered this book vividly; in his grandfather's later years, he could hardly put it down, the edges of the pages worn soft from handling. He pulled it out; it was heavy.
Inside the case, besides the main text of the Cantong Qi, there was a thin, thread-bound booklet of handwritten annotations. He opened it.
The handwriting was his grandfather's, from youth to old age, the ink color shifting from glossy black to withered pale. The early pages were mostly excerpts from the original text, with occasional annotations: "This sentence speaks of fire timing, actually referring to the juncture of fate and destiny," "Lead and mercury are not external things, but innate life qi (命炁) and acquired fortune." Further on, the annotations grew denser, the handwriting more scrawled, with large numbers of hexagrams (卦象), stems and branches (干支), and brief records of events.
"Third day of the third month of the Guiyou year (癸酉年), adjusted the southeast position for a client surnamed Li; his son injured his left leg three days later. Note: Wood prosperous overcomes earth, should manifest in limbs."
"Twelfth month of the Bingzi year (丙子年), Wang family moved grave, chose Chou hour (丑时) to break ground, added a son that year. However, the following year the head of household contracted lung disease. Note: Earth qi stimulated too fiercely, instead harmed Dui metal (兑金)."
Chen Yao turned page by page; those cold records were like some secret ledger. Every "adjustment" corresponded to a "price." Some prices were slight, some severe. In his grandfather's later handwriting, the words "be cautious," "regret," and "must not do again" appeared often.
Turning to a page in the middle, his fingers stopped.
At the top of that page was written a birth chart:
Xinsi (辛巳) Renchen (壬辰) Wuxu (戊戌) Bingchen (丙辰)
Chen Yao was sensitive to numbers; this was his own birth time. May 12, 2001, 8 a.m. Below the Eight Characters, four characters were written in iron-stroke silver hooks, the ink extremely deep, penetrating the paper:
Born on Borrowed Time (借命而生)
No explanation followed, no annotation—only these four characters hung there, like a verdict.
Chen Yao felt his mouth go dry. He subconsciously looked at the compass on the desk—the needle still stubbornly pointed at him.
"Born on Borrowed Time..." He chewed on these four characters. Borrow whose life? How to borrow? Why born?
He continued turning. On the last few pages, he found a longer record, the handwriting trembling, apparently written in his grandfather's later years:
"Winter of the Renchen year (壬寅年), reviewing old volumes, only then realized the debt accumulated is deep. The fortune adjusted, all had sources; the misfortune avoided, all had destinations. So-called feng shui and fate calculation, nothing more than robbing Peter to pay Paul, shifting disaster to others. Yet the bricks of the east wall will eventually run out; the disasters shifted, how can they not return?"
"Shouyi Studio has been passed down seven generations; each generation spoke of 'inheriting the profession,' but in truth it was 'inheriting debt.' The first generation Chen Yigong (陈一公) created the 'time and fate lending' method in the late Ming dynasty, originally to preserve life in chaotic times and continue learning on the brink of extinction. Yet once this method was opened, like drinking poison to quench thirst, later generations all fell into it, taking borrowing as normal, transfer as profession, forgetting that cause and effect are fundamentally one, that fortune and misfortune must both be self-repaid."
"In my life, I adjusted 731 cases large and small; 400 or so were auspicious, yet the innocents secretly harmed, shifted, and burdened in the dark, how many times more? Whenever I think of this, I cannot sleep at night. Yet the debt is owed, the karma created—what can be done?"
"Only hope that later generations with wisdom roots can understand the two words 'acknowledge the debt.' This is not repaying the debt (the debt cannot be repaid), not atoning for sin (sin cannot be atoned for), but rather..."
The writing stopped here, leaving a blank space. On the paper were several faint yellow stains, like water drops.
Chen Yao closed the annotated volume, cold sweat in his palm. The silence in the study gained weight, pressing on his eardrums. Those metaphysical discussions he had resisted since childhood, viewed as superstition, now lay before him in such systematic, cold, and well-documented form.
He didn't disbelieve in mystery; he disbelieved things without logic. And what his grandfather left behind had data, cases, causal connections, even technical details that were "unfalsifiable"—precisely the kind of "reality" he feared most.
The light outside the window dimmed slightly. He checked his phone: four p.m. Time to leave.
He put the annotated volume back in its case, hesitated, then stuffed it into his backpack. As he turned, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a corner of yellowed paper protruding from a corner of the desk.
He pulled it out; it was an old-style letter paper with vertical red grids, written in his grandfather's final years' handwriting, extremely slow and clear:
"My grandson Yao, upon seeing this letter, I am no longer here. The items of Shouyi Studio await the destined. Only the annotated volume and the compass must be personally handled by you."
"Your Eight Characters are special, secretly matching the first generation Chen Yigong; this is the sign of 'inheriting the profession,' also the opportunity of 'resolving the profession.' Yet the crucial points within, I exhausted my heart and strength yet failed to comprehend, and dare not mislead with careless words."
"Only one phrase to give: Do not believe in the auspicious or inauspicious of hexagram images, but observe the structure of cause and effect. Auspicious is not fortune, inauspicious is not misfortune; all are manifestations of network vibrations. If you truly wish to escape, you must see clearly the source of the vibration, not avoid the manifesting waves."
"Additionally: A merchant surnamed Zhou will certainly come seeking you within three years. His situation is extremely dangerous; be cautious in accepting. If you must, remember: what has been 'received' cannot be received again; what is 'empty shell' cannot be recreated."
"Grandfather Chen Shouyi (陈守一), final writing"
No date at the end of the letter.
Chen Yao folded the letter and put it in an inner pocket of his backpack. He took one last look at the study—at the shelves of classics, the compass, the empty armchair, and the lingering scent of sandalwood in the air.
He closed the door and locked it.
The old house sank into twilight.
Walking to the alley entrance, he suddenly felt something and turned back. In the small window on the second floor, there seemed to be a faint flash of light—like copper moving.
He shook his head and quickened his pace toward the subway station.
In his backpack, the annotated volume of the Zhouyi Cantong Qi was heavy, like carrying a tombstone.
That night, Chen Yao returned to his high-rise apartment. He placed the annotated volume and the letter on his desk, made a cup of coffee, and tried to use his habitual rationality to sort through everything from today.
"It can be explained by cognitive bias," he said to the computer screen. "Confirmation bias—I only look at event records that match 'fate calculation.' Survivor bias—Grandfather only recorded cases that 'came true.' The compass pointing... might be magnetic interference nearby, or I was carrying some metal."
He convinced himself until one a.m.
Before sleep, on a whim, he took out three Qianlong Tongbao coins (乾隆通宝)—the divination method his grandfather forced him to learn as a child, saying copper coins passed through many hands had "human qi," more sensitive than yarrow stalks. He hadn't touched them in years, but the technique was still there.
"Just testing Grandfather's theory," he thought self-mockingly. "What to ask? Ask if there will be trouble in the next three days."
Silently reciting the question in his heart, he cupped the three coins in his palms, shook them, and scattered them on the desktop.
Two tails, one head. Young Yang (少阳).
Two tails, one head. Young Yang.
Two heads, one tail. Young Yin (少阴).
Two heads, one tail. Young Yin.
One tail, two heads. Young Yang.
Two tails, one head. Young Yang.
Chen Yao looked at the arranged hexagram lines, tracing them on the table with his finger. The lower trigram was three Yang lines, Qian (乾); the upper trigram was two Yin and one Yang, Dui (兑). Upper Dui, lower Qian—this was the Guai (夬) hexagram.
Guai. The hexagram statement says: "Proclaimed in the king's court, with trust there is danger." The image says: "Lake above heaven, Guai. The noble one bestows blessings below, and dwells in virtue with caution."
Not a good hexagram. It speaks of rupture, danger, the need for decisiveness.
He frowned, then looked at the changing lines. All six lines were still, no moving lines; the hexagram image remained unchanged.
"Coincidence." He put away the coins and turned off the lights to sleep.
In the darkness, he seemed to see the compass needle slowly turning toward him again.
The next day was Saturday. Chen Yao habitually went for a morning run, the route fixed: from his apartment, along the riverside path south for three kilometers, then back.
When he left at seven, the sky was overcast. He changed into running shoes, put on headphones, and played electronic music at 180 bpm—he needed strong rhythm to drown out his thoughts.
There weren't many people on the riverside path at this hour. When he reached the turnaround point, he began to accelerate. The drums in his headphones were dense; he focused on breathing and pace, temporarily putting yesterday behind him.
About five hundred meters from the turnaround point on the way back, there was a section of path adjacent to an old stone retaining wall. The wall was about three meters high, covered with vines. Chen Yao passed here every day and never thought much of it.
Today, as he ran beneath the wall, the music in his headphones suddenly skipped.
Almost simultaneously, his left foot caught on a protruding pebble, his body pitched forward. At the moment of losing balance, he instinctively threw himself sideways toward the outside of the path, falling on the grass.
Behind him came a dull, heavy crash.
He turned back and saw a concrete block the size of a washbasin, smashed where he had been running. Debris scattered. The block had fallen from the top of the retaining wall; the fracture surface was still fresh.
Chen Yao sat on the ground, panting, staring at the concrete block. If he hadn't fallen, if he had maintained his original trajectory, this block would have hit the back of his head directly.
The music in his headphones resumed, the drums still intense, but he couldn't hear them. He only heard his thundering heartbeat, and four words echoing repeatedly in his mind:
Guai: With trust, there is danger.
He slowly got up, brushed grass from his clothes, and walked to the concrete block. Looking up, he saw a section of guardrail missing from the top of the retaining wall; the block had crumbled from there. The wall was old, but there had been no sign of this yesterday.
Morning runners gradually gathered; someone called the police, someone asked if he was injured. Chen Yao waved his hand, saying he was fine.
The police came, recorded the situation, said they would contact the municipal department to inspect the wall. Bystanders discussed: "That was close." "This wall really needs repair." "Young man, you have good luck."
Luck.
Chen Yao stood in the crowd, feeling a detached coldness. Not luck. It was the divination he cast, the warning of "with trust, there is danger," the instinct that made him throw himself sideways when he fell—not a choice after thinking, but a reaction before consciousness.
Like childhood, when his grandfather trained him to "read hexagrams like reading pictures," saying a true diviner's body naturally knows how to seek fortune and avoid misfortune when the hexagram image enters the eye. He had only found it mysterious then.
Now, his back was soaked with cold sweat.
He thanked the police and passersby, and walked home slowly. Each step felt like treading on uncertain ice.
Back in his apartment, he showered and sat at his desk. The annotated volume lay there quietly.
He opened it, found his grandfather's annotation on the Guai hexagram. In the blank space of that page, his grandfather had written in red ink:
"Guai means decision. Five Yang deciding one Yin, seemingly auspicious but actually dangerous. For though the Yin is slight, it occupies the high position (top line), like a suspended stone overhead. The hexagram image shows Qian's strength and Dui's pleasure, yet pleasure easily breeds negligence, strength easily breeds arrogance; thus 'with trust, there is danger,' one must be constantly vigilant, as if walking on thin ice."
"This hexagram manifests in events, mostly sudden dangers from high places, old troubles, or unexpected sources. The way to resolve lies not in 'resisting,' but in 'yielding.' Qian yields to Dui, hardness yields to softness, movement yields to stillness. Yield from the original path, and danger naturally falls into emptiness."
Chen Yao's gaze fell on the words "from high places, old troubles." The retaining wall was old trouble; the concrete block came from a high place.
He closed his eyes.
Reason screamed that this was coincidence, probability, post-hoc rationalization.
But the memory of his body, that instant instinct, and the cold correspondence of the text before him formed a causal chain he could not dismantle.
The phone rang.
He glanced at the screen: unknown number. Hesitated a moment, then answered.
"Excuse me... is this Mr. Chen Yao?" A middle-aged man's voice, filled with anxiety and exhaustion, "I'm Zhou Zhenghua (周正华). Your grandfather, Elder Chen, helped me before. I... I'm in big trouble, can we meet?"
Merchant surnamed Zhou.
His grandfather's words from the letter floated in his mind: "Within three years will certainly come seeking you. His situation is extremely dangerous; be cautious in accepting."
Chen Yao gripped the phone, his knuckles white.
Outside the window, dark clouds pressed down on the city; a storm was coming.
He was silent for a long time, so long that the person on the other end thought the signal had dropped, calling out several times.
Finally, he heard his own voice, dry and calm:
"Time and place."
After hanging up, he walked to the window. The city looked gray and unfamiliar beneath the dark clouds. He recalled a passage from his grandfather's annotated volume about "those who inherit the profession":
"Once you know that cause and effect can be adjusted, you can never return behind the veil of ignorance. The world seen from then on is entirely threads and knots. So-called freedom is merely choosing a path within the net. So-called fate is merely the sum of the paths you choose."
"And the most terrifying thing is—"
"The net will actively seek out nodes that can perceive it."
Chen Yao lowered his head, looking at his open hands.
The lines on his palms were complex and intertwined, like a net.