Chapter 87: Master of the Principles of Yin and Yang

Wang Fugui staggered out of the plank house, his gait living up to the prosperous-sounding name his father had given him. He looked every bit the picture of abundance—like a great ball of flesh, wobbling and swaying as he moved forward. Before long, he had swayed his way to where the stone lions stood. He steadied himself with one hand on a lion, unfastened his belt with the other, and, with a noisy stream, relieved himself at the base of the statue.

Had someone with supernatural abilities been present, they would surely have slapped Wang Fugui clear across the yard. The auspicious glow on the stone lion was growing fainter, its colors draining away, replaced by a dark, malevolent aura that only the gifted could perceive.

Wang Fugui looked up at the imposing stone lion and, with a drunken giggle, pointed at its nose and slurred, “Stone lion, oh, stone lion! Today, I’m peeing right at your feet! If you’ve got a problem with that, come and bite me!” With that, he buttoned up his trousers and, still swaying, headed back toward the plank house.

The house was barely twenty meters away, and the stone coffin still lay there in eerie silence. No one realized that a black liquid was now seeping from the bottom of the coffin, following a decayed iron chain downward. Below, it dripped onto another coffin, this one entirely bound by iron chains—not stone, but a vermillion lacquered wood.

The black liquid soaked through the earth, running down the iron chain, corroding it so thoroughly that the links thinned to the point of almost snapping. As the liquid approached the red wooden coffin, it seemed almost alive, carefully eating away at the chains binding the wood, never once touching the coffin itself.

Had anyone looked closely, they would have seen bizarre incantations carved into the lacquered wood—so strange that even scholars of ancient script might not decipher them, let alone determine their era. Yet, as lions only appeared in ancient China after the Han dynasty, this coffin, too, must have been buried sometime after that period.

Wang Fugui stumbled back to the plank house, knocked, and went inside. In truth, Lian Yu had always despised corrupt officials like these. Though they appeared calm and composed, who knew what dealings went on behind closed doors? The workings of officialdom were a mystery to the common man.

Lian Yu was not drunk at all. Earlier, while the others threw back their drinks, he’d quietly poured his own out when no one was looking. Seeing Wang Fugui return, Lian Yu feigned discomfort and excused himself, walking out unsteadily. Behind him, Liu Chuanmin pointed at his back and guffawed, slurring, “Fortune-teller, you really can’t hold your liquor! Not that I’m bragging, but your Uncle Liu is the best drinker under heaven!” With that, he collapsed onto the table and began to snore.

Wang Fugui was left dumbfounded. He glanced at the unconscious Liu Chuanmin and snickered, muttering to himself, “Best drinker under heaven, are you? If you’re number one, what am I?” He looked at Liu Chuanmin’s sleeping face with disdain, took a heavy swig of white liquor himself, and promptly fell unconscious on the table as well. Indeed, alcohol emboldens the timid and brings out the truth—by daylight, Wang Fugui would never have dared speak to Liu Chuanmin this way, unless he was looking to lose his job.

Once outside, Lian Yu made his way toward the stone coffin, eyeing the two stone lions as he went. He muttered, “How odd. The feng shui aura here has completely vanished, and there’s a foul stench as well.” He stopped and sniffed near the stone lions. At once, he realized what had happened, slapped his forehead, and cursed under his breath, “Damn that Wang Fugui, peeing here and breaking the auspicious aura of the stone lions. This is bad—if things continue, whatever’s in that coffin will emerge by tomorrow, and everyone here will be in mortal danger!”

With that, he leapt into the excavation pit and approached the stone coffin, thrusting his hand into the earth beneath it. Strangely, the coffin did him no harm; apparently, Lian Yu had some knack for the occult, protecting himself from whatever dwelled within. He groped around under the coffin and soon withdrew a segment of iron chain, so corroded it had snapped. His expression changed dramatically.

Muttering under his breath, if one listened carefully, Lian Yu was reciting a secret incantation from the “Arts of Qimen Dunjia”: “Swords and halberds rise like mountains, yet need not be feared. Three brings life, five brings death. Victory lies in the third, decline in the fifth. Know how to wander among the three, avoid the five. To see fate is to seize the moment—beware the hidden echo, for it bodes the gravest doom.” It turned out that Lian Yu, aside from the fortune-telling arts passed down by his master, the Lame Liu, had also mastered the secret “Qimen Dunjia.” Evidently, the old master had learned the Maoshan arts and, before his death, taught them to his sole apprentice.

Black liquid oozed from the broken chain, reeking of decay. Lian Yu clicked his tongue in distaste, tossed the foul chain aside, and climbed out of the pit toward the stone lion. When he reached the male lion, he whispered into its ear, “The mysteries of yin and yang are infinite; the two poles return to the central palace. Grasp the principles of yin and yang, and heaven and earth are within your palm.” With that, he smacked the lion’s rump.

The crisp “smack” echoed in the silent night air, lingering a long while before fading. Lian Yu glanced at the stone coffin once more before strolling back to the plank house as if nothing had happened. Had anyone been watching, they would have noticed the black liquid beneath the coffin had slowed, as though some force kept it in check.

Lian Yu entered the house to find the two men snoring at the table. Ignoring them, he lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

He slept until morning, when the roar of machinery jolted him awake. Liu Chuanmin and Wang Fugui were already up. As soon as he saw Lian Yu, Liu Chuanmin strutted over and said, “Fortune-teller, isn’t this place strange? As soon as I woke up, I heard the foreman say they'd dug up a vermillion wooden coffin. Because of yesterday, no one dares go near it. What do you think?” Liu Chuanmin frowned as he spoke.

Lian Yu was unfazed and replied coolly, “I already know. It’s a coffin atop a coffin—inside is surely the corpse of a beautiful woman, preserved as she was in life. She’s fierce, nearly as powerful as a drought fiend. Since you’ve unearthed her, prepare to face calamity today.” With a sigh, he took a cigarette from the table, lit it, and exhaled a smoke ring.

Wang Fugui immediately objected. A staunch atheist, he pointed at Lian Yu and said, “Enough with your nonsense. It’s just an ancient corpse. Is it really as scary as you say?” He shook his head in disbelief.

Liu Chuanmin, however, was not so skeptical. Lian Yu’s words had startled him. “Better to believe than not,” he said anxiously. “So, what do we do now?”

“What’s to be done? There are two options—if you believe, that is. Either move the burial site, or hire a master of yin and yang. Otherwise, we’re all finished,” Lian Yu replied, glancing at Liu Chuanmin and saying no more.

What strange events will unfold next? To learn what happens, tune in next time!