The cinnabar was of the highest quality—Cinnabar of Chen—ground into a fine powder and stored in a blue-and-white porcelain box; its hue was a deep, dark red, reminiscent of clotted blood. The yellow paper was a specially made talisman paper, cotton-based and slightly yellowed, cut into strips twelve inches long and three inches wide. The brush was a brand-new wolf-hair brush with a warm, seasoned wooden handle. The glutinous rice was served in a celadon bowl, each grain translucent and crystalline.
These items sat on the coffee table in Mr. Zhou's office, radiating an anachronistic, ancient aura under the fluorescent lights. Zhou Zhenghua rubbed his hands together, his gaze shifting between Chen Yao and these objects with a mixture of expectation and unease.
"Mr. Chen, do you think these are... enough?" he asked cautiously, as if inquiring about the specifications of a precision instrument.
Chen Yao did not answer immediately. He picked up the box of cinnabar, opened it, and touched a bit with his finger. The powder was fine and cool to the touch. His grandfather's notebook had mentioned cinnabar: "Causality-Cinnabar, the essence of Bing-Fire; red in color, primarily used for suppressing, stabilizing, and guiding. However, the nature of Fire is dry and violent; the dosage must be precise. Excess will ignite, and insufficiency will render it ineffective."
Ignite what? Chen Yao didn't know. He only knew that when Zhou Zhenghua actually brought these things, the last of the skepticism in his heart flickered out—this wasn't a joke or an urban legend; it was a tangible "problem" that required these ancient materials.
And he had no idea how to use them.
"It's enough." Chen Yao closed the cinnabar box, his voice calm. He couldn't show weakness, at least not now. "Mr. Zhou, have the workers been evacuated?"
"Evacuated, all of them," Zhou nodded quickly. "I told them the site needs a comprehensive safety inspection—three days off, with pay. I've contacted the archaeology team as well; they're sending someone tomorrow."
"Good." Chen Yao paused. "You should head back as well. No one is to stay here tonight."
"You alone?" Zhou hesitated. "Is this... safe?"
"I need quiet," Chen Yao said. "Too many people clutter the Qi."
The words slipped out of his mouth naturally, as if he had been practicing this trade for years. Zhou was clearly convinced; he picked up his coat and car keys. "Then... Mr. Chen, be careful. If you need anything, call me anytime."
"Understood."
Zhou left. Chen Yao was alone in the modular office. The air conditioner hummed low. The construction site outside was completely silent, the silhouettes of tower cranes standing in the twilight like giant, unmoving question marks.
Chen Yao sat on the sofa, looking at the items on the table. What should he do? Draw talismans? Perform a ritual? Or use some ceremony he didn't understand to "bring the wind," as his grandfather might have done?
He felt a surge of absurdity. A few hours ago, he was writing data cleaning scripts in Python, thinking about optimizing recommendation algorithms. Now, he sat in a temporary office on a construction site, facing cinnabar and yellow paper, trying to solve a "Causality Sedimentation Pool" problem with a definition as blurry as the mist.
What was wrong with the world?
Or rather, what was wrong with him?
Chen Yao rose and walked to the window. The sky had darkened, and a few temporary floodlights on the site flickered on, casting lonely circles of light on the open ground. The location of the septic tank in the northeast was hidden in shadows, indistinct. The rain shelter over the ancient tomb reflected a sickly white light.
He needed to make a choice.
Intervene, or leave.
Intervening meant he would try to use half-baked knowledge to handle a problem clearly beyond his capabilities. He might fail, he might make things worse, or he might even—as the warnings in his grandfather's notes suggested—entangle himself in causality and pay the price.
Leaving meant he could return to the world he knew, continuing to analyze data and write code, living a clear, controllable life untouched by ancient horrors. But if he did, what about the worker with the fever and delusions? What about the other victims who might follow? And what about Mr. Zhou, a man clearly driven to the brink?
Chen Yao remembered a sentence in the notebook: "To see causality and do nothing is not the way of the wise, but the way of the coward. Yet he who acts recklessly is not brave, but a fool."
To see a life in danger and not save it was cowardice, but blind action was stupidity.
He needed more information.
Chen Yao walked back to the coffee table but did not touch the cinnabar or paper. He pulled the notebook from his backpack and flipped to the section on Feng Shui suppressors. His grandfather's notes were detailed:
"The Four Directions Suppression uses four brass boxes—Azure Dragon, White Tiger, Vermilion Bird, and Black Tortoise—placed in the southeast, southwest, northwest, and northeast. Inside the boxes is 'Qi-Guiding Powder' (sandalwood ash mixed with cinnabar, realgar, and mica), along with an 'Anchor Coin' (a copper coin that has circulated for over a century, possessed of sufficient human-Qi to serve as an anchor)."
"The Principle: By aligning the Four Directions with the four seasons and five elements, a local energy cycle is constructed to guide the accumulated 'turbid Qi' to release and dilute slowly. It is like opening four small channels for a clogged lake, draining it gradually without damaging the levee."
"Precautions: The four boxes must remain intact; they must not be damaged or displaced. Particularly the Vermilion Bird box (northeast), which belongs to Fire. The nature of Fire is fierce and easily eroded by Yin-turbidity; it must be checked regularly. If the box cracks or the powder changes color (turning dark red), the suppression will break, and the turbid Qi will seek an opening to erupt."
Chen Yao recalled the four boxes he had dug up that afternoon. The Vermilion Bird box indeed had cracks, and the powder inside was dark red. The suppression was on the verge of breaking.
So, how to fix it?
He flipped further. On the edge of a page, he found a line of tiny script: "If the Four Directions Suppression is about to break, do not attempt to repair it forcibly. By then, the turbid Qi has already infiltrated the box. Forcing a repair is like plugging a collapsing levee; it will only lead to a greater explosion. The priority is 'diversion'—open a temporary outlet in the northeast to lead the turbid Qi out slowly, while simultaneously strengthening the other three directions to prevent the cycle from collapsing."
Diversion.
Chen Yao's gaze landed in the direction of the northeast. The septic tank was right there—could that be considered a "temporary outlet"? Though dug unintentionally, it had indeed broken the underground balance, providing a vent for what was buried.
The problem was that the outlet had been opened too suddenly and too crudely, turning "diversion" into an "eruption." Moreover, the septic tank was a place for filth, which would make the venting Qi even more turbid, increasing the impact on people and the environment.
So, what he needed to do wasn't to seal the septic tank, but to... purify it? Or at least make the Qi passing through it less harmful?
How to purify?
Chen Yao's eyes returned to the cinnabar and paper. Cinnabar suppresses evil; yellow paper carries the talisman. His grandfather's notes contained many talisman designs: Peace Talismans, Suppression Talismans, Qi-Guiding Talismans... but he had never practiced them. He didn't know if they worked, or even what their principles were.
Was it psychological suggestion? Or was there truly a certain energy structure?
He remembered an anthropological work he had read in university, A General Theory of Magic. The author, Marcel Mauss, argued that magical rituals were effective because the collective society believed they were. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Talismans and ritual implements were, in essence, "symbolic mediums." Through them, the practitioner and the recipient jointly constructed a psychological reality, which in turn influenced physical reality.
If understood this way, his drawing of talismans and use of cinnabar were actually giving Mr. Zhou, the workers, and even himself a psychological suggestion that the "problem was being solved." As long as everyone believed the site had been "treated," the anomalies might actually decrease—because many so-called "anomalies" were inherently related to the human psychological state.
But that didn't explain the worker's fever and delusions. Unless... that was a physiological manifestation of collective psychological pressure?
Chen Yao wasn't sure. He always felt that the knowledge his grandfather left behind wasn't just simple psychology. Those descriptions of "causal structures" and "energy cycles" were too specific, too systematic, as if describing a physical phenomenon not yet recognized by modern science.
His phone vibrated, interrupting his thoughts. It was a message from his mother: "Xiao Yao, are you coming home for dinner this weekend? Your dad made soup."
A simple, ordinary sentence, yet it made Chen Yao's eyes suddenly sting. That was another world—warm, daily, a world without any bizarre causality. He wanted so much to return to that world.
He typed a reply: "I might have to work overtime this weekend, we'll see."
Send.
Then he put down his phone and took a deep breath. He couldn't hide anymore. Since he was already here, since he had seen the problem, since—he had to admit—a voice deep inside was saying "you can do something," he would try.
He would start with the simplest thing.
Chen Yao spread out a piece of yellow paper, picked up the brush, dipped it in clean water, and practiced drawing talismans on the paper. His grandfather had taught him some basic talisman shapes; though he hadn't practiced in years, the muscle memory remained. He drew the simplest variant of the character "An" (Peace), adding a circle around it to represent "Completion and Stability."
The tip of the brush glided across the paper with a soft rustle. He drew slowly, trying to keep every stroke steady. Curiously, as he focused on the movement of the brush tip, the turmoil in his heart gradually settled. Drawing talismans required focused concentration, which shared common ground with meditation and calligraphy.
After finishing the tenth one, he picked the most satisfactory one. Then, he opened the cinnabar box, poured a little cinnabar into a small dish, added a few drops of water, and slowly ground it into cinnabar ink.
The thick red liquid spread in the dish like blood, or like a concentrated form of energy.
Chen Yao dipped the brush again, this time in cinnabar. The moment the brush tip touched the yellow paper, he felt a subtle resistance—not physical, but more like fighting an invisible viscosity. He steadied himself and began to draw.
The red of the cinnabar flowed onto the yellow paper, strikingly vivid. He followed the sequence in his memory, first drawing the Talisman Head (three dots representing the Three Purities), then the Talisman Gall (a variant of the character "Gang"), and finally the Talisman Foot (the characters for "By Imperial Order"). Every stroke was slow and resolute.
As he finished the last stroke, he set down the brush and let out a long breath.
The talisman paper lay quietly on the table, the vermilion lines seemingly glowing faintly under the light. Was it an illusion? Chen Yao didn't know. But he truly felt that after finishing this talisman, the atmosphere of the entire room had... cleared a little. That invisible sense of oppression had lessened.
Perhaps it really was psychological.
Perhaps not.
Chen Yao carefully set the talisman aside to dry. Then he looked at the bowl of glutinous rice. Glutinous rice was used to ward off evil in folklore, and his grandfather's notes also mentioned: "Glutinous rice, warm in nature, primarily for adsorption. It can temporarily store turbid Qi, but must be handled promptly (burned or buried deep)."
Adsorption. In other words, the rice could serve as a temporary "filter" or "buffer," absorbing the harmful energy seeping from underground to prevent it from directly striking the living.
So, he could scatter the rice around the septic tank in the northeast as a buffer layer?
But how much was needed? How should it be scattered? How should it be handled afterward?
One question followed another. Chen Yao felt a surge of helplessness. He was like someone who had only read a car manual and was suddenly asked to repair an engine failing at high speed. He knew some theory but had zero practical experience.
A muffled thud came from outside.
Chen Yao looked up sharply. The sound came from deep within the construction site, sounding like a heavy object hitting the ground. He walked to the window and looked out into the dark site. Beyond the circles of light from the floodlights was a darkness so thick it wouldn't dissipate.
Another thud. Closer this time.
Chen Yao's heart began to race. He checked his phone: 9:17 PM. Zhou said all the workers had evacuated, so what was that sound?
A stray cat? The wind blowing something over?
A third thud. This time he heard it clearly—it wasn't a heavy object falling; it was more like... a hammer strike? A hammer strike coming from underground?
Impossible. He dismissed the thought immediately. An illusion, a hallucination caused by psychological pressure.
But the sound continued—thump, thump, thump—slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat, or like someone deep below striking rock with a heavy mallet.
Chen Yao clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The pain cleared his mind a little. He needed to see. If it was just the wind or an animal, confirming it would bring peace of mind. If it really was...
He didn't finish the thought.
He picked up a flashlight and pushed open the door of the modular office. The night wind hit him, carrying the characteristic smell of cement and dust from the site. The rhythmic hammering was clearer outdoors, definitely coming from the northeast—the septic tank area.
Chen Yao switched on the flashlight, the beam slicing through the darkness. He walked toward the northeast corner, his footsteps as light as possible. The ground was uneven, and he stumbled slightly.
As the distance closed, the hammering grew louder. Thump, thump, thump... every strike felt like it was hitting his own chest. The rust-and-earth scent in the air was stronger, too, mixed with a faint, almost imperceptible smell of rotting vegetation.
Finally, he reached the edge of the septic tank.
The concrete lid was perfectly intact. The hammering was coming from beneath it.
Chen Yao crouched down, pressing his ear close to the concrete lid. THUMP! A massive sound almost deafened him; he recoiled sharply, nearly falling. The sound was too close, as if someone were pressed against the other side of the lid, striking it with a heavy sledgehammer.
Someone was down there? Impossible. The septic tank had just been built and hadn't been used; it should be empty. And who would be trapped down there?
THUMP! Another strike. This time, the concrete lid vibrated slightly.
Chen Yao's heart pounded. He pointed the flashlight at the lid. The surface was clean, without cracks. But when he moved the beam to the edge of the lid, he saw it—
Moisture.
A dark red liquid was slowly seeping from the joint between the lid and the tank, like blood, but more viscous, glinting with a bizarre dark light under the flashlight. The sweet, fishy smell was emanating from here.
Chen Yao felt his stomach churn. He forced himself to stay calm, using the flashlight to inspect the seeping liquid. It wasn't blood, at least not entirely. It was mixed with tiny, black, flocculent bits, like rotting plant roots.
He remembered his grandfather's description of a "Sedimentation Pool" in the notebook: "At the point of earth-vein stagnation, a century of resentment, disease-Qi, and death-Qi accumulates, forming a substance like black oil, with a sweet, fishy scent, cold to the bone when touched."
Black oil. Sweet and fishy.
It matched.
THUMP! The hammering sounded again, accompanied by a gurgling sound of liquid being stirred. More dark red liquid surged from the joint, beginning to spread across the ground.
Chen Yao stepped back several paces. He knew he couldn't stay here any longer. This was not a situation he could handle. He needed—what did he need? To call the police? Say there was a monster in the construction site septic tank? The police would think he was insane. Find Mr. Zhou? What could Zhou do? Find his grandfather? His grandfather was gone.
He suddenly remembered the talisman he had just drawn in his backpack. He didn't know if it would work, but... it was better than doing nothing.
He turned and ran back to the modular office, grabbed the talisman and a handful of glutinous rice, and raced back to the septic tank.
The liquid had already spread to a diameter of about one meter, appearing in the darkness like a giant, breathing wound. The hammering became more frantic—thump! thump! thump!—as if urging something.
Chen Yao gritted his teeth and scattered the rice around the liquid, forming an irregular circle. Then he took the talisman, focusing his attention on the paper "using intent to guide Qi" as his grandfather's notes described, imagining it was glowing, radiating a stabilizing power.
He crouched down and pressed the talisman onto the center of the concrete lid.
The moment the talisman touched the lid—
The hammering stopped.
The liquid stopped spreading.
The sweet, fishy scent faded slightly.
Chen Yao held his breath, waiting. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty seconds... a minute passed, and there were no more sounds. The liquid lay there quietly, no longer expanding.
The talisman sat quietly on the lid, its vermilion lines indistinct in the darkness.
Chen Yao slowly stood up, his legs feeling weak. He didn't know if the talisman really worked, or if it was a coincidence, or if... the thing below was temporarily tired. But regardless, the current peace was real.
He didn't dare stay long, backing away slowly, his eyes fixed on the septic tank. After reaching a safe distance, he turned and walked quickly back to the modular office.
He closed the door and locked it. He leaned against the door, gasping for air.
The flashlight was still on, its beam shaking on the ceiling. His heart drummed, and his palms were slick with cold sweat.
On the coffee table, the cinnabar, yellow paper, brush, and glutinous rice were still there. But in Chen Yao's eyes, they were no longer simple objects—they were... tools. Dangerous tools he didn't fully understand, but which might save a life in certain moments.
He walked to the sofa and sat down, picking up the box of cinnabar. The box was ice cold. He opened it, looking at the dark red powder inside.
"Living on borrowed time," he whispered.
If his life really was "borrowed," then sitting here now, trying to handle an ancient trouble with these ancient methods—was this the moment the debt began to be repaid?
The phone vibrated again. It was Mr. Zhou.
Chen Yao answered.
"Mr. Chen!" Zhou's voice was urgent. "I just got a call. The worker with the fever... his condition has worsened. He's in the hospital now; the doctors say they can't find a cause, but his temperature keeps rising. He's talking even more nonsense, shouting 'It's so heavy!' and 'It's crushing me!'..."
Chen Yao closed his eyes.
"Mr. Chen, how are things on your end? Do you need me to come over?"
Silence for a few seconds, then Chen Yao spoke, his voice slightly hoarse. "Mr. Zhou."
"Yes?"
"I can't handle this," he said, every word coming with difficulty. "I haven't inherited the legacy; I haven't learned the true methods. Tonight I only... temporarily soothed it. But the root problem isn't solved, so the worker won't get better, and other things will happen on the site."
Silence on the other end of the line.
"Then... then what do we do?" Zhou's voice carried despair. "Old Mr. Chen said you might be able to resolve this..."
"He said 'might'," Chen Yao interrupted. "And I am certain now that I cannot. At least not now." He paused. "Mr. Zhou, I suggest you stop work immediately, seal the entire site, and wait... wait for someone who truly understands to handle it."
"Someone who truly understands? Where do I find them?"
Chen Yao didn't know. Most of his grandfather's generation of peers were likely gone. Even if they were alive, they might not be willing to take on such a troublesome "Sedimentation Pool" case.
"Or," Chen Yao said slowly, "you can wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Wait for me," Chen Yao said, surprising even himself with the words. "But I need time. I need to... learn."
Learn what? Learn how to become a true Master of Shou Yi Zhai? Learn how to use the knowledge he once resisted to solve the problems he once denied?
On the other end, Zhou let out a long sigh. "Mr. Chen, I... I can't wait too long. This project has my entire net worth tied up in it. Every day we're stopped is a massive loss. And the workers... I'm afraid of more lives being lost."
"I know," Chen Yao said. "So, you must also be psychologically prepared. Some prices might be unavoidable."
With that, he hung up the phone.
Price.
The word appeared repeatedly in his mind tonight. The worker's fever was a price. The site anomalies were a price. Even the fear and helplessness he felt sitting here now were a certain price—for his grandfather's intervention back then, for several generations of "Inheriting the Legacy" in the Chen family, and for his own "Living on Borrowed Time."
He looked out the window. The site was still quiet; there was no strange noise from the septic tank. The talisman might still be working, or perhaps it was just a temporary peace.
Chen Yao picked up the notebook and flipped to the last page, his grandfather's final words: "The karma is cleared. The Fifth Path: Accepting the Bill."
Accepting the bill.
Acknowledge the existence of the debt, acknowledge one's connection to it, and then... then what? His grandfather hadn't written it.
Chen Yao closed the notebook. The night was still long. He needed to think, to decide, and to choose a direction between "fleeing" and "going deeper."
And no matter which he chose, it wouldn't be easy.
Outside, the city lights were bright. But in this small patch of darkness enclosed by the hoardings, the ancient causality was awakening, waiting for an answer.
Chen Yao sat under the light, his shadow cast on the wall, stretched long.