Yin Yang Diviner

Zhenyuan lay under his pillow for three days.

It wasn't that I didn't want to use it—it was that my second grandfather wouldn't allow it. "This is a newly acquired magical artifact; keep it close to your body for three days. Let it absorb your energy and recognize your presence. After three days, you can take it out to use it." He wrapped the ancient mirror in a piece of dark blue coarse cloth and told me to put it under my pillow when I slept and carry it in my satchel during the day. For those three days, wherever I went, Zhenyuan was there too. The satchel was slung across my waist, and the mirror, through the coarse cloth, pressed against my hip bone. At first, it was icy cold, but gradually it became less cold, and later, it would occasionally get slightly warm, like a small animal curled up in the bag, turning over every now and then.

On the third night, I was awakened by a very faint buzzing sound.

The sound came from under the pillow, like someone flicking a mirror with their finger, the bronze-like echo rippled in circles in the darkness. I opened my eyes; moonlight streamed through the window paper, bathing the room in a thin layer of bluish-gray. The sound from under the pillow was gone. I reached in, my fingertips touching the texture of the coarse cloth—the fabric was slightly warm, as if Zhenyuan had just woken from a light sleep, turned over, and fallen asleep again.

I pulled out the cloth bag and untied the rope. The ancient mirror was revealed, its surface facing upwards, reflecting the moonlight filtering through the window paper. The moonlight fell on the dark mirror surface, without reflection or luster, as if it were being absorbed. But the mirror wasn't completely black—in that dark depths, a very faint light flickered. It was golden, warm and smooth, like a lantern buried at the bottom of a deep well.

It's absorbing moonlight. Suddenly I understood. My second grandfather said that nurturing ritual objects requires "the essence of the sun and moon," and I thought it meant putting them in the sun or under the moonlight, like airing out a blanket. No. It absorbs it itself. With the mirror facing the moonlight, it's like a plant in the night, absorbing the light little by little, storing it, and making it its own.

I held Zhenyuan up, its mirror-like surface facing upwards, towards the moonlight reflected on the window paper. The moonlight paused for a moment on the mirror's surface, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, sank into its depths. Not a reflection, but a sinking. Like a drop of water falling into parched earth, leaving only a faint, barely perceptible dampness on the surface, the water having seeped into unseen places.

hum-

Another sound. Even softer than before, as if squeezed from the very cracks of the mirror's bones. A golden light flickered slightly deep within the mirror's surface, like a lamp's wick being adjusted by the wind.

I wrapped it up again and put it back under my pillow.

On the morning of the fourth day, my second grandfather looked at my face and said, "It recognizes you now."

I touched my face but couldn't feel anything different. But my second grandfather's eyes could see it. His ability to observe aura was far superior to mine, and he probably saw the mark left by Zhen Yuan in the complexion between my eyebrows.

"Starting today, I'll teach you how to use a mirror." He brought a wooden box out of the house and placed it on the stone table. The box was made of camphor wood, with rounded edges and a thin layer of green rust on the copper clasp. When opened, it was lined with dark red velvet, and on the cloth lay seven items: a copper bell, a peach wood sword, a string of five-emperor coins, a Bagua seal, a roll of ink line, a piece of lightning-struck wood, and a thin booklet.

"These are things I used when I was young. The copper bell was a gift from a corpse-driving craftsman in western Hunan, the peach wood sword was carved by myself, the five-emperor coins were found at a street stall, the Bagua seal was carved by Master Zhou's father, you've seen the ink line, and the lightning-struck wood was brought back from Northeast China by Old Master Chen." He pointed to each item one by one, his tone very calm, as if introducing a few old farm tools that were no longer used. But I knew it wasn't. Each item had a layer of light—the copper bell was pale gold, the peach wood sword was bluish-green, the five-emperor coins had a warm brass glow, the Bagua seal had a vermilion red glow, the ink line was wrapped around a bamboo strip, the whole roll of thread had a very faint grayish-white hue, and the light from the lightning-struck wood was the most special, a very fine silver-white glint shining through a charred black base.

Seven things, seven lights. They lie quietly on the dark red velvet in the morning light, like seven sleeping old friends who can be awakened at any time.

"More magical artifacts aren't necessarily better." Second Grandfather took the Zhenyuan amulet out of its cloth bag and placed it in a wooden box, alongside the other seven. "A person can only nurture a limited number of magical artifacts. If you have too many, their energy dissipates, and you won't be able to nurture any of them deeply. I've used them my whole life, and I've only truly nurtured three or five of them. You have the Zhenyuan amulet and the copper coins now, that's enough. Once you've nurtured those two to their full potential, then you can choose one from these old items of mine. One by one."

Zhenyuan lay on the velvet cloth, its dark mirror reflecting the lid of the wooden box. Its golden edge mingled with the light of the other magical artifacts inside the box, like several streams of different colors flowing into the same pond, undisturbed yet illuminating one another.

"To use a mirror, you must first understand mirrors." Second Grandfather took Zhenyuan out of its box, holding it face up in his palm. "What does the mirror reflect?"

"shadow."

"No. A mirror reflects light. There is only a shadow when there is light. When there is no light, there is nothing in the mirror." He turned Zhenyuan over, with the back facing up, the character "镇" (zhen, meaning "suppress") facing me. "So a mirror is inherently yang. It absorbs light and spits it out. In the process of absorbing and spitting out light, it has the power to illuminate evil. Zhenyuan has been raised for so many years, absorbing so much incense and moonlight. Its surface is no longer bronze—it is a 'yang membrane' that has been repeatedly tempered by light. Evil things that collide with this yang membrane will either bounce off lightly or be directly dissolved."

He pointed to the dark, foggy layer on the mirror's surface. "This isn't rust. It's because the yang membrane is too thick, so thick that light can't get through, making it look like it's covered in fog. When you use it, you don't use it to reflect things—you use it to 'cover' things. The mirror face down, the yang membrane faces outwards, like an inverted bell, trapping evil spirits inside."

I recalled the yin-devouring corpse in the grave. Zhenyuan hung above it, mirror facing down. The yin energy it surged outwards crashed against the mirror, bouncing back layer by layer. At that time, I only felt a numbness in my hand and the mirror vibrating. Now I understand that each vibration was the yin energy crashing against that invisible yang membrane, like a fist hitting a bronze bell, the bell ringing, the fist aching.

"The name Zhenyuan is well chosen." My second grandfather put the ancient mirror back in my hand. "Yuan means deep water, something that sinks. Zhenyuan means to suppress those things that are at the bottom and shouldn't rise to the surface. When you use it, you must have this thought in your mind. If you have this thought, the mirror's power will come. If you don't, it's just a piece of bronze."

I held Zhenyuan in my palm. Mirror-like surface facing upwards, deep within the dark, oppressive membrane, that golden light still lingered. It wasn't moonlight; it was light it had accumulated over countless years. I peered into it through my ancestral aperture and saw that the light wasn't actually a single layer, but rather layers upon layers, like tree rings, like strata of earth. Each layer represented a specific year, a specific month, a specific night, a moment it had quietly absorbed light from the moon, from incense offerings, and from its owner.

It swallowed so much light so that one day it could shroud a patch of darkness.

"Second Grandfather, what's the most ferocious thing you've ever suppressed with Zhenyuan?"

Second Grandfather didn't answer immediately. He stuffed tobacco into his pipe, struck a match, lit it, and took a puff. The smoke rose and dispersed in the morning light, like a thin veil. He looked at Zhenyuan through that veil, his gaze fixed on a distant place.

"Thirty years ago, a coffin was pulled up from the bottom of the Yellow River."

"The bottom of the Yellow River?"

"The Yellow River changed its course, creating an old riverbed. Buried beneath the riverbed was a sealed stone coffin with inscriptions on the lid, not in Chinese characters, but in Western Xia script. The locals didn't recognize it and thought it was an ancient tomb, so they reported it. When the cultural relics bureau arrived, they pried open the stone coffin and found a well-preserved corpse inside, dressed in Western Xia official robes, with a bronze mirror pressed against its chest."

He paused.

"That bronze mirror is Zhenyuan."

The bamboo leaves rustled. Morning light filtered through the branches of the old locust tree, falling on the dark, mirror-like surface of Zhenyuan. That speck of golden light flickered slightly in the depths of the mirror, like a lamp stirred by the wind.

"What about the body in the stone coffin?" I asked.

"When the stone coffin was opened, the body was intact. As soon as the mirror was removed and exposed to the wind, it turned into a puddle of black water in a few breaths." Second Grandfather tapped his cigarette ash. "Zhenyuan was pressed on that stone coffin for eight hundred years. The Western Xia people cast it out and pressed it against the chest of something that shouldn't have been there, then sank it into the Yellow River. Eight hundred years later, it was retrieved and came into my hands. I used it for thirty years, and now it's in your hands."

He put away his pipe and stood up.

"Every time you use it from now on, you're adding another layer of light to that yang membrane. After you've used it long enough, the fog on the mirror will thin out, and the light will shine through. Then you'll be able to use it to 'illuminate' things—not just 'cover,' but to illuminate. To see the true nature of evil, to see the hidden cause and effect. That's the true way to use Zhenyuan. But you can't do that yet. Practice 'covering' first."

He took two steps into the house, stopped, and turned his head away.

"Start practicing tonight. Face the moon, mirror facing upwards, and let Zhenyuan absorb moonlight. After it has absorbed enough for forty-nine nights, it will start talking to you."

"say?"

"It's not spoken with words." Grandpa's figure disappeared into the doorway, his voice coming from the shadows, "It's spoken with light. When it speaks to you, you'll naturally know."

The courtyard fell silent. Zhenyuan lay in my palm, its dark surface reflecting the sky. It was still light; the moon hadn't risen yet. It was waiting.