Yin Yang Diviner

On the first night that Zhenyuan swallowed the moon, there were clouds in the sky.

It wasn't thick clouds, but a thin layer, like a red veil draped over a bride's head, casting a hazy halo around the moon. I sat by the window in the east wing, the paper window half-open, moonlight filtering through the clouds, falling softly on the dark, mirror-like surface of Zhenyuan. The mirror didn't react. No golden light, no humming, not even the wick-like glimmer deep within that layer of sunlight was visible. Zhenyuan lay quietly in my palm, like a piece of rusted copper, picked up from a flea market.

I held the mirror perfectly aligned with the moon. My arm got tired, so I switched to the other hand. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, then disappeared back in. Zhenyuan remained motionless.

It did not swallow on the first night.

The second night, the sky cleared. The moon was round and bright, hanging above the bamboo tips, illuminating the entire east wing as if it were bathed in a thin layer of rice porridge. I pushed open all the paper windows, sat cross-legged beneath them, and held Zhenyuan in my palm, mirror facing upwards. Moonlight fell directly onto the mirror. This time I saw it clearly—the moment the moonlight touched the mirror, it wasn't reflected, but rather "absorbed." It was incredibly fast, almost so fast that I thought I was seeing things. A silvery-white beam of moonlight fell onto the mirror, without bouncing or splashing, but like a drop of water falling onto rice paper, instantly seeping in.

Deep within the mirror, a glimmer of golden light briefly surfaced. Like a fish at the bottom of a well, hearing a commotion on the surface, it swam up, glanced at the light, and then sank back down.

I remained motionless, maintaining my posture. Moonlight continued to fall on the mirror, seeping in drop by drop. Zhenyuan began to warm slightly—not with the scalding heat of the copper coin, but a warm, radiating heat from within, like placing my palm on a ceramic bowl that had just been filled with hot water. The heat gathered in my palm, traveled along the Laogong acupoint to my wrist, and stopped at the spot where the copper coin was tied. The copper coin wasn't hot, but it vibrated slightly, as if nodding.

On the third night, the moon was sliced ​​into fragments by the branches of the old locust tree, falling onto the mirror like pieces of broken silver. Zhenyuan swallowed it faster than the night before—not drop by drop, but piece by piece. The silvery moonlight fell onto the mirror, as if caught by an invisible mouth, sipped and swallowed. The warmth under his palm changed from lukewarm to warm, from warm to slightly hot. The golden light deep within the mirror no longer floated up and sank down, but hung steadily deep within the yang membrane, like an ever-burning lamp.

I stared at that point of golden light. The golden light stared back at me. It wasn't an illusion—the light had a direction. It was watching me.

On the seventh night, it rained.

The rain began to fall at dusk, neither heavy nor light, weaving a dense curtain of rain. The moon hid behind the clouds, not a single ray of light penetrating. As usual, I opened the window, sat cross-legged, and held Zhenyuan in my palm. Without moonlight, the mirror's surface was as dark as a dry well. Holding it, I wondered what else it could swallow.

The rain pattered softly. The bamboo leaves rustled under the raindrops. Water dripped from the eaves of the courtyard, falling onto the blue bricks, drop after drop.

The mirror stirred. Not by vibration, not by heat—but by the golden light that had risen from the depths of the mirror itself. There was no moonlight, no incense, no light from the outside. It shone from within the mirror's very core, like a lamp ignited from within by some force. The golden light spread upwards from the depths of the mirror membrane, layer upon layer, until it reached the surface. The dark mirror was illuminated—not by reflected light, but by light shining through it. Golden and warm, like a piece of old jade illuminated by the setting sun.

Golden light shone through the mirror, casting a small halo in front of me. Within the halo, I saw an outline.

It wasn't a clear image, but a blurry shadow, like something seen through frosted glass. A thin figure, wearing a gray jacket, stood against a hazy gray background. Something was moving in the background—not a person, but rows of legless things, sliding along the ground. The figure stood between me and those things, one hand hanging down, the other raised in front of his chest, palm facing outward. Something gleaming was held in his raised hand.

The golden light faded. The mirror darkened again. The rain continued to fall. I held Zhenyuan in my arms, my hands trembling slightly. Not out of fear—but because I recognized that figure. It was my second grandfather.

The fourteenth night. The moon was now just a crescent, hanging west of the old locust tree. Zhenyuan had absorbed the moonlight for most of the month, and the golden light deep within its yang membrane grew brighter and more stable. It no longer needed my constant support—placed on the windowsill, mirror facing outwards, it would adjust its angle slightly towards the moon, like a flower turning towards the light. I sat cross-legged by the window, flipping through "The Essentials of Yin and Yang," glancing up at it every now and then. It quietly absorbed the moonlight, occasionally emitting a very faint hum, like a well-fed cat purring in its throat.

Second Grandfather passed by under the corridor and glanced at Zhenyuan on the windowsill.

"It's starting to find its way."

"Know the way?"

"The moon rises in a different position every day. It finds its way by itself." Grandpa Er held up his teacup, which was filled with strong, dark tea. "Once it has searched for the moon for all thirty days, it will remember it. From then on, no matter where you are, as long as there is a moon, it can find the light. This is the first step in cultivating the spirituality of a ritual object—finding its way."

"And the second step?"

"It's recognizing its master." The second grandfather took a sip of tea. "Right now, it recognizes the moon. After it has recognized the moon for forty days and gathered enough energy, it will start recognizing you. You hold it in your palm every day, and it will snuggle against your hand, smelling your scent every day. Then it will know that the moon is food, and you are home."

Night Twenty-One. Zhenyuan has been swallowing the moon for three whole weeks. It knows its spot on the windowsill better than anyone. Every evening, before the moon even rises, it adjusts its angle slightly, its mirror facing east, waiting. The moment the moon peeks out from behind the old locust tree's branches, before the first ray of moonlight even touches the tiles, Zhenyuan begins to swallow it.

The moonlight is beautiful tonight. It's the 19th of the lunar month, and although a small part of the moon is missing, it's still incredibly bright, hanging on the bamboo tips like a lantern suspended in the sky. Zhenyuan swallowed the moonlight quickly and steadily, absorbing it without stopping as it fell onto the mirror. The heat in his palm rose steadily, from warm to hot to scalding. The golden light deep within the mirror was no longer a single point, but a vast expanse—spreading upwards from the depths of the yang membrane, across layer after layer of growth rings, reaching the edge of the mirror and dyeing the dark copper edge a ring of dark gold.

Golden light shone through the mirror and onto the window paper. This time, it didn't project a blurry outline, but a line of words.

It was written vertically, from right to left. The strokes were thin and sharp, like they had been carved into bamboo slips with a knife. It wasn't my second grandfather's handwriting—thinner and sharper, each stroke ending with an uncompromising decisiveness. I stared at the line of text, my heart pounding.

"The person in the mirror is not a person. The body outside the mirror is not a body."

The golden light lasted only three breaths. The writing faded, and the mirror darkened again. The moonlight continued to pour in, drop by drop, as if nothing had happened.

I memorized those two sentences and recited them several times. "The person in the mirror is not a person"—the person in the mirror is not human. "The body outside the mirror is not a body"—the body outside the mirror is not the real body. What does it mean? Zhenyuan was pressed under the stone coffin at the bottom of the Yellow River for eight hundred years, pressing down on something that shouldn't have been there. It reflected that thing for eight hundred years. The mirror reflected that thing's face. Was it telling me what that thing was? Or was it talking about itself?

The moonlight shone silently on the window paper. Zhen Yuan lay on the windowsill, the golden light deep within his diaphragm shining steadily, like a silent lamp.

Night 42. Seven days shy of the full 49.

Zhenyuan no longer needs my help. Every evening, it adjusts its angle, swallows the moonlight, and digests it all on its own. My palm becomes its resting place—once it's full, the heat subsides, and the mirror-like surface feels warm and cool, like a sparrow curled up asleep in my palm. My second grandfather says it's "recognizing its master." It's been smelling my scent for over forty days, from stranger to familiar, from familiar to dependent. During the day, I carry it in my bag, close to my hip bone. When I walk, it gets slightly warm through the coarse cloth, as if swaying with my steps. At night, I place it under my pillow, and every now and then it emits a very soft buzzing sound, as if confirming that I'm still there.

A breeze is blowing tonight. The moon peeks through the thin clouds. Zhenyuan faces the moon, swallowing for a while, pausing for a while, like someone patiently eating bite by bite while watching a candle flame flickering in the wind. I sit by the window, holding a copper coin in my hand. I've been "nurturing" the coin for over forty days—not with moonlight, but with my own breath. My second grandfather taught me a simple method: every morning and evening, hold the coin in your palm, press your Laogong acupoint against the coin's hole, slow your breathing, and let your mind sink into your palm, thinking about the four characters "Tian Yuan Tong Bao" on the coin. Not reciting, but thinking. Clearly visualize each stroke, outline, and weight of the characters in your mind.

The copper coin went from being ice-cold at first, to lukewarm, and now it heats up the moment I hold it—it recognizes my essence, even faster than Zhenyuan. Perhaps it's because it's been with me longer. From the day my second grandfather tied it to my wrist, it's been close to my pulse, listening to my blood, day and night. Zhenyuan needs to collect forty days' worth of moonlight to recognize its master, but the copper coin doesn't. It was mine from the very beginning.

Night 49.

The 17th of the lunar calendar. The night before the fullest moon. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky, the Milky Way stretched across the sky from south to north, and the stars were so numerous they looked like a handful of scattered rice grains. The moon rose from the east of the old locust tree, large and round, golden yellow, like a gleaming copper plate just taken from the storeroom.

I placed Zhenyuan on the windowsill. It adjusted its angle itself—the mirror slightly tilted upwards, facing the direction of the rising moon. As the first ray of moonlight fell on the mirror, I heard a buzzing sound. Not the extremely faint, tentative, short sound of before. It was long, steady, emanating from the very core of the mirror, like the lingering echo of a tolling bell, reverberating in circles on the night breeze.

Golden light rose from the depths of the mirror. Not a point, not a patch—it was the entire mirror. The dark, opaque surface was illuminated from within, layer by layer, rising upwards like underground spring water finding a crack, gushing forth, spreading, and dyeing the entire mirror surface a warm, lustrous gold. The golden light shone through the mirror and fell onto the window paper. It cast no outlines, no words, only a pure, unadulterated light.

Then I saw it.

It wasn't seen with my eyes. It was seen through my ancestral aperture. The golden light reflected back from the window paper and landed on my brow. My ancestral aperture swelled slightly, as if something had gently knocked on the door from the outside. The door opened a crack. The golden light poured in through the crack, warm and heavy, like a golden stream flowing from my brow to my dantian. It flowed slowly through my body, slowly sinking, until it reached my dantian and stopped.

The golden light settled in his dantian, pulsating slightly, like another heart.

The humming of Zhenyuan ceased. The golden light on the mirror did not recede—from tonight onward, the layer of dark mist thinned. The yang membrane remained, but it was no longer completely impermeable to light. Moonlight fell on the mirror, some of it being absorbed, and the rest being reflected, casting a small, warm, jade-like patch of light on the window paper.

I looked down at my palms. The Laogong acupoints on both hands felt slightly warm, not from Zhenyuan, but from my own—golden light had settled in my dantian, slowly and steadily transmitting warmth from there to my limbs and bones. The copper coin vibrated gently on my wrist, as if greeting me.

A soft sound came from under the eaves. Second Grandfather's door opened a crack, and light leaked out. He didn't come out, but stood inside the door, across the courtyard, across the bamboo shadows, and across the moonlight of the forty-nine nights, looking at the ancient mirror on the windowsill that seemed to glow on its own.

"Did it talk to you?" His voice came from the crack in the door, with a faint smile.

I looked down at Zhenyuan. The warm golden light on the mirror's surface shone steadily, like an eye that had just opened and was not yet used to the light. It didn't speak—not with its mouth. But it did speak. It said: I have come.

"I did," I replied.

The light from the crack in the door flickered, as if someone had nodded.

"Starting tomorrow, we'll learn how to 'take pictures'."

The door closed. The courtyard fell silent again. The moon rose high in the sky east of the old locust tree. Zhenyuan lay on the windowsill, mirror facing upwards, slowly absorbing the moonlight. It had absorbed it for forty-nine nights, gathering its first breath to speak to me. It would absorb many, many more nights to come. Each night, the moonlight falling into the mirror would become the words it would speak in the future.

I pulled the paper window closed. Moonlight filtered through the paper, hazy and indistinct, falling on the golden light of Zhenyuan. The two layers of light overlapped, like one lamp lighting another.