Yin Yang Diviner

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou visited again three days later in the early morning.

That day, the fog in Liuhe Town was very thick, as if someone had poured a whole pot of steam from steaming buns into the alley.

The old locust tree's silhouette became a gray-black shadow in the mist, its branches and leaves shrouded in moisture, hanging heavily down like a giant bird folded its wings after being soaked by rain.

The bluestone pavement was wet, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the gaps in the mist, giving it a hazy, indistinct glow that was somewhere between blue and white.

I was squatting in the yard loosening the soil around the clump of bamboo under the old locust tree.

After several days of rain, the soil was soaked with water. When a shovel was inserted, it made a muffled thud. The soil turned up was dark brown and carried an indescribable smell that was a mixture of decay and vitality.

A section of bamboo root emerged from the soil, pale yellow, like fingers that had been curled up for a long time, suddenly illuminated by the sunlight, slightly curled up, as if trying to grasp something, or perhaps just loosening their grip.

The courtyard gate was pushed open.

It wasn't a knock, it was a push. The door hinges let out a long groan, like something that had been awakened from a long slumber.

An undercover agent surnamed Zhou stood at the door.

He was wearing a gray windbreaker with the hood pulled down over his head, the brim of which covered most of his face.

The hem of the windbreaker was damp from the mist, darkening its color, and it clung to my legs.

The liberation shoes on my feet were covered in mud, which was half-dry and had a thin crust on the surface, with cracks like ice patterns on an old porcelain bowl.

He stood there, not coming in, one hand on the door frame, the other hanging at his side, clutching something.

His knuckles were clenched so tightly they turned white, as white as the thick fog.

"I found it," he said.

The sound came from under the brim of the hat, muffled, as if through a layer of water.

I let him into the yard.

As he stepped over the threshold, his foot stumbled on the bluestone slab—not because he was unsteady on his feet, but because it felt as if something was weighing down on his legs, making each step require more effort than usual.

He sat down at the stone table without taking off his hat; the hood of his windbreaker was still pulled up over his head, the brim drawn low, casting shadow over his entire face.

The mist dissipated from him, mingling with the scents of bamboo leaves and earth in the courtyard, making it impossible to distinguish which wisp of mist he brought and which was already there.

He opened his clenched hand and placed it on the stone table.

There was a bronze plaque in the palm of his hand.

It was almost identical to the one hanging at his waist—round on the outside and square on the inside, with smooth, warm edges, and the character "魁" (Kui) engraved on the front.

It's not Zhou, it's Kui.

The character "魁" in "老魁" (Lao Kui).

There is a deep scratch on the corner of the bronze plaque, extending from the last stroke of the character "魁" all the way to the edge of the plaque, as if it had been scraped hard by something sharp.

The scratches were covered in old rust, a darker shade than the surrounding bronze, a deep, somber color between green and black.

The aura emanating from the bronze plaque was not the indigo color of the plaque worn by the undercover agent surnamed Zhou, but a deeper, more turbid color, as if it had been repeatedly soaked and dried by something, leaving behind a layer of color that could not be washed off.

Between gray and brown, between blood and earth.

"Found it in an abandoned brick kiln in the north of the city." His voice came from under the brim of his hat, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, "Due north. Three feet deep."

The bronze plaque was pressed against the chest of a skeleton.

The skeleton was face down, with its hands tied behind its back, and a fist-sized hole in the back of its head.

It wasn't a gunshot wound; it was caused by some blunt object striking the wound at extremely close range.

"The skeleton was wearing a standard jacket issued to the police force fifteen years ago."

The courtyard was so quiet that only the sound of water droplets dripping from the bamboo leaves could be heard.

One drop after another. Water droplets fell on the blue bricks, breaking into even smaller droplets, splashing out and seeping into the cracks between the bricks.

I stared at the bronze plaque on the stone table engraved with the character "魁".

Old Kui's bronze medal.

Fifteen years ago, Lao Kui killed the master of the undercover agent surnamed Zhou, took this bronze plaque, and wore it on himself.

Fifteen years later, the bronze plaque and Lao Kui's remains were buried together three feet north of the abandoned brick kiln in the north of the city, pressing down on Lao Kui's chest.

Who buried it?

Who put the bronze medal back?

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou took off his hat.

His face emerged from the shadows, pale from the mist.

The dark circles under his eyes were so intense that they didn't seem to be caused by staying up all night. It looked like something was seeping out from the inside, seeping under the skin and being held up by a thin layer of epidermis, which seemed to be struggling to hold it in.

His eyes were dry, neither red nor wet, only the kind of dryness that comes from something that has been burned for a very long time, until the firewood has turned to ash and even the last spark in the ash has been extinguished.

"The back of the skeleton's head, that hole." His voice was so calm it didn't sound like he was talking about a skeleton.

"It was from the butt of the gun. It's a standard-issue gun butt issued by the police. I've seen it; my master's gun butt had a crack on it, left from when he hit a door frame while chasing a suspect."

"Did you find the crack?"

"Found it. Next to the skeleton. A sidearm, the stock is cracked, and one bullet is missing from the chamber."

Water droplets were still dripping from the bamboo leaves. One drop after another.

I poured a cup of tea from the earthenware pot and pushed it towards him, but he didn't take it.

My hands rested on my knees, my knuckles still white. The whiteness from clenching them for so long and then loosening them was even more intense than when they were clenched.

"I've been pursuing Lao Kui for three years."

He said, "From the day I took over my master's code name, I was chasing him. I thought I was chasing a drug dealer, chasing an enemy who killed my master. I caught up. He's dead. Dead for fifteen years. I chased him for three years; he died twelve years before me."

"Who were you chasing after during those three years?"

He did not answer.

The bronze plaque lay on the stone table, with the character "魁" (Kui) facing upwards.

The scratch extended from the last stroke to the edge of the card, like someone who had engraved their name on it but then changed their mind and wanted to scrape it off.

Halfway through the scratching, the person ran out of strength, or hesitated, and the scratch stopped at the edge of the card, not finished.

I took Zhenyuan out of my bag and held it in my palm.

Golden light from deep within the sac rose up and spread across the mirror surface.

I aimed the mirror at the bronze plaque on the stone table engraved with the character "魁" (Kui). The golden light shone through the layer of murky air on the surface of the bronze plaque and into the depths of the bronze.

Deep within the mirror, the layer of grayish-brown vapor began to swirl—not evenly, but like a turbulent river, thick in some places and thin in others, with the thicker areas gathering into clumps, like ink spreading on rice paper.

A cluster of strokes at the beginning of the character "魁".

A clump of something was inside the scratch on the edge of the bronze medal.

There was another clump on the back of the bronze medal—I turned the bronze medal over.

There are no engravings on the back, only a smooth and shiny copper surface with a slight indentation in the middle, which was created by someone pressing it with their thumb for many years.

The mass of energy was gathered in the very center of the depression. It was extremely small and extremely dense, so dense that it was almost not grayish-brown, but a color that was close to black and deep black.

"Old Kui wore this bronze plaque for fifteen years." I slightly adjusted the angle of Zhenyuan.

Let the golden light shine obliquely into that thick, black aura, "wear it on your chest, close to your skin."

The bronze medal bore the mark of his worldliness, and also of his fear in his final moments.

"What are you afraid of?"

I did not answer immediately.

The golden light of Zhenyuan swept back and forth within the thick black aura, forcing the aura to the edge of the depression, where it slowly flowed along the copper inner wall.

In the gaps between the currents, I saw the core of that mass of energy—an extremely fine crack, like the thinnest hair.

The cracks weren't in the bronze medal itself, but rather trapped in the air.

In his final moments, Lao Kui was terrified to the extreme, so much so that even the world's spirit was torn apart, leaving a crack that could never be closed.

"He wasn't killed by the butt of a rifle." I put Zhenyuan back.

The golden light retreated deep into the scrotum. "He was scared to death. He was already dead before the gun butt hit him. The hole in the back of his head was made after he died."

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou shifted his gaze from the bronze badge to my face.

His eyes were still dry, but the dark circles under his eyes suddenly deepened, as if something was pushing them outward from the inside.

"Who scared him?"

I turned the bronze plaque over, with the character "魁" (Kui) facing up.

The fingertip touches the ghost radical next to the character "魁".

"The person who carved the inscription. Your master."

A gust of wind suddenly rose in the courtyard.

The wind blew in from the alley entrance, brushing past the wet branches and leaves of the old locust tree, past the bamboo grove, and past the bronze plaque on the stone table.

The bronze medal trembled slightly in the wind, emitting a very faint hum, as if it had been bounced from the inside by some force.

"How long did your master pursue Old Kui?"

Five years.

"Over five years, he became Old Kui. Not really Old Kui—but to survive, to avoid being exposed, he gradually transformed himself into Old Kui's persona."

"Old Kui's way of speaking, Old Kui's habits, Old Kui's eyes, Old Kui's fear. He lived too much like him, so much so that later he couldn't distinguish which parts were his and which were Old Kui's."

"On that last day, he led Old Kui into the warehouse. The doors and windows were locked from the inside. In front of Old Kui, he took off the bronze plaque and placed it on the table."

"When Lao Kui saw that the words engraved on the bronze plaque were not Zhou, but Kui, he realized that he was not Lao Kui. He also realized that he had been living in the shadow of someone who was not himself."

"Old Kui was scared to death. Not by knives and guns, but by the realization that 'I am not myself.'"

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou picked up the bronze plaque from the stone table and held it in his palm.

His thumb landed precisely on the starting stroke of the character "魁".

The thick black gas in the depression clung to his fingertips, beating rhythmically like another heart.

Fifteen years ago, Old Kui pressed his thumb on this indentation and was terrified to death by the words "I am not me".

Fifteen years later, the undercover agent surnamed Zhou pressed his thumb on the same indentation.

"After your master finished carving the four characters 'Kui Xing Does Not Shine,' he took the old Kui's bronze plaque and buried it three feet north of the abandoned brick kiln in the north of the city. Then he left."

"He didn't return to the police station, didn't go home, and left no message. He lived like Old Kui for five years, only to find that he could never be himself again."

"Those four characters, 'Kui Xing does not shine,' were carved by him for Lao Kui, and also for himself."

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou clutched the bronze medal in his palm.

The bronze edge pressed against the lines of his palm, and the thick black mist in the indentation clung to his skin.

He held it for a long time, until the water droplets on the bamboo leaves stopped dripping, until the mist began to thin, until the outline of the old locust tree changed from gray-black back to dark green.

Then he let go.

The bronze medal lay in his palm, the character "魁" (Kui) facing upwards. The scratch extended from the last stroke to the edge of the medal; it hadn't been finished fifteen years ago, and it still hadn't been finished fifteen years later.

He put the bronze medal into the inside pocket of his jacket, attaching it to the bronze medal at his waist that was engraved with the character "Zhou". The two bronze medals, separated by two layers of clothing, pressed against his ribs, pulsating rhythmically with his pulse.

"I need to go to the north of the city." He stood up and put his hat back on.

The brim of the hat was pulled low, shrouding the entire face in shadow once more. Only the sound came from under the hat, steady as if measured by a ruler.

"The remains haven't been collected at the brick kiln yet. I'll go collect them."

He walked to the door and turned around.

The fog closed in behind him, swallowing his silhouette into a blurry gray outline.

His last words echoed from the silhouette.

"I'm done collecting them. I'm taking him home."

The gate closed. The gray silhouette disappeared into the mist.

On the stone table, the cup of coarse pottery tea had gone cold, a thin film forming on the surface of the tea soup, reflecting the increasingly bright sunlight through the mist.

The water droplets on the bamboo leaves started dripping again.

One drop after another. I held Zhenyuan in my palm, and the golden light deep within the Yang membrane receded, leaving only a very faint layer floating on the edge of the mirror.

It was quiet inside the handbag.

The four personal magical artifacts—the Zhenyuan, the copper coin, the lightning-struck wood, and the bronze mirror at the wellhead—are each in their proper place.

There are already seven rough-edged paper packets—Mirror, Mirror, Wait, Lying, Return, Door, and Chief.

The character "魁" (Kui) in this text is not written on paper, but engraved on a bronze plaque.

It was carved for fifteen years, scraped, buried, dug out, held in the palm of the hand, and stuck between two ribs.

It finally went home.