Yin Yang Diviner

The abandoned brick kiln in the north of the city is located 30 miles north of Liuhe Town. It is an old-fashioned rotary kiln, which looks like a clay dragon lying on the ground with weeds growing all over its back.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou set off early the next morning without calling anyone—Old Liu wanted to go with him, but Zhou stopped him at the door.

He simply said, "This is my own business," then pulled up the hood of his gray windbreaker and walked into the still-lingering morning mist.

Old Liu squatted on the threshold of the courtyard, watching the gray figure being swallowed up by the mist little by little. The eight-emperor coins in his pocket dangled from between his fingers, and the hemp rope swayed back and forth.

He didn't chase after them, but simply counted the copper coins one by one.

Shunzhi, Kangxi, Yongzheng, Qianlong, Jiaqing, Daoguang, Xianfeng, Tongzhi. When he got to Tongzhi, his fingertips paused for a moment—that coin had the weakest energy; he had bought it from the ghost market and kept it alive by the moonlight for forty-nine days.

The Tongzhi coin, which had caught its breath, felt slightly warm against his fingertips, as if it were nodding.

I didn't go with them.

That day, he stayed in the courtyard and took out the photo left behind by the undercover agent surnamed Zhou again—the inner wall of the abandoned warehouse, with the four characters "Kui Xing Bu Zhao" (meaning "the god of literature does not shine") engraved on the gray brick surface.

He repeatedly examined the carving marks of those four characters with the Zhenyuan sword, and the grayish-white worldly atmosphere in each groove was revealed to him: when carving the character "魁", the carving knife paused at the beginning of the stroke of the character "鬼", as if the carver was standing in front of the wall, the tip of the knife against the brick surface, without pressing down for a long time.

When carving the character "星" (star), the knife moved so fast that tiny brick chips appeared at the edges of the strokes.

When carving the character "不" (not), the knife slowed down, especially the last stroke, which was dragged out for a long time, as if the carver was reluctant to finish writing it.

When carving the character "照", the last dot of the four-dot bottom was not finished - the tip of the knife only made a shallow mark before it was lifted up and never lowered again.

The bottom is missing one of the four dots.

If the character "照" is missing a dot, it is no longer "照".

I put the photo down, took out some rough-edged paper from my bag, ground the ink, licked the brush, and suspended my wrist.

He wrote the character "照" (zhào) – not imitating the marks on the wall, but writing the "照" (zhào) in his heart. He completed the four dots.

Four drops of ink fell on the paper, like four eyes that had just opened and hadn't yet had a chance to see the world clearly.

He folded the character "照" up, making it the eighth rough-edged paper package.

In the evening, the undercover agent surnamed Zhou returned.

As he pushed open the courtyard gate and walked in, the setting sun was sinking behind the old locust tree to the west. The last ray of light clung to his back, casting a very long shadow, so long that the head of his shadow was already touching the threshold of the main room, while his feet were still resting on the blue stone tablet at the entrance of the alley.

He wasn't wearing a hat, his hair was a mess from the wind, and the dark circles under his eyes had faded—not disappeared.

It's as if something was moved out from the inside; the remaining parts are still there, but they no longer push outwards.

He placed a canvas bag on the stone table, the opening of which was tied with a hemp rope, the end of which was tied in a very tight knot.

"It's all collected," he said.

The sound was steady, as if it had been measured with a ruler, but the hand that was measuring with the ruler was no longer trembling.

The canvas bag contained bones. Not all of them—he only brought back the skull and a finger bone.

There is a fist-sized hole at the back of the skull, with the bone fragments at the edges turned outwards, like a stone flower that has exploded from the inside and will never wither.

The finger bone is on the middle finger, with thick knuckles and bone spurs at the joints resembling the roots of an old tree, twisting and branching outwards. These are hands that have long held guns, and also hands that have carved words on walls.

The four characters "魁星不照" (Kui Xing does not shine) were carved into the knife by this middle finger, one stroke at a time, against the back of the knife.

"I divided my master's belongings into three parts. One part was given to the police and filed in the missing officer's file. One part was buried back at the original site of the brick kiln and a blank tombstone was erected. The last part I brought back—the skull and the finger with the inscription." The undercover agent surnamed Zhou untied the drawstring of the canvas bag.

The bag was open, revealing two grayish-white skeletons inside.

The skeleton was covered with clay from the brick kiln. The clay was yellowish-brown, mixed with years of coal ash and broken bricks, and smelled of dry, burnt earth, like the smell of earth left after being burned many times.

"The forensic examination confirmed that the hole in the skull wasn't caused by a gun butt."

He paused, then continued, "It was a carving knife. Old Kui grabbed the carving knife his master had placed on the table and plunged it into the back of his master's head at extremely close range. When his master fell, he was still clutching the bronze plaque with the character 'Kui' engraved on it. Old Kui pried the plaque from his master's hand, put it on himself, and then dragged his master's body to the brick kiln in the north of the city and buried it."

When he spoke, his hands were resting on his knees, and his knuckles did not turn white.

His outstretched palm, with its deep and shallow lines, resembled a dried-up riverbed. I poured a cup of tea from the rough earthenware pot and pushed it towards him. He caught it, held it in his palm, and let the steam warm his tiger's mouth.

How did you know?

"That scratch on the bronze plaque." The undercover agent surnamed Zhou put down his teacup, took out the bronze plaque with the character "魁" engraved on it from the inner pocket of his work clothes, turned it over so that the back was facing up.

The thick black aura in the depression was still there, but it was lighter than yesterday—not that it had dissipated, but rather that something had been drawn away from that thick black mass. The remaining part was still heavy, but it no longer made it hard to breathe.

"The forensic doctor examined the scratch under a microscope. At the bottom of the scratch, there was an extremely fine bone fragment. It was Master's finger bone."

"When Lao Kui broke the bronze medal, his master's fingers were still gripping it. His fingernails scratched the bronze surface, leaving this mark. Bone fragments are embedded in the mark, and they haven't fallen out even after fifteen years."

When Lao Kui pulled the carving knife out of his master's head, the master's hand was still clutching the bronze plaque.

Old Kui pried open his master's fingers one by one. When he got to the middle finger, his fingernail scratched the copper surface, leaving this mark.

The bone fragments of the master were embedded deep inside, so deep that even after Old Kui wore this bronze plaque for fifteen years and pressed his fingertips against that indentation every day, he still couldn't wear the bone fragments off.

He wore the bronze plaque of the man he killed, pressed it against his chest, and kept it there for fifteen years.

The bronze plaque is engraved with "魁" (Kui), not "周" (Zhou).

He wore his own name, but it was covered in other people's bone fragments.

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

Golden light rose from the depths of the yang membrane, spilling over the mirror surface and illuminating the scratches on the bronze plaque.

Deep within the mirror, the bone fragments in the scratch began to glow—not gold, but a very faint color, somewhere between white and transparent.

Like the lingering mist on the river in the early morning of winter, or the crackle left on the glaze of an old porcelain bowl after being fired for thousands of years.

That was the last breath Master left on the bronze plaque.

"The energy is still in the bone fragments." I put the Zhenyuan back. "It's very faint, but it hasn't dissipated."

Before your master died, he left his last thought in this scratch.

It's not hatred, it's not resentment. It's waiting.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Wait until you dig the bronze medal out of Old Kui's chest, wait until you find this scratch, wait until you see the bone fragments embedded inside. Wait until you—take him home."

The courtyard fell silent.

The bamboo leaves rustled in the night breeze.

The shadow of the old locust tree was stretched from the east wall to the west wall by the moonlight, like a huge hand with its five fingers spread out, moving slowly across the ground.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou held the bronze medal in his palm, pressing his thumb against the scratch.

Bone fragments clung to his fingertips, and a faint white light shone through the deep scratches, warm and gentle, like a finger that had been clenched for fifteen years and was finally able to be released.

He put the bronze medal back into the inner pocket of his work clothes, and stuck it next to the bronze medal engraved with the character "Zhou".

Then stand up, tie the canvas bag, and sling it over your shoulder.

The skull and finger bones touched lightly in the bag, making a very soft sound, like two old pieces of wood knocking against each other.

"I took three days off to go back to my hometown and bury my master next to his mother's grave. Before he passed away, he said that after he retired, he wanted to go back to his hometown to grow oranges."

He walked to the door and turned around.

The moonlight illuminated his face clearly, revealing the dark circles under his eyes, but they were no longer protruding outwards—they were receding inwards, as if something had finally settled down, sinking from under his skin into his bones, and then from his bones into an even deeper place.

He raised his hand and pressed on the inside pocket of his work clothes; two brass plates were pressed against his ribs through the fabric.

"Mr. Qin, the character '照' you wrote has all four dots at the bottom."

The character "照" that my master carved was missing a dot.

I'll make up for what he lacks.

He lifted the canvas bag up slightly, and the skull and finger bones swayed gently inside.

The moonlight shone on the canvas, turning the yellowish-brown brick kiln clay into a warm color between gold and brown.

The courtyard gate was closed.

The footsteps walked along the alley into the distance, one step at a time, as steady as if measured with a ruler.

I picked up the cup of tea on the stone table, which had gone cold, and drank it down sip by sip.

The tea was bitter, so bitter that it made the back of the tongue feel tight, but after swallowing it, a very faint sweetness rose up from deep in the throat.

He took the eighth rough-edged paper package out of his satchel—the one with the word "Zhao" written on it.

Take it apart, flatten it, and add another dot with the tip of the pen next to the four dots at the bottom of the character "照". Five dots. One more dot than in "照".

He folded the paper again and put it back in his bag.

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.

Eight rough-edged paper packets were stacked together—mirror, mirror, wait, lie down, return, door, leader, shine.

Every stroke and line is hidden in the creases, like eight seeds that have not yet sprouted, waiting for their time to come.