Yin Yang Diviner

The day the undercover agent surnamed Zhou finished collecting the remains, it rained in Liuhe Town.

It wasn't a torrential downpour, but a fine, dense rain, like someone tearing a whole bolt of old silk into extremely fine threads, slowly hanging down from the sky.

The raindrops fell on the bluestone slabs without making a sound, only leaving small, dark gray spots on the surface. As the spots merged, the slabs changed color—from grayish-white to grayish-blue, and from grayish-blue to a deep, dark blue, like the bottom of an old porcelain bowl.

The leaves of the old locust tree drooped low under the patter of the rain, each leaf tip adorned with a drop of water, the droplets swaying gently in the wind, like countless tearful eyes.

The bamboo grove's leaves are denser, preventing the rain from penetrating. Instead, the raindrops gather on the leaf surface, forming larger droplets that slowly roll down the veins to the leaf tips, pause for a moment, and then fall onto the blue bricks with a very soft "tap."

I sat at the entrance of the main room, with the camphor wood box in front of me.

The box was open, and eight old items—a Bagua seal, a copper bell, five-emperor coins, a peach wood sword, an ink line, a piece of wood struck by lightning, a fetal bell, and a bronze mirror from the wellhead—lay quietly on a dark red velvet cloth.

The mirror at the wellhead is still dark—Master Zhou said that the curse locked in the mirror is slowly dissipating, faster than expected, and it will be able to reflect images again in about three years.

Less than half a year has passed, and the grayish-white mist on the mirror surface is tightly closed, like a curled-up sleeping cat, breathing evenly, occasionally its ear tips twitching slightly, but its eyes not opening.

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.

The golden light reflected on the bronze mirror at the wellhead, but was blocked by the layer of grayish-white mist. It couldn't penetrate and only floated on the surface, like a thin layer of rejected gaze.

Zhen Yuan felt a slight warmth, not a wary warmth, but like someone knocking on an old friend's door. The door didn't open, but a sliver of light shone through the crack, indicating that the old friend was inside, quietly waiting. It wasn't that the friend wasn't responding; it was just that the time hadn't come yet.

It then withdrew its golden light and sank back into the depths of the Yang membrane.

There was a knock on the gate three times.

The pace was unhurried, with each sound spaced as if measured with a ruler.

I opened the door, and the undercover agent surnamed Zhou was standing outside.

He wasn't wearing that gray windbreaker; instead, he wore a clean white shirt with a crisp collar and neatly buttoned cuffs.

The shirt was tucked into the waistband, the belt was old, the leather was worn shiny, and there was a thin scratch on the buckle, as if it had been rubbed by something.

His face was cleanly shaved, his jawline was sharp, and the dark circles under his eyes had faded a lot—not disappeared, but rather seemed to have been diluted from the inside by something, turning from dark ink to light ink, and from light ink to water stains.

He stood there, not coming in.

One hand hangs at his side, while the other is held in front of his chest, with something in his palm.

Two bronze medals. Lying side by side.

One piece is engraved with "Zhou", and the other with "Kui".

The strokes of the character "周" are thin and hard, carved very deeply, with the grooves filled with old bronze rust, the color of which is a deep indigo, somewhere between green and blue.

The scratch mark on the character "魁" is still there, extending from the last stroke to the edge of the card. It wasn't finished scratching fifteen years ago, and it hasn't been finished fifteen years later.

But the color of the scratch has changed—it's no longer that dark color that can't be washed off; it's as if something has been pulled out from deep within the scratch, leaving an empty, clean groove.

"The remains have been collected."

His voice was soft and steady, as if measured by a ruler. "He was buried in the North City Cemetery. There was no name on the tombstone, only a date. The date he disappeared."

He placed the two bronze plaques on the stone table. The bronze touched the bluestone and made a very soft sound—a ding.

Like two chess pieces that haven't met in a long time, they finally landed on the same line.

"These two bronze medals were originally a pair."

I didn't say anything. 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 two bronze plaques on the stone table, and the golden light fell down, covering the characters "Zhou" and "Kui".

Two wisps of air rose from the depths of the mirror.

The bronze plaque bearing the character "周" has an indigo blue hue.

I've seen that indigo blue color countless times on the waist of the Zhou undercover agent. Every time I see it, I feel it's the color worn down by countless brushes with death.

It's changed today—not in color, but in the air, there's an extra layer.

In the deepest part of the indigo, a very faint gold was slowly flowing; it was neither the scent of incense nor the power of thought.

It's like someone dropping a drop of honey into a vat of indigo dye. The honey sinks to the bottom, enveloped by the dye, and doesn't dissolve. It just stays there quietly, emitting its own faint but steady sweetness.

The original color of the bronze plaque with the character "魁" was a murky grayish-brown, which was stained by the old man's fear.

Now the grayish-brown has faded, as if it has been repeatedly washed from the inside by something, gradually washing away the old Kui's fear and revealing another color underneath—a very faint light, somewhere between gray and silver.

It's not righteousness, nor is it malevolence; it's the last glimmer of light shining through the crack in someone's heart as they walk half their life on the edge of a knife, finally realizing they are no longer themselves.

The aura of the two bronze plaques slowly approached each other deep within the mirror.

Indigo and silvery-gray, like two streams washed by the same river for many years, finally meet at the estuary.

They did not merge—indigo was still indigo, and silver was still silver, but there was an extremely fine, hair-like connection between them.

The line extends from the last stroke of the character "周" and rests on the edge of the scratch on the character "魁".

"Your master chased after Lao Kui for five years, and ended up becoming Lao Kui himself."

I slightly adjusted the angle of Zhenyuan, letting the golden light shine obliquely along the connecting line. "The moment Old Kui was scared to death by your master, his fear was left on this bronze plaque. But your master's fear was also left on another bronze plaque."

"What is your master afraid of?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to turn back."

The courtyard fell silent.

The rain was still falling, on the leaves of the old locust tree, on the tips of the bamboo leaves, on the blue bricks, and on the two bronze plaques on the stone table.

The copper was soaked by rainwater, and its color darkened.

The indigo blue of the character "周" and the gray-silver of the character "魁" shimmered slightly in the water, like two mirrors that had been washed by the same river for many years, finally facing each other.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou picked up the two bronze plaques from the stone table and held them in his palm.

The character "周" is on the left and "魁" is on the right.

His thumbs pressed on the starting strokes of the two characters respectively, with his left thumb on the left-falling stroke of the character "周" and his right thumb on the top of the "鬼" radical of the character "魁".

Two hands, two names, the same bronze plaque design.

"When my master was preparing the body for burial, the forensic doctor said that the hole in the back of the skull was not a fatal wound."

His voice came through the rain, shrouded in moisture, devoid of emotion: "The fatal wound is in my chest. Three ribs are broken, from front to back. It was from the butt of a rifle."

"It wasn't Old Kui who smashed it."

"No. When Old Kui was scared to death, he fell backward. His ribs broke from front to back, which means the person who hit him was standing in front of him."

The raindrops were thick and dense.

The water droplets on the bamboo leaves rolled even faster, falling one after another onto the blue bricks, creating a continuous pattering sound.

"After my master scared Lao Kui to death, he smashed Lao Kui's ribs with the butt of his gun." The undercover agent surnamed Zhou's voice remained calm, as calm as if the butt of the gun had not struck a corpse.

Instead, it was a wall. "Then he took down Lao Kui's bronze plaque, and took down his own bronze plaque as well, and put them together. The two bronze plaques, one with the character 'Zhou' and the other with the character 'Kui'."

He stared at it for a long time.

"Then he took the bronze plaque with the character 'Kui' with him and left the bronze plaque with the character 'Zhou' in the warehouse."

He walked out of the warehouse, and the door was locked from the outside.

He went to the abandoned brick kiln in the north of the city, and buried the bronze plaque with the character "魁" (Kui) three feet deep to the north.

Then he left.

"He didn't bury the two bronze plaques together. Because at that time he could still tell which one was his and which one was Old Kui's."

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou held the two bronze plaques together in his palm.

The copper edges touched each other, making a very faint, crisp sound—a ding.

It wasn't the sound of two chess pieces landing; it was the sound of two stones, washed by the same river for many years, finally being picked up by the same hand and put into the same pocket.

"Later he couldn't tell the difference anymore."

"Fifteen years. He lived as Lao Kui for five years, and then spent ten years peeling Lao Kui away from himself bit by bit."

"After peeling away all that was left, he found he had almost nothing left."

"Five years plus ten years, fifteen years. An undercover agent turned another person into himself, and then turned himself into another person."

In the end, he forgot who he originally was.

"When he buried the bronze plaque with the character 'Kui' in the brick kiln in the north of the city, he was burying Old Kui, but also himself."

The rain suddenly stopped.

It didn't stop gradually; it was like someone tearing a whole bolt of old silk in half and then suddenly stopping.

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

One drop after another. Sunlight filtered through the dispersed clouds, falling on the stone table, on the palm of the Zhou undercover agent, and on the two bronze plaques.

The indigo blue of the character "周" and the gray-silver of the character "魁" shone slightly in the light, like two mirrors that had been washed by the same river for many years, finally reflecting each other.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou separated the two bronze plaques.

He held the character "Zhou" in his left hand and the character "Kui" in his right. He placed the bronze plaque with the character "Kui" back on the stone table and held the bronze plaque with the character "Zhou" in his palm.

"I'll take this back and return it to the police."

"The code name for an undercover agent is passed down to only one person per generation."

"When the bronze plaque with the character 'Zhou' came to me, I returned it. After that, no one called him 'Zhou' anymore."

He pushed the bronze plaque with the character "魁" (Kui) in front of me.

"Please keep this safe."

"Inside the bronze plaque bearing the character 'Kui,' there are fifteen years of my master's life, and also Old Kui's fear. Old Kui's fear has dissipated. My master's fifteen years haven't dissipated yet. It doesn't know where to go."

I picked up the bronze plaque with the character "魁" (Kui) from the stone table.

The copper was cool to the touch, and the edges were polished smooth and warm.

The scratch extended from the last stroke to the edge of the card; it wasn't finished fifteen years ago, and it still isn't now. The scratch is completely clean, like a riverbed that has been scoured out.

The riverbed is dry, but its shape remains, winding and meandering, extending from the last stroke of the character "魁" all the way to the edge of the bronze plaque, beyond which it leads, its destination unknown.

I took a red string from the camphor wood box and threaded it through the tiny hole at the top of the bronze plaque.

The red string was given to me by my second grandfather; it was leftover from making auspicious knots.

The bronze plaque was strung on a red rope and hung down, with the character "魁" (Kui) facing outwards.

The scratch shimmered with a very faint silvery-gray hue in the light—the last bit of light left behind by Old Kui after he feared it would be washed away.

"I won't wear it."

I held the bronze medal in my palm.

Looking at the undercover agent surnamed Zhou, he said, "I'm just keeping him for someone. Someone I've been chasing for five years, peeling away layers for ten, and in the end, I don't even know where I am."

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou stared at the bronze tag strung on the red string for a long time.

Then he reached out and rubbed his thumb back and forth on the scratch on the character "魁".

The calluses on my fingertips scraped against the copper, making an extremely fine and light rustling sound, like picking up a grain of sand from the riverbed and putting it back into the water.

"My master's surname is Zhou. I also have the surname Zhou, but we are not the same Zhou." He withdrew his hand, put the bronze "Zhou" character pendant into his shirt pocket, and pressed it against his chest.

"He is him. I am me. I return his code name and leave his bronze medal with someone. His fifteen years have found their place."

He stood up.

The hem of the white shirt peeked out from under the waistband, fluttering gently in the breeze.

The thin scratch on the belt buckle gleamed in the light, like something had rubbed against it, left for many years, and finally no longer hurting.

He walked to the door and turned around.

The sunlight shone from behind him, illuminating his face clearly.

The dark circles under his eyes had faded to almost invisible; they hadn't disappeared, but rather looked as if they had been filled in from the inside by something—not with new skin.

It's when one person finally finds the way home for another, and the weight is lifted from their heart, that ripples slowly spread, overflowing their eyes, their dark circles, and everything that has been hanging in the air for fifteen years.

"I'll come find you when I get there."

"Where are we?"

He did not answer.

The figure in the white shirt disappeared at the alley entrance.

Sunlight filtered through the clouds, shining on the bluestone slabs, on the wet leaves of the old locust tree, and on the water droplets about to fall from the tips of the bamboo leaves.

The light in the water droplets is refracted into small segments of rainbow, passing from one drop to another, from one leaf to another.

I put the bronze plaque with the character "魁" (Kui) on the red rope back into the camphor wood box, placing it alongside the induced fetal bell and the bronze mirror at the wellhead.

Eight old items, one more today.

It wasn't passed down by my second grandfather; it was entrusted to someone by an undercover agent surnamed Zhou.

What was entrusted was not a bronze medal, but the last thing in the world that could prove the existence of a person who had chased for five years, stripped away for ten years, and finally didn't know where he was going.

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 paper packets with rough edges—Mirror, Mirror, Wait, Lying, Return, Door, and King. Today, the character "King" has changed from a paper packet to a bronze plaque.

It emerged from the creases, threaded onto a red rope, and landed in a camphor wood box, lying side by side with the induced fetal bell and the bronze mirror at the wellhead.

The bell is for guiding souls. The bronze mirror is for collecting the "dead". The bronze plaque is the last bit of weight that someone who doesn't know where they're going can hold onto.

Outside the window, the rain started falling again.

It was so fine and dense, like someone had torn a whole bolt of old silk into extremely fine threads, which then slowly hung down from the sky.

The leaves of the old locust tree drooped low, each leaf tip adorned with a drop of water, swaying gently in the wind, about to fall.

The bamboo grove has denser leaves, so the raindrops can't penetrate them. Instead, they gather into larger droplets on the leaf surface, slowly rolling down the veins to the leaf tip, pausing for a moment, and then falling.

It landed on the blue bricks with a very soft, almost imperceptible sound—a soft thud.

Like a bronze plaque being placed back into a camphor wood box, it made a very soft, very faint sound when it touched the edge of the induced fetal bell.