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 descending from the sky. The raindrops fell on the bluestone slabs without a sound, only leaving small, dark gray dots on the surface. These dots merged, changing the color of the stone—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, each leaf tip adorned with a drop of water, trembling slightly in the wind like countless tearful eyes. The bamboo grove's leaves were denser, the raindrops unable to penetrate, gathering into larger droplets on the leaf surface, slowly rolling down the veins to the leaf tip, pausing for a moment, then falling onto the blue bricks with a very soft—plop.

I sat on the threshold of the fortune-telling shop, placed the camphor wood box on my lap, and opened it. The 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-inducing bell, and a bronze mirror from the well's mouth—lay quietly on a dark red velvet cloth. The mirror's surface was still dark—Master Zhou had said the curse locked within the mirror was slowly dissipating, faster than expected, and that it would be able to reflect images again in about three years. Now, less than half a year had passed, and the layer of grayish-white mist on the mirror's surface was tightly sealed, like a curled-up sleeping cat, breathing evenly, its ear tips occasionally twitching slightly, but its eyes remaining closed.

Zhenyuan felt slightly warm inside the bag. The golden light deep within the Yang membrane had condensed into a pinhead-sized point, like another cat curled up beside its nest, half-asleep. I took Zhenyuan out, held it in my palm, and aligned its mirror face with the bronze mirror at the wellhead. The golden light spread out, but was blocked by the layer of grayish-white mist, unable to penetrate, only floating on the surface, like a thin layer of rejected inquiries. Zhenyuan warmed slightly—not with alertness, 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, not unresponsive, but simply waiting for the right moment. Then it withdrew its golden light and sank back into the depths of the Yang membrane.

Footsteps echoed from the alleyway entrance. It wasn't the rhythm of the townspeople—the people of Liuhe Town walked slowly, their cloth shoes scraping against the bluestone slabs with a soft, rustling sound, like bamboo leaves turning. These footsteps were hard, the soles of the shoes had heels, each step firm and measured, the rhythm as even as if measured with a ruler. The person paused under the old locust tree, as if looking at the tree, or perhaps at the bluestone tablet beneath it. Then the footsteps turned into the alley and stopped at the entrance of the fortune-telling shop.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou stood in the rain. He wasn't using an umbrella; his gray windbreaker was soaked through, and the brim of his hat was pulled low, dripping water droplets down onto his right hand, which was clenched tightly, his knuckles white, as white as the dense rain. He stood there, not coming in, rainwater flowing down his shoulders, forming a small puddle on the bluestone slab, reflecting the sunlight.

"I found it," he said. His voice came from under the brim of his hat, muffled, as if through a layer of water.

I ushered him into the fortune-telling shop. As he stepped across the threshold, his foot stumbled on the blue bricks—not because he was unsteady on his feet, but as if something was weighing down on his legs, making each step require significantly more effort than usual. He sat down on a chair opposite the counter, his hat pulled low, the brim of his windbreaker shrouding his face in shadow. Rainwater streamed down his body, forming a small puddle beside the chair leg, reflecting the "mirror image" calligraphy on the wall.

He opened his clenched hand and placed it on the counter.

In my palm lay a bronze plaque. Round on the outside, square on the inside, its edges worn smooth and warm. Engraved on the front was a single character—"魁" (Kui). Not "周" (Zhou), but "魁" (Kui). The "魁" of "老魁" (Lao Kui). A deep scratch ran along the corner of the plaque, from the last stroke of the character "魁" all the way to the edge, as if it had been scraped by something sharp. The scratch was filled with aged rust, a darker shade than the surrounding bronze, a deep, somber color somewhere between green and black.

"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. A copper plaque was pressed against the chest of a skeleton. The skeleton was face down, its hands were tied behind its back, and there was a fist-sized hole in the back of its head. It wasn't a gunshot wound; it was caused by some blunt object smashing it in at extremely close range."

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

The fortune-telling shop was so quiet that only the sound of rain dripping from the eaves could be heard. One drop after another. I held the Zhenyuan mirror in my palm, and the golden light from the depths of the mirror surface rose up and spread across it. I aimed the mirror at the bronze plaque on the counter engraved with the character "魁" (Kui). The golden light pierced through the murky aura on the surface of the bronze plaque and shone deep into its bronze.

Deep within the mirror's surface, the aura began to swirl. It wasn't uniform; it was like a turbulent river, thick in some places and thin in others. The thicker areas coalesced into several clumps, like ink spreading on rice paper. One clump was at the beginning of the character "魁" (Kui), another within the scratch on the edge of the bronze plaque. And yet another clump was on the back of the plaque—I turned it over. The back had no inscription, only a smooth, shiny bronze surface, slightly concave in the center, as if pressed out by someone's thumb over many years. That clump of aura gathered precisely in the center of the concavity, extremely small, extremely dense—so dense it wasn't almost grayish-brown, but a near-black, deep-set color.

I slightly adjusted the angle of the amulet, letting the golden light shine obliquely into the thick, black aura. The aura was forced to the concave edge by the golden light, slowly flowing along the inner bronze wall. In the gaps between these flows, I saw the core of the aura—an extremely fine crack, like the thinnest hair. It wasn't a crack in the bronze amulet itself, but one left within the aura. This bronze amulet had been imbued with the worldly energy of a person, and also with that person's final moments of fear. Fear to the extreme, fear that even the worldly energy was torn apart, leaving a crack that could never be closed.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou took off the bronze plaque from his waist and placed it on the counter, next to the plaque bearing the character "魁" (Kui). One side was engraved with "周" (Zhou), and the other with "魁" (Kui). The strokes of the character "周" (Zhou) were thin and sharp, deeply engraved, the grooves filled with aged rust, a deep indigo color between green and blue. The scratch on the character "魁" (Kui) extended from the last stroke to the edge of the plaque, its color an indelible dark hue. The two plaques were identical in shape and size, even the worn edges almost overlapped.

"These two bronze plaques were originally a pair." I simultaneously covered both plaques with the mirror of Zhenyuan. Golden light fell, and the characters "Zhou" and "Kui" lit up at the same time. It wasn't reflected light; it emanated from within the bronze. The aura of the "Zhou" plaque was indigo, the same indigo I'd seen countless times on the waists of Zhou's undercover agents—a color worn down by countless brushes with death. The aura of the "Kui" plaque was grayish-brown, a color permeated by Old Kui's fear.

But deep within the mirror, deep within the two wisps of energy, lies the same thing. In the deepest part of the indigo, a very faint golden hue slowly swirls—not the scent of incense, not psychic power, but like a drop of honey dropped into a vat of indigo dye. The honey sinks to the bottom, enveloped by the dye, not dissolving, but simply remaining there quietly, emitting its own weak but steady sweetness. In the deepest part of the grayish-brown, there is also a similar golden hue—suppressed by Old Kui's fear for many years, almost invisible, yet it still remains.

Two bronze plaques, cast from the same batch of molten bronze. The inscription was carved by the same hand. Passed down from the same master to two apprentices.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou took off his hat. His face emerged from the shadows, pale from the rain. The dark circles under his eyes were thicker than those from staying up all night; it looked as if something was seeping from within, seeping beneath his skin, and being held up by a thin layer of epidermis with great difficulty. His eyes were dry, neither red nor wet, only the kind of dryness left after a very long time of burning, until the firewood had turned to ash, and even the last embers had been extinguished.

"The back of the skeleton's head, that hole." His voice was as steady as if measured with a ruler. "It was from the butt of a gun. A standard police butt. I've seen it—my master's butt had a crack; it was from when he hit a door frame while chasing a suspect."

"Have you found the crack?"

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

"Where are the bullets?"

He didn't answer. He reached his right hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, rummaged for a long time, and pulled out a bullet. The bullet was old; the bronze color on the casing had darkened, the primer had been fired, and it was an empty shell. There was a very fine scratch on the bullet tip, running from the bullet tip all the way to the casing muzzle, as if it had been scratched by something sharp. He placed the bullet between two bronze plates, one on the left and one on the right, with the bullet in the middle.

"The skeleton had a bronze plaque with the character 'Kui' pressed against its chest. Its right hand was clutching this bullet." He held the bullet upright, bullet tip upwards. "My master's sidearm was missing a bullet. This bullet was never fired; he held it in his hand for fifteen years."

"Who is he planning to shoot with that bullet in his hand?"

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou placed the bullet back on the counter, alongside the two bronze plaques. His gaze moved from the character "Zhou" to the character "Kui," then from "Kui" back to the bullet, finally settling back into his empty palm.

"Old Kui killed my master and stole the bronze plaque with the character 'Zhou' on it, wearing it himself. But he didn't know that my master had another bronze plaque—the bronze plaque with the character 'Kui' on it. The two plaques were originally a pair, one for the senior brother and one for the junior brother. The one Old Kui stole was the 'Zhou' plaque, and the one my master left for himself was the 'Kui' plaque. He used the 'Zhou' plaque to exchange for his own life, and used the 'Kui' plaque to cover Old Kui's corpse."

"The four characters on the warehouse wall—'Kui Xing Does Not Shine'—were carved by Old Kui before he died. He seized the bronze plaque with the character 'Zhou' on it, thinking he had won. But when he saw my master take out another bronze plaque from his pocket, he knew he had lost. He carved 'Kui Xing Does Not Shine' not for my master, but for himself. Kui Xing no longer shines on him, and neither do the Big Dipper."

The rain intensified. Water droplets rolled faster on the bamboo leaves, falling one after another onto the blue bricks, their pattering sounds blending into a continuous chorus. The undercover agent surnamed Zhou picked up two bronze plaques from the counter, one bearing the character "Zhou" in his left hand and "Kui" in his right. His thumbs pressed on the first stroke of each character: his left thumb on the left-falling stroke of "Zhou," and his right thumb on the top of the "ghost" radical of "Kui." Two hands, two names, from the same bronze furnace, carved by the same hand.

“I’ve been chasing Old Kui for three years,” he said. “From the day I took over my master’s code name, I’ve been chasing him. I thought I was chasing a drug dealer, chasing the enemy who killed my master. I caught up with him. He’s dead, dead for fifteen years. I chased him for three years, he died twelve years before me.”

"During those three years, you weren't chasing after Lao Kui."

"No. I'm following my master. He spent fifteen years becoming Old Kui, and then another fifteen years stripping Old Kui away from himself. In the end, he found he had nothing left. He pressed the bronze plaque with the character 'Kui' on Old Kui's chest, and held the bullet in Old Kui's hand. Then he left. He didn't go back to the police force, he didn't go home. He lived as Old Kui for fifteen years, and in the end, he found he could never be himself again."

He held the two bronze plaques together in his palm. The edges of the bronze touched each other, making a very faint, crisp sound—a clink. It wasn't the sound of two chess pieces settling down; it was the sound of two stones, washed by the same river for many years, finally picked up by the same hand and placed in the same pocket.

"These two bronze medals were left to me by my master. One is his, and the other is my junior brother's. He lived for my junior brother for fifteen years, and my junior brother died for him for fifteen years. Now they are together."

He put the bronze plaque with the character "魁" back on the counter and pushed it in front of me. He clutched the bronze plaque with the character "周" in his palm, pressed it against his chest.

"Please keep this. Not for me, but for my master and uncle. They were separated for fifteen years, but they're reunited now. This bronze plaque belongs to them. It's too heavy for me to keep. It's lighter for you to keep."

I picked up the bronze plaque with the character "魁" (Kui) from the counter. The bronze was cool to the touch, and the scratch stretched from the last stroke to the edge of the plaque, filled with years of rust, its color a deep indigo. Deep within the indigo, a spot of gold, suppressed for many years, remained. I took a red string from the camphor wood box and threaded it through the tiny hole at the top of the plaque. The red string was a leftover from my second grandfather's work of weaving auspicious knots. The plaque hung down on the red string, the character "魁" facing outwards.

The undercover agent surnamed Zhou stood up and put his hat back on. The brim was pulled low, shrouding his face in shadow once more. He walked to the door and turned around. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, onto his hand clutching the bronze plaque with the character "Zhou," and onto the bullet.

"My master's grave is in the cemetery in the north of the city. I collected my uncle's remains and buried them next to him. There are no names on the tombstone, only a date—the day they parted ways."

He left. His figure in the gray windbreaker disappeared into the rain. The leaves of the old locust tree drooped low, each leaf tip adorned with a drop of water, about to fall.

I placed the bronze plaque with the character "魁" (Kui) on the red string back into the camphor wood box, alongside the induction bell and the bronze mirror at the wellhead. The grayish-white mist from the wellhead mirror clung to the edge of the plaque, and the scratches on the plaque gleamed with a very faint indigo in the shadows. Deep within the indigo, a point of gold shone quietly, like a lamp that had been suppressed for many years, finally having its wick adjusted.