Fortune 004: Character Divination

Nan Shi hadn’t yet decided how to respond when the old man suddenly burst out laughing. The chill in the air vanished, and seeing Nan Shi’s slightly contracted pupils, the old man awkwardly rubbed his nose, realizing he’d taken the joke too far. “Just teasing, Mr. Nan, do as you please! I’m an honest soul, and never dabbled in crime! Is today inconvenient for you? Should I come back tomorrow instead?”

Nan Shi couldn’t help himself; he glanced up at the sky—a classic eye roll.

“Not at all. I was just about to head over to the braised meat rice shop up ahead for dinner, so I locked up the door,” he explained. The old man nodded vigorously. “If it’s no trouble, perhaps we could go together… I left home early today and haven’t eaten yet!”

With things said to this degree, one can’t refuse a friendly face. Nan Shi gestured invitingly. “Please.”

The old man returned the courtesy, and they walked side by side. “To think that braised meat shop is still open? I used to go there all the time back when it was just a small stall—didn’t even have its own storefront. I haven’t been in years and wonder what it’s like now.”

“You’ve eaten there too?” Nan Shi smiled. “It’s only in the last couple of years that business took off—they rented a main street location and became a local hotspot. Always crowded… Back when I was a student, the shop was tiny, just a window in someone else’s store. Who’d have thought it would grow so much in a few years!”

The braised meat shop they spoke of was one of the neighborhood’s classics, with a simple menu: chicken wings, pig’s feet, rabbit legs, and pork shoulder. But the taste was unbeatable.①

The method was nothing fancy—meats were steamed until cooked, then deep-fried until crispy on the outside and tender within. Afterward, they were tossed in a secret sauce. The key was the sauce itself: thick and glossy, its mystery ingredients somehow erased any gamey flavors, leaving only pure, rich, meaty goodness.

Nan Shi had once chatted with the owner, who claimed he’d turned down three million for the recipe. Several copycat shops had popped up over the years; Nan Shi tried them all, but none measured up.

On a street where shops opened and closed every year, this braised meat place had stood for decades, putting supposed “century-old stores” to shame.

It was dinner time. Nan Shi was lucky to snag the last table—a second-floor window seat, warmed by the heater, and windows open to let in the world: red lanterns framed in the view, footsteps echoing from the street, the cries of hawkers, and the tantalizing aroma of shredded bell pepper pork drifting from somewhere nearby. The air was thick with the comforts of everyday life.

The old man sat across from Nan Shi. As a seasoned ghost, it was no trouble to manifest physically at the turn of day and night. He picked up a piece of pork shoulder, took a slow bite, chewed thoughtfully, and finally sighed. “If only I’d died just a bit later.”

Nan Shi was delicately gnawing a pig’s trotter, sauce glistening at the corner of his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at the remark, smiling. “I wouldn’t know about that, but you need a good set of teeth to enjoy this shoulder.”

“Mr. Nan is quite right.” The old man chuckled. “By the way, my surname is Chen. I hail from Suzhou. I’ve come to seek your expertise.”

Nan Shi dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Let’s hear it, Mr. Chen.”

Times had changed; not every soul lingering in the world was a vengeful ghost. Some had no obsession at all and simply preferred the comfort of the living world, having secured permission to vacation here while waiting to reincarnate. He’d never visited the afterlife himself, but rumor had it the underworld’s technology was about three centuries ahead of the human realm. Ever since Steve Jobs arrived, Apple was already on its hundredth iPhone.

That was just one example. Consider how many great minds throughout history had joined their ranks, pushing R&D ever further—the underworld must have developed into something unimaginable by now.

As for such rumors, he’d heard them from household servants.

His senior brother never wasted breath on such things.

“Mr. Chen,” he prompted.

Without wasting time, Mr. Chen explained his request. “I lost a seal in the chaos of war approximately fifty years ago. I’ve searched ever since, yet never found a trace. I hope you might divine its whereabouts.”

Nan Shi thought for a moment. “Did you make it yourself?”

He knew, in his experience, people seeking his help rarely came about avenging wrongs—it was always trivial matters.

Chen shook his head. “An old friend made it for me. If he were still around, perhaps it could be found easily, but that old rascal went straight for reincarnation as soon as he passed, leaving me searching in vain.”

“All right. How about a character?” Nan Shi offered.

For finding missing objects or people, character divination was usually more accurate.

Chen considered, dipped his fingertip in tea, and wrote the character “没” (lost) on the table.

Nan Shi scrutinized it: “Left side, ‘water’; right side, a few crossed strokes—it looks like you’ve lost that seal many times before? Found it in the water more than once?”

“…,” Chen paused, an introspective look dawning. Slowly, he answered, “You’ve guessed it. In my last years, I became senile—sometimes lucid, sometimes confused. I always carried the seal with me and misplaced it repeatedly—each time, it turned up in the well at home.”

“Hm…” Nan Shi continued, “It probably didn’t end up in the water for good. Since you used the word ‘没’ (lost/sunk), it suggests somewhere deep. Try to recall—were there any especially deep wells, lakes, or rivers near your home? It’s likely still in there.”②

Chen thought carefully, then shook his head. “I’ve searched my house and all nearby places so many times. It simply isn’t there. If it were, I ought to have found it by now.”

Nan Shi sighed and, imitating Chen, dipped in tea and circled the bottom component of the character: “Maybe it’s just covered up. Look again carefully. If not, I won’t take your fee—in fact, I’ll even apologize for misleading you.”

Chen stared at the circle, muttering something Nan Shi couldn’t make out, as the tea mark gradually evaporated, leaving behind a single dot above the character, forming the radical 宀 (“roof”)!

Nan Shi noted, “A canopy… Most likely it’s lodged in a flood-control pipe under a lake or river.”

In the Kangxi Dictionary:

[“Radical 宀:
Pronunciation: pronounced Mian.
Etymology: the cover of a deep house.
Tian Yiheng wrote: In ancient times, people lived in caves before there were palaces and houses; first came the 宀 (roof), then the cave. 宀 represents a convex mound above and a hollow below, suggesting shelter. The characters for house and family all derive from this.”]③

Simply put, 宀 refers to shelter or a building.

Nan Shi initially thought the seal was covered by something—leaves, stone, silt in a well or lake. But with this touch of inspiration, suddenly the character implied the object was hidden by something like a structure.

A house has entrances and exits; if it has neither, it’s not a house.

So, it couldn’t be in a well after all. In lakes, where there are covers and access, only flood-control pipes fit the bill.

Such pipes in lakes or rivers are opened during floods to drain water; a seal could easily have been drawn in during one such event.

Of course, it was also possible it was hidden in an ancient tomb at the bottom of a lake—but almost all the tombs and ruins in S City had been excavated by now. If that were the case, it could only be due to great depth or other peculiarities, but a mere seal was unlikely to fall in by accident.

And, more to the point, the old man had already searched thoroughly—surely he’d asked locals for help; if it had ended up in someone’s home, they’d have found it by now.

Ancient tombs were nothing like modern ones. Nowadays, people were buried alone—or cremated to a handful of ash. Even where burials persisted, usually only a thin coffin with a touch of gold or silver would be buried.

But in the past? Tombs had retinues, concubines, even slaves buried with their masters. Take his senior brother, Chi You, for example—his entire house staff had not been hired off the “Underworld Indeed.com” with benefits, but were his loyal servants from life.

In such circumstances, even if the master had long since reincarnated, those loyal followers would linger for centuries, ever guarding the tomb until their souls finally faded.

The thought made Nan Shi rub his arms faintly. He was about to urge the old man to move quickly, lest things get complicated, when he looked up and found him gone, leaving behind a half-eaten pork shoulder and a jade fan pendant. The pendant’s string of beads had turned gray with age, but the jade itself still glowed, as if long fondled in a loving palm.

That, evidently, was Mr. Chen’s token of thanks.

Gazing at the two-person meal, Nan Shi let out a sigh—what else could he do but pack it up and take it home?

After this episode, Nan Shi had no desire to reopen the shop. Instead, he strolled leisurely down the pedestrian street before turning in early.

---

“You’re back, Young Master.” Qing Lan bent to salute Nan Shi, who waved her off and glanced briefly over her before heading inside. She was unfazed and followed behind at a respectful distance.

—A little lacking in courtesy, perhaps, but he couldn’t help it. Nan Shi was timid: fearing a heart attack, he dared not look too long.

Carrying a bag of cold braised meat, he asked, “Has my senior brother eaten?”

“Not yet,” Qing Lan replied demurely. “The master just got up and is bathing.”

Nan Shi thought for a moment, then changed direction. “I’ll wait for him in the study.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Chi You emerged from bathing, he found Nan Shi at the writing desk, staring at a single brushstroke on paper—was it an accidental drip of ink, or a deliberate dot? He seemed deep in thought.

Spotting Chi You, Nan Shi’s eyes lit up. He looked every bit the student desperate for his teacher’s aid. Rising, he saluted. “Greetings, Senior Brother.”

Chi You waved casually, dark hair loose and damp, leaving his robe soaked.

He settled down on the long couch, brow arching lazily. “A Nan, you’re back early today.”

His chief maid, Qing He, entered with a towel, nodded to Nan Shi, then quietly took her place behind Chi You, drying his hair.

Nan Shi had wanted his senior brother to look at the character he’d divined, but seeing him like this, he kept it to himself for the moment, walking over to stand by the couch and report, “I brought some snacks, would you like to try them, Senior Brother?”

“Sit,” Chi You said, and at once a maid brought over the re-heated braised meats. Chi You sniffed and asked, “You call these snacks, A Nan?”

Nan Shi kept a straight face. “Only brought a little—just enough for snacks.”

Chi You made no comment, but tasted a little with a silver pick, nodding. “Acceptable.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Nan Shi didn’t mention that eating with one’s hands improved the flavor; seeing Chi You put down his chopsticks, he broached today’s divination. Chi You listened, expression unreadable, and after a moment remarked, “So you’re saying… that last touch transformed the ‘冖’ into ‘宀’?”

“That’s right.” Nan Shi had felt sure at the time, but in hindsight, he was increasingly uncertain.

After all, in character divination, the one seeking the answer—the client—should make the marks. For the diviner to interfere was unorthodox.

Feeling uneasy, Nan Shi muttered, “I’m not sure if I got it right… Great, I’ll ruin my reputation this time.”

Chi You looked at the writing desk, and the sheet of paper floated up as if on its own, landing in his hand. He regarded it a moment, then gave a short laugh and crumpled it, tossing the paper ball back. Reaching out, he tapped Nan Shi on the forehead. “Not at all—Mr. Nan, this reputation of yours is just getting started.”

Nan Shi was baffled. “What? Did I get it right, or…?”

“Think it over yourself,” Chi You said, flicking his sleeves. “Go on, I have business to attend to—I won’t keep you longer tonight.”

“Wait, Senior Brother, can you explain… What?”

Before Nan Shi could finish, the scene flickered, and he was outside the door. The two carved windows clicked shut, closing off the view inside.

Nan Shi ran a hand through his hair and uncrumpled the paper ball. There it was, the “stroke of genius” he’d added—the stray dot atop the ‘冖’.

He stared at it for a long while, finally stuffing it despondently into his pocket—no idea what it meant.

---

Inside, Qing He continued drying Chi You’s hair.

A sudden smile curved his lips, lighting his face with an almost ethereal radiance—beautiful and otherworldly, like mountain mist catching sunlight.

Softly, he remarked, “A Nan is making progress.”

Qing He replied in a low voice, “Then why send Young Master away?”

Chi You shook his head. “A Nan has talent, but lacks patience. Still too raw—he needs more time.”

In other words, it was not yet time for praise.

Slowly, Chi You touched the corner of his eye. When had he last had such an inspiration?

He could not recall… but it must also have been at about Nan Shi’s age…