Fortune 005: Daily Life

It was another morning, seemingly no different from any other.

When Nan Shi opened his eyes, he found that he wasn’t face-to-face with anything horrifying. Cautiously, he sat up in bed and glanced around; today, the room was quiet. The incense stick on the long table had burned out, its ashen segments resting peacefully on the lotus-shaped incense holder, as if nobody had entered during the night.

Qing Lan hadn’t pulled any antics to startle his weak heart into overdrive. Nan Shi was so content that he lay back down, pulled the quilt over his head, and happily drifted off for a second round of sleep.

It wasn’t until the sun was high in the sky that Qing Lan came to wake him, saying that Chi You wanted him in the study.

Nan Shi wore an expression of deep anguish—he hadn’t actually slept well at all during that second rest. He’d had a dream.

Truth be told, the dream was straightforward: it was all about that single dot he’d drawn in his senior brother’s room the day before. Yet that one dot multiplied into countless “dots,” covering the whole room: floor, walls, windows—everywhere were sheets of paper, each marked with just one dot.

Chi You stood behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder, speaking with a calmness chilling enough to freeze Nan Shi’s spine: “Come now, analyze this dot for me. How did Mr. Chen feel upon seeing it? What thoughts and emotions did it express?”

Nan Shi stammered through an answer. His senior brother would then take away that sheet, point to the next, and ask him to analyze it as well. By the third sheet, Nan Shi was at a total loss. Just as he turned, hoping for mercy, his senior brother said, “Forget it, you’re hopeless. No talent at all—just go die.”

Terrified, Nan Shi could only babble whatever nonsense came to mind, while his senior brother alternately smiled this way or that—with every grin designed to make Nan Shi’s scalp tingle and his hair stand on end. Throw in the occasional, “Shall I send you off to reincarnate?” and Nan Shi felt his brain cells dying by the millions. By the time he’d analyzed every sheet in the room, Chi You laid the first one back before him and asked, “Now, tell me how you’d analyze this ‘inspired stroke,’ and what sort of mentality you had in making it.”

Finally, Nan Shi was on the verge of snapping, ready to shout, “Fine, kill me! At the time, I was just confused as hell!”—then Qing Lan woke him up.

Back to the nightmares of senior year in high school.

—But no! Senior year was never this terrifying. At worst, failing exams meant taking one more year, maybe two, and settling for an ordinary college if things didn’t work out. Here, screwing up meant outright reincarnation—having to start the whole account over!

He seriously suspected it wasn’t merely a nightmare, but that Chi You had used some method to invade his dreams as a lesson.

Most likely, he must have done something yesterday to displease his senior brother—could it be the fact that he brought home packed leftovers from dinner for Chi You to eat?

Nan Shi grumbled inwardly, but managed to wash up and go report in like a model student.

“Senior brother?” Nan Shi knocked three times. Before the echoes faded, the carved door silently opened to reveal Chi You, seated at his desk with eyes closed, seemingly resting.

Chi You opened his eyes and looked at Nan Shi. “Come in.”

“Yes, senior brother.” Nan Shi approached the table, but before he could say anything, Chi You gestured toward a chair, indicating he should sit.

When Chi You was silent and still, he looked like an exquisitely carved statue—beautiful, yet devoid of any spirit. When those eyes shifted, however, it was as if flesh was breathed into the statue, making it vivid—though always with that lifeless chill.

A statue, however lively, is still dead; vitality is all that matters.

But Chi You never seemed to possess any vitality.

The look in his senior brother’s eyes sent chills down Nan Shi’s spine—no doubt lingering anxiety from last night’s nightmare. He felt that the moment he sat down, Chi You could whip out a sheet of paper and ask about his “state of mind.” “Senior brother… did you send for me?”

“Can’t I summon you without a reason?” Chi You propped his chin on his hand, looking up faintly at Nan Shi. “Sit.”

“Yes, senior brother.” Nan Shi took his seat nervously. Chi You lifted his hand, signaling the servants, and soon the table was filled with dishes. Nan Shi, feeling genuinely hungry after such a late start, said little and just ate diligently.

After they had eaten, Chi You and Nan Shi moved to a side chamber, each attended by a maid as they washed their hands and faces. Chi You tossed his towel into the basin. With nothing else to do, Nan Shi was about to ask to leave when Chi You casually pointed to a zitan wood box on the table. “Take these and amuse yourself—they’re not worth much. Do with them as you like.”

Nan Shi glanced at it and bowed his thanks. “Thank you, senior brother.”

Chi You nodded indifferently, then asked out of the blue, “Did you finish memorizing the Yi I assigned you?”

“…Yes,” Nan Shi replied, after a moment’s hesitation.

Only then did Chi You show satisfaction. “I thought so… Mr. Nan, what would people say if they found out you hadn’t even memorized the Yi? Would your reputation survive?”

“Yes, senior brother.” Nan Shi snatched up the box and hurried off before Chi You could find another reason to torment him!

—No wonder he’d had such dreams last night! Clearly, it was a warning dream!

The Yi was the I Ching, a literary and numerological classic.

Its status in fortune-telling was akin to Newton’s laws in physics or Su Shi’s essays in Chinese literature—everyone had to know it.

But Chi You’s idea of “memorizing” was not simply recitation from start to finish but being able to recite, interpret, and analyze any hexagram thrown at him, and to quote the relevant text as needed.

Nan Shi was quite adept at analyzing characters and telling fortunes—maybe not savant-level, but nothing to sneeze at—yet he just couldn’t internalize the basic hexagrams of the Yi, always stumbling and forgetting, and every test meant another smack or scolding.

He was just that type—living on talent: “Don’t ask me why I can’t do the Yi but can figure everything else—I just can!” Why he could master everything else but not the foundational I Ching? He had no idea.

But the Yi was something one couldn’t avoid—everyone had to learn and memorize it.

Nan Shi had made a pact: within fifteen years, he would master all of Chi You’s life’s learning and inherit the position of Zhaoyao Mountain Master.

Zhaoyao Mountain was a grand sect of fortune-telling in ancient times; its last master, Chi You, had done something or other that got the entire sect wiped out, with not even an extended branch left—buried altogether in a tomb, their heritage completely lost.

For reasons known only to himself, Chi You decided he wanted an heir after all and happened to encounter Nan Shi, who had unwittingly stumbled into his tomb. Thus, Nan Shi became his successor.

At the time, Nan Shi was scared out of his wits—whatever his senior brother said, he obeyed, just glad to be alive.

As to why “senior brother” and not “master”①, Nan Shi had asked; Chi You just said he wanted to do it that way, “in place of the master” if he pleased.

Nan Shi never argued, but he guessed there must have been some ancient grievance or misfortune behind the demise of the Zhaoyao sect, leaving Chi You feeling ashamed to take a disciple in his own name. Thus, he accepted a successor on behalf of the master.

But that was just speculation; he never did learn the full truth.

At the time, Nan Shi was naïve enough to think he’d opened some “golden finger” cheat and was about to fly high, become a classic web novel hero, “thirty years east, thirty years west, don’t bully the young and poor.” Never did he expect that with his golden finger came a whole string of “old grandfathers”—Chi You promptly brought his retainers to S City and, with some mysterious means, became owner of the most haunted house in the city—dragging Nan Shi to live there too.

And so Nan Shi began this life, where, whether he closed or opened his eyes, “good brothers” (ghosts) were everywhere.

Utterly exhausting—could he give back this golden finger?

Thinking this, Nan Shi let out a profound sigh, hugged the box, and hurried out as if to escape a dream—maybe, just maybe, it would all vanish if he ran fast enough.

Seeing him bolt like a startled rabbit, Chi You couldn’t help but chuckle, flinging a sleeve so that several intricately carved doors closed one after another, shutting out all light and warmth.

With the sun high overhead, it was time for him to rest, too.

---

With all this, Nan Shi reached his shop late. He saw most owners had already eaten lunch and were basking in the sun outside.

But it was a weekday, not a holiday, and the pedestrian street wasn’t very crowded. Nan Shi glanced at the sparse foot traffic, figured he was already late, and decided to wander the backstreets instead.

This pedestrian street was interesting: it used to be an old avenue seven li long, but its seven sections had completely different fates. The first two were government-renovated in late Qing style—the current commercial zone. The latter five retained their old feel, mostly still residential, with markets and the like.

Most unique was that one li of road adjacent to the street had become a gathering place for antique peddlers—“bundle merchants,” as they called them: those without shops, just a bundle for wares and a sheet for a stall.

According to the previous shop owner, there were also many “brokers” here, specializing in connecting buyers and sellers in the antiques world, and some who went all over the country collecting items to resell.

Since many things in this trade had questionable origins, the most valuable finds were with those who didn’t open shop but just came and went, making what they could.

Of course, it was a mixed bag—a real gamble to get anything good.

Nan Shi knew his own limits. He’d barely crossed into the antique world—calling himself a shopkeeper was an insult to the trade; at best, he was a crafts dealer. Here, he would never spend real money; at most, a modest hundred or two for something that caught his eye, just for his own amusement.

If he tired of an item, he’d spruce it up and display it in his shop, no loss. If another kindred spirit liked it and bought it, he’d make a small profit.

Passing by his shop, Nan Shi hesitated but decided to switch to a normal jacket and put the wood box away. Wearing a long robe over there was like having “easy target” written across his chest.

He hadn’t expected to find a brocade box, roughly half a foot square, placed atop the glass case at the door. The embroidered velvet was a bit faded, clearly an old piece. Inside lay a letter, marked, “For Mr. Nan Shi’s eyes only.”

Even the calligraphy was pleasing—free-flowing, slightly reckless, yet full of character.

Nan Shi already guessed who’d left it. Sure enough, it was from old Mr. Chen from yesterday: he’d found the seal in the flood-control pipe in the lake, his wish fulfilled, and had gone for reincarnation. The contents of the box were things he’d carved to pass the years, of no great worth—left for Nan Shi to enjoy.

He signed himself: Chen Xuanwei.

The box was filled with about thirty seals, all apparently made of Shoushan stone—as far as Nan Shi could tell; he wasn’t an expert, but he knew Shoushan stone was pricey.

Each seal was unique—some plain, others carved with dragons, phoenixes, grasses, or flowers, beautifully ornate. They were packed tightly together as if their owner hadn’t cared whether they might scratch each other—making it all the clearer these were indeed “casual amusements.”

Nan Shi picked one up. On the side, two characters were engraved: “Xuanwei.”

Chen’s courtesy name.

Strangely, it seemed familiar.

Nan Shi puzzled over it, but couldn’t place where he’d seen it. These characters were common in Daoist texts; perhaps that’s why. He set aside the thought for now, replaced the seals in the box, locked it up, and prepared for his outing.

---

Winter sunlight seemed especially drowsy today. The usual hawkers’ cries were scarce. Although Nan Shi had eaten at home, the scent of sweet osmanthus on the breeze tempted him into buying a bowl of glutinous rice balls with osmanthus and red bean, which he ate as he walked—soon reaching the border between pedestrian street and the old district, arriving at the antique market.

With the fine weather, plenty of vendors were out.

Quite a few were snoozing behind their stalls, using books or coats to shade their faces, with no fear of theft—a picture of perfect comfort.

Nan Shi looked on, envious—this was his dream life.

Yet he’d somehow taken a wrong turn, forced to remain a working stiff—like someone simultaneously cramming for final exams and holding a menial job.

Misery summed up in a single word.

Nan Shi made a circuit and flipped for the first object to catch his eye: a copper incense burner in the shape of a bowl.

Frankly, it looked like the thirty-nine-yuan ones with free shipping on Taobao—maybe less refined—but what drew Nan Shi was the pattern of rust.

Yes—the rust.

It had real character. Whether artificially aged or truly timeworn, the incense burner was black overall, but under sunlight one could catch a hint of yellow-brown. The pattern of gray rust spots edged in yellow-brown spread across the surface like burning clouds—strangely striking.

Nan Shi approached. “Boss, may I take a look at that incense burner?”

The owner didn’t even bother removing his coat from his head. He waved casually. “Help yourself. Just don’t drop it.”

Nan Shi obliged, picking up the incense burner. It fit easily in one hand, solid and quite heavy—must be solid metal.

He expected the fair price to be about thirty yuan, but brass scrap alone went for twenty a kilo—this was heavier than a kilo, plus labor, so the vendor’s bottom line would be at least eighty.

A bit over Nan Shi’s psychological line, but the more he looked, the more he liked it; parting with it seemed a shame. Gritting his teeth, he asked, “Boss, how much for the incense burner?”

Only then did the boss push up his coat to take a look. He said lazily, “What a coincidence! This is a genuine Xuande period piece from the Ming Dynasty—eighty thousand!”

“Eighty. Will you take it?” Nan Shi cut him off, uninterested in the boasting, and offered a price.

The boss’s eye twitched. “Eighty? Are you kidding? Look at this condition! This style! Where could you find such a thing for eighty? Tell me, and I’ll go buy up a hundred!”

Nan Shi didn’t budge—he recognized that as a sign he’d touched the bottom line. “Ninety?”

“If you’re not serious about buying, leave it!” The boss had seen through Nan Shi—he looked familiar, probably a regular. No point trying to pull a fast one.

These days, regulars were all savvy; especially young ones like Nan Shi, who bargained as sharply as the old hands—no easy marks here.

Nan Shi hesitated, then offered his own bottom line. “A hundred—deal. Boss, have you made any sales today? First deal of the day for a stroke of luck—how about it? A crisp hundred!”

Superstition runs deep in business, especially here. Nan Shi had seen for himself: if the first deal of the day went well, everything afterward would follow smoothly; the easier the first sale, the better the day.

The vendor thought for a moment, then agreed, albeit grumpily. “Fine! But cash only!”

“Deal!” Nan Shi grinned, pulling a hundred-yuan note from his pocket. The boss held it up to the light, flicked it, bagged the incense burner, and handed it to Nan Shi.

Having secured his prize, Nan Shi didn’t hold back. “Wishing you booming business and flocks of customers today!”

The vendor’s mood brightened; he cupped his hands in the old-fashioned way and sang out, “Thank you for your kind words!”

Nan Shi nodded, turned to leave, and walked away humming, hoping some of that luck would rub off—may his own afternoon in business go just as smoothly.

In trade, the buyer always feels he’s scored, but the seller never loses—profits only vary by degree.

Nan Shi didn’t mind; any profit was enough.

From one end of the street to the other and back again, Nan Shi finished his round. He bought a pile of Five Emperors coins for fifty yuan at a copper coin stall and decided to return to open shop.

Incense burner, one hundred; coins, fifty; red bean dumplings, ten—it left him with forty yuan from his daily budget. On his way back, he could buy bubble tea and an egg waffle. A perfect day demands a perfect afternoon tea!

He was a regular at the bubble tea and waffle shop diagonally across from his, and the staff knew his preferences. As soon as they saw him approach, someone called, “The usual?”

“Yep, as always! Today, I want matcha mochi with pearls, seventy percent sweet, hot!”

“Got it! I’ll bring it over in a bit!”

Nan Shi nodded, making a grateful gesture, then turned to unlock his shop door. The elegant carved Chinese windows drew curious glances from a few passersby.

He was used to it by now. He closed the door behind him, opened the windows for ventilation, and unwrapped the incense burner. Not daring to use alcohol in case it ruined the rust pattern, he gave it a light rub with a dry cloth. Finding it clean inside, he replaced the old incense burner on the reception table, lighting a fresh stick of incense.

The familiar scent of sandalwood filled the air. Donning his robe again, Nan Shi took a deep breath—bliss!

Finally, he opened his doors for business.

The Five Emperors coins were still piled on the counter. Nan Shi fetched some half-finished Chinese knots to string them later; a set could sell for a tidy sum—not a hot commodity, but always in demand. Enough for milk tea money, anyway.

Visitors soon trickled in. Nan Shi minded his own tasks, only approaching to help when someone called.

The fan pendant from old Mr. Chen was still in his pocket. He set it on the counter, planning to restring it later for his summer fan—an added flair for the season.

He picked out the most exquisite seal from the box left by Mr. Chen, placed it on a small wooden stand, and set it on the curio shelf—the blood-red Shoushan stone atop blackwood made quite a sight.

Not for sale, just for display.

“Boss, let me see that bracelet!”

“Certainly—just a moment.” Nan Shi raised his professional smile and walked to the counter.