Flipping through the contents, Li Zhuiyuan found mostly formation diagrams and rough annotations inside. The drawings were messy, and the notes scrawled carelessly—but worst of all was the handwriting itself. Ugly as sin.
Nowhere near the neat calligraphy of Grandpa Xu from the Chinese Department, the one good at making Dongpo pork back in the housing compound.
Soon enough, Li Zhuiyuan spotted the exact same diagram in the book as the one drawn on the floor. The label read: “Transference Array for Calamity.”
Its purpose was to redirect ill fate from one person onto another. It even had a note: “Disrupts harmony and may cause harm.”
Li Zhuiyuan compared the book’s diagram to the one his great-grandfather had drawn.
“Why does it feel like… some parts don’t match?”
But then again, the book’s illustration was hand-drawn too, and squiggly by nature—hard to judge accuracy.
“Maybe Great-Grandpa didn’t get it wrong. Maybe the book’s just not standardized.”
When two expressive types try to draw the same thing, it’s hard to line them up precisely.
Just then, Li Sanjiang walked in after his bath. Bare-chested, in nothing but a pair of blue boxer shorts.Seeing Li Zhuiyuan reading, he chuckled. “Ha! Can you actually make sense of that, Little Yuanhou?”
Li Zhuiyuan nodded. “I can.”
“Good, good, good. Our Little Yuanhou’s the brightest, of course.”
Li Sanjiang tousled his hair, took the book, and tossed it aside.
The book was filled with cursive traditional brush-script, all running characters. Back when he first tried reading it, Li Sanjiang had to visit the retired schoolteacher from the next village multiple times—man loved calligraphy.
Eventually he stopped going. On his last visit, he’d brought a paper effigy from home as a gift. Free of charge. The man’s kids kept thanking him over and over.
So how could he believe a ten-year-old like Li Zhuiyuan could understand that mess?
“All right, Little Yuanhou. Sit over there. Don’t move.”
Li Zhuiyuan obediently sat where instructed. Li Sanjiang bent down and lit all the candles on the floor. Then he took out three black cords and tied them to Li Zhuiyuan’s wrists, ankles, and neck. After sitting down himself, he tied the other ends to the same spots on his own body.
Candle flames flickered. Li Sanjiang began chanting—fast and in Nantong dialect. Even listening carefully, Li Zhuiyuan couldn’t understand a word.
But the tone reminded him of the little tunes Great-Grandpa hummed while lying on his rattan chair after a good meal.
After a long while, Li Sanjiang finally stopped. He smacked his lips, probably from a dry throat. Now wasn’t a good time to break the array for water, so he just cleared his throat with a dry cough and reached behind his back.
When his hand returned, he was holding a talisman.
Li Zhuiyuan couldn’t help but wonder—his great-grandpa was only wearing boxer shorts. Where had he kept that?
Li Sanjiang brought the talisman close to a candle flame.
“Ssshh…”
Just before the flame reached his fingers, he slapped the burning talisman between himself and Li Zhuiyuan.
“Pa!”
In that instant, all the candles went out. Even the fluorescent bulb overhead flickered before stabilizing.
Li Zhuiyuan looked around, then down at the black cords tied to his body.
Was it… over?
He didn’t feel anything.
“All done!”
Li Sanjiang got up, walked over, and bit through the cords, tearing off the excess. The black loops, however, still clung tightly around Li Zhuiyuan’s neck, wrists, and ankles.
“Little Yuanhou, don’t untie those tonight. Sleep with them on. I’ll cut them off at breakfast tomorrow.”
“Okay, Great-Grandpa.”
“Mm. Go on to bed.”
“Good night, Great-Grandpa.”
“Good night, good night.”
As Li Zhuiyuan reached the doorway, he heard a thud behind him. Turning around, he saw Li Sanjiang on the floor, cradling his foot.
He must’ve tripped trying to bite off the cord on his ankle.
Li Sanjiang lay there with his legs crossed, one arm behind his head, waving him off with the other.
“Go on, get to sleep.”
“Oh.”
Back in his bedroom, Li Zhuiyuan lay down. He hadn’t felt sleepy before, but the moment he touched the bed, exhaustion crashed down on him.
He pulled the thin blanket over his belly and drifted into a deep sleep.
Next door—
“Guess it worked, huh?” Li Sanjiang mumbled. “Must’ve. Even the light flickered—can’t just be faulty wiring.”
Then he glanced at the book still lying on the floor, second-guessing himself. “Wait a minute… the guy who wrote this probably never saw a lightbulb in his life.”
But soon he found new reassurance. “What am I talking about? Even the candles went out. That seals it—it worked.”
He stretched, climbed into bed, and lay down.
“Aiyo, today was a real killer… time to sleep…”
He’d done too much—retrieving corpses, leading a spirit, drawing formation diagrams. He was getting old and just couldn’t keep up.
The moment his head hit the pillow, he started snoring.
But mid-sleep, he turned over. Mumbled something. Then his brows slowly furrowed.
He was dreaming.
In the dream—
He found himself sitting atop a staircase made of white jade. Around him loomed towering palace walls and grand halls.
To his front right, there was a doorway; to his left, a wide open space that stretched all the way to a pool and a dragon-shaped bridge.
“Damn… is this the Forbidden City?”
Li Sanjiang had never been to the capital, let alone the Forbidden City. But he’d seen it on calendars and outdoor movie screens. This had to be where the emperor used to live.
Huh. Funny dream.
He instinctively reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket—wasn’t this the perfect moment for a smoke?
But his hand brushed something furry instead. Looking down, he found an orange tabby curled on his lap.
The cat had apparently been sleeping. Now, disturbed, it rolled over grumpily.
“Get lost.”
Li Sanjiang flicked the cat off unceremoniously.
It tumbled to the ground, landed on its feet, and glared at him with a disgruntled meow.
“Meow!”
Unbothered, Li Sanjiang brushed cat hair off his lap, pulled out his cigarette pack, lit one with a match, and took a long drag.
Just then, a heavy creak echoed from ahead—sounded like palace doors opening.
Li Sanjiang puffed on his cigarette. “Thought they made you buy tickets to get in here. Am I gonna get fined for sneaking in?”
He smacked the back of his head. “Wait—hell am I saying, this is a dream! Who’s buying tickets in a dream?”
Blowing out a satisfied smoke ring, he grinned.
“Talk about value. People take long-haul trains to Beijing, pay for tickets to visit, and here I am—touring in my sleep.”
The creaking stopped. Footsteps echoed from the three doorways ahead.
“Thump.”
“Thump.”
“Thump.”
Heavy and in perfect unison.
Li Sanjiang leaned forward, puzzled. “What, you gotta march in formation to visit the Forbidden City now?”
But then—
He froze.
Because walking out of those three doors were not tourists.
They were three rows of pale-faced men in Qing Dynasty official robes and flower-topped hats, bouncing forward in synchronized hops.
“Thump.”
“Thump.”
“Thump.”
The cigarette in Li Sanjiang’s hand had already fallen without him noticing.
Suddenly, the figures stopped hopping.
Dead still. Silent.
Then—
In perfect unison, they all turned left.
And faced him.
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