Every person possessed their own fate and fortune. Such fortune also shaped a person’s appearance — those whose lives flowed smoothly bore a face that looked peaceful and pleasing to the eye. But those whose affairs were perpetually in disorder, or who carried misfortune, would bear a countenance that made others feel inexplicably repelled.

Xue Shiyong possessed a very dense and potent literary fortune. This kind of fortune made everything relating to learning come naturally to him — one insight opened a hundred doors, one thing going well led to all things going well.

But a person’s fortune was not immutable. Some changes arose from a shift in one’s inner state — one’s mentality and choices in the face of events shaped the nature of one’s fortune at that time, and rise and fall were inevitable.

There were also changes brought about by other people. Those who placed faith in such things would seek out Feng Shui masters to arrange formations for themselves to catalyze fortune, causing the surrounding energy field to shift and thereby producing an effect of flourishing vitality — this was a Feng Shui formation. Just as with Lang Jiuchuan’s own small courtyard, she similarly used objects of the Five Elements to invigorate and consolidate the Five Elemental energies, making the courtyard’s vital energy flow actively and coalesce, so that those who dwelt within it long enough would naturally experience a calming of the heart and mind, a broadening of perspective, and thus a rising of fortune.

Feng Shui formations were entirely commonplace. Many residences in Wu Jing had been built in accordance with Feng Shui principles — this was entirely normal. But the hearts of people were treacherous, and some, rather than properly employing legitimate Feng Shui formations to bolster their own luck, chose devious and crooked methods to steal another person’s good fortune. This was a corruption of intent — it was sorcery.

What had befallen Xue Shiyong was precisely that: someone had forcibly seized his vital energy, throwing the energy field around his body into chaos and causing his literary fortune to disperse. That alone would have been bad enough — but worse still, he had been infected with ill fortune, polluted to the core.

Lang Jiuchuan did not conceal a single trace of her disdain.

It was plain enough that Xue Shiyong could not pretend not to notice it, and his face darkened further. Making some allowance for her being a young girl — and a frail-looking one at that — he reined in his temper and said mildly: “Young ladies ought to spend their days reading poetry and doing needlework. Don’t go learning these superstitious ways — it is of no benefit to you.”

Zhao Kun’s expression shifted slightly, and he cast an anxious glance at Lang Jiuchuan. This rigid old traditionalist — don’t let him drive her away.

But Lang Jiuchuan was clearly not the sort to be stung by such remarks. She was either thick-skinned or simply untroubled, for she heard his words without a flicker of irritation and replied: “How can you know the fish’s joy if you are not the fish? How can Xue Shi presume to know that what he considers of no benefit is equally without benefit to me? If it were truly without benefit, I would not be standing before you wasting both our breath. After all, my time is also time. In the dead of winter, I have a perfectly good warm bed to curl up in — why would I brave the cold and come all this way for nothing? I may be young, but I am absolutely not the sort of person who suffers for nothing.”

A muffled sound — Zhao Kun could not hold back, and covered his mouth.

Xue Shiyong, meanwhile, had successfully been infuriated to a change of expression.

But she was not finished, and that young mouth opened again: “I am not someone who does charity work for free. If I came, it is because I determined this trip would be to my benefit. Xue Shi need not feel any guilt on my behalf.”

What — what kind of nonsense was this?

Xue Shiyong’s face flushed crimson as a war god’s, eyes bulging wide as temple bells — flushed with rage. In all his years, he had never encountered such a sharp-tongued young woman.

Watching his old friend on the verge of eruption, Zhao Kun hurried forward to smooth things over. “Old Xue, calm down a moment — let’s hear what Ninth Miss has to say.” He turned to Lang Jiuchuan: “What you just said about literary fortune being present but dissipating — what exactly does that mean?”

“Literary fortune — surely neither of you would be unfamiliar with the concept? How many scholars seeking to pass the imperial examinations don’t go to pay their respects at the shrine of the Star of Literature?”

Xue Shiyong opened his mouth but said nothing. Though he always kept the phrase ‘a gentleman does not speak of prodigies, force, disorder, or the supernatural’ close to hand, he also knew perfectly well that many students did go to temples to pray for smooth passage before the examinations. He might scoff at it privately, but he had never stood in anyone’s way — that was their choice to make.

And the Star of Literature was not some malevolent deity. A simple act of reverence was no wickedness — why concern himself with it?

Lang Jiuchuan explained: “Xue Shi’s literary fortune is very dense and potent. Such fortune allows you to think with crystalline clarity, to read ten lines at a glance, and to let literary thoughts come like a rushing spring. Your insights are broader and deeper than other people’s. Of course, fortune is merely a complement — what matters most is that you yourself are possessed of considerable intelligence and wisdom.”

Xue Shiyong gave a slight cough, and his expression eased a fraction.

That was somewhat agreeable to hear.

Very well, he would not argue with a young girl. That is, as long as she stopped short of uttering the words ‘however’ or ‘but.’

“However—” Lang Jiuchuan said: “Literary fortune is not fixed and unchanging, and will not follow you forever. I observe your features — the space between your brows is darkened, the signs of a blood disaster have already gathered, and there is a threat to your very life.”

Xue Shiyong’s face turned green. There it was — was this not the exact routine a charlatan always trotted out?

“This has come to pass because someone has tampered with your fortune and forcibly seized your vital energy. That is why the literary fortune on your person is dispersing, and in its place, misfortune has taken hold.”

“Misfortune?” Zhao Kun exclaimed. “They forcibly seized his vital energy, and he also ends up with misfortune? How is that?”

It was bad enough that his good fortune had scattered — having misfortune layered on top seemed extraordinarily unlucky.

“That is not so difficult to understand. Suppose a person is burdened with ill fortune. They use some devious method to perform an exchange with Xue Shi — his good fortune becomes theirs, and his misfortune naturally transfers to Xue Shi in return.”

Zhao Kun stared in alarm.

Xue Shiyong, however, found this utterly absurd. “Preposterous. How can such a ludicrous practice exist in the world? Utterly unheard of.”

“Then you have not read enough books, nor varied enough ones — your learning still has its gaps.”

Xue Shiyong: “!”

He actually burst out laughing — a laugh born of sheer aggravation. This was the first time in his life someone had ever said he had not read enough books and had insufficient learning. And his accuser was a wisp of a girl.

“Though this is no fault of yours — as the saying goes, every craft has its own mastery. You have read the books of the Sages, and have no taste for the supernatural and metaphysical, so naturally you know nothing of the learning of Buddhism and Taoism. Especially the Dao — within the esoteric Daoist tradition, there are five arts. If one is not deeply versed in this path, one naturally cannot know the infinite variations of these arts…” She trailed off mid-sentence and fell silent.

Who was it that had once patiently taught her all of this?

Xue Shiyong gave a dismissive snort. He had said all along, one should not dabble in this spiritual and supernatural nonsense — look at her, a perfectly fine young lady, and even her speech had become strange and mystical.

Jiangche, noticing Lang Jiuchuan had drifted into a daze, said: “What is there to waste words on with him? Just demonstrate something directly — the sooner this is finished, the sooner we go home.”

Lang Jiuchuan came back to herself. “That is sensible.”

She unhooked the Dizhong bell from her waist and gave it a gentle shake. A subtle, extraordinary tone rang out. She pressed her Dao-intention into the bell, letting it carry along with the sound of the ringing, and it converged directly into an illusion.

Xue Shiyong was still standing inside the room, yet before him there appeared a surface like a mirror of water. Within it, his own reflection was shown clearly — still himself in appearance, but around his person, aura of a grey and black hue had gathered and coiled, wrapping around him. And above his head, a single thread of crimson energy drifted upward and dispersed slowly, fading away.

Xue Shiyong’s entire body stiffened. He raised his hand experimentally, and his reflection in the water mirror raised its hand in the same instant.

Yet that reflection — what a disagreeable countenance it wore. It was still his face, and yet there was a feeling that an entirely different face had been put on in its place. Rather than the cultured and refined bearing he had once carried, this face appeared petty, mean, and loathsome — the sort that inspired antipathy.

Xue Shiyong could not help but recall the words his beloved eldest grandson had blurted out in a moment of temper just yesterday: “Grandfather is bad. Grandfather looks so annoying. He’s a bad grandfather.”

Was the child referring to the person in this mirror?

Xue Shiyong’s complexion went ashen white.