SES Chapter 132

Chapter 132

They say nine out of ten things in life never go the way you want. But the “Diviner,” carefree and thick-skinned as he was, somehow managed to shrink that ratio down to one or two out of ten.

And among those one or two, there was one thing that still weighed on his mind.

He’d roamed across China for over twenty years, chasing down strange and supernatural happenings, seeing more of the world than most ever would. He could talk endlessly about any bizarre event under the sun. But the truth was—he was just an ordinary man, born without any of the natural gifts that set the truly extraordinary apart.

For instance, he knew that the resentment of the dead could make certain bells ring—but he couldn’t understand the “language” of those bells.
He could explain the theory behind raising and breaking gu curses in vivid detail—but he couldn’t raise, use, or dispel them himself.

He just didn’t have the talent for it. No use complaining. Genius, after all, was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent sweat. Sweat was easy—stand under the hot sun long enough and you’d get a bucketful—but that one percent of innate brilliance? You could envy it all your life and never steal it for yourself.

So, the Diviner slowly adopted a new guiding principle: if he couldn’t become one of those gifted people, he’d at least make sure he was part of their world.

That’s why he decided to befriend Yin Erma.

He bought a few things from old Grandpa Shuanzi—some corn, a bag of cornmeal, and a long string of garlic bulbs and red chilies—and cheerfully set off to visit Yin Erma’s house.

The houses in this area were simple. Some were made of brick, most were packed-earth walls, with small yards fenced off by crooked wooden pickets. The gaps between the fences were so wide that hens and yellow dogs wandered freely in and out.

Yin Erma had already gotten up and was gargling in his yard when he saw this strange man approaching, decked out in garlic and chilies like some festival decoration. He was so startled that he accidentally swallowed his mouthful of water.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The Diviner smiled. “Mr. Yin, hello. I’ve come hoping to make an honest friend of you.”

He always went straight to the point when it came to making friends. Years ago, he’d admired a man named Wan Fenghuo for his mastery of intelligence networks. When he heard Wan Fenghuo was eating at a noodle stall in Chongqing, the Diviner had shown up carrying a sack and said, “Hey, let’s be friends!”
Wan Fenghuo had given him two yuan, later saying he’d thought the man was a beggar—and a creative one at that.

Yin Erma, for his part, had probably never been called “Mr.” in his life. He blinked, puzzled. “Who did you say you were?”

“My background’s a little complicated,” the Diviner replied smoothly. “In short, I’m currently conducting a cultural research project on Laozi’s journey through Hangu Pass. I’ve already spent several weeks doing fieldwork in the area.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose and reached into his bag.

(A side note: he used to carry all his belongings in burlap sacks because he always traveled with piles of handwritten notes. But two years ago, while staying long-term with a friend named Brother Mao, he compiled those notes into a book, so the sack was retired. Now he used a cloth souvenir tote from an ancient tourist town, one side printed with ‘More relaxed than Lijiang, more charming than Dali,’ and the other, ‘Welcome to the Old Town!’)

He pulled out a thick, white-covered book titled Diviner’s Tales: Twenty Years of Astonishing Encounters and Strange Affairs.

“This is my book,” he said. “I’d be honored if you’d take a look.”

The book had no ISBN, no publisher—those in the know understood it was self-funded. He’d printed about ten copies, kept one for himself, and gave the rest to friends.

But Yin Erma didn’t know that. Seeing this odd, garlic-laden man turn out to be a published “scholar” conducting a “cultural study” left him rather impressed.

He quickly unlatched the fence gate. “Please, come in, come in!”

The Diviner beamed. Ah, what a difference a little “culture” made—people everywhere loved it.

Yin Erma’s breakfast was simple: porridge and a few dried sweet-potato strips from last year’s harvest. Out of hospitality, he tossed two corn cobs into the dying embers of the stove.

The Diviner sat cross-legged on the kang and began to talk about Hangu Pass, about purple qi rising from the east, about the old man on the blue ox.

Yin Erma smiled good-naturedly, stuffing tobacco into his brass pipe. “Sure, sure. Heard all that since I was a kid.”
He puffed twice, pointed the stem of his pipe outside, and said, “This here’s Yin Family Village. If you really trace our roots, we’re all descendants of that same Yin Xi who guarded Hangu Pass.”

Then he added, “We’re all Yins, after all.”

The Diviner’s eyes lit up.

“They say Laozi gave Yin Xi a scroll of five thousand characters—the Dao De Jing.”

Yin Erma nodded. “That’s right. That’s what the county officials say too—classic stuff.”

The scent of roasted corn began to fill the air, teasing at their stomachs.

Yin Erma seemed like a decent enough guy, but every question got the same answer: “Sure, sure, that’s right.” The Diviner realized he’d have to bait the hook.

“Not many people know this,” he said mysteriously, “but Laozi also gave Yin Xi seven cursed bamboo slips.”

Yin Erma’s head shot up, eyes wide with astonishment. “You know about the Seven Cursed Slips?”

The Diviner knew he’d struck gold. “Yes,” he said gravely. “I know.”

Yin Erma’s excitement was so great that he nearly forgot the corn until the smell of charring snapped him back. He hurried to the stove, fished out the cobs, peeled the husks, and served them on a chipped enamel plate. Then he rummaged in the cupboard, brought out a dish of pickled peanuts, a small bottle of white liquor, and two tiny cups—clearly ready for a long talk.

“Mr. Shen,” he said (the Diviner practically glowed at being called that), “why don’t you tell me more about the Seven Slips?”

So the Diviner did—about the seven earliest murder cases in the world, about the Phoenix-Luan seals used to lock the curses away, about how Yin Xi feared they might someday be released, and Laozi had sworn, “No one in this world can break them.”

And there he stopped.

Yin Erma leaned forward eagerly. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. After that, Laozi rode his blue ox through the Pass and vanished. No one knows where he went.”

Yin Erma downed his cup in one gulp. His cheeks flushed instantly. “There’s a second half, you know,” he said with a grin. “Bet you don’t know it. Yeah… you definitely don’t.”

He knelt, rummaged under the kang, and pulled out a cloth bundle printed with bright red flowers. “Here, take a look.”

Through the fabric, the Diviner could feel something hard inside. He unwrapped it layer by layer—inside were several wide wooden slips, all incomplete, all charred, densely carved with ancient characters. The cords that once bound them together were long rotted away, leaving only frayed ends.

“The Seven Cursed Slips?” he breathed. Then frowned. “But there aren’t seven.”

Yin Erma chuckled. “These aren’t cursed. Just old bamboo texts. But they’re ancient. Not gonna lie—if I sold these, forget a tractor, I could trade them for a few big trucks.”

He drained another cup.

Picking up one of the slips, he pointed to a blackened edge. “See that? Burn marks. I pulled this out of a fire. You’ve heard of ‘burning books and burying scholars,’ right? Qin Shi Huang did that.”

The Diviner’s heart raced. This trip was turning out better than he’d ever dreamed.

Yin Erma raised his cup again. “I’m telling you, back then, Qin’s men collected every book in the land. Within thirty years, anything not approved by the emperor was ash. So many classics gone forever. Culture—fragile stuff, huh? Here one day, gone the next.”

“So how were these preserved?” the Diviner asked.

Yin Erma said his ancestors had worked as minor officials during that era. The imperial decree ordered all unapproved books to be surrendered for burning. As luck would have it, one of his ancestors was assigned to oversee the destruction. Naturally, he did his duty—but when no one was looking, he saved a few pieces he thought especially valuable… at least, valuable to the Yin family.

He pointed to the bamboo slips. “This part here—talks about the Bagua Stargazing Platform. You know why our village is called ‘The Place Where Laozi Stopped’?”

“Why?”

“It ties into what you said. After Laozi told Yin Xi that no one could unseal the Seven Slips, he started to doubt himself. Smart man like that—he knew nothing’s absolute.”

Yin Erma tapped the table like a storyteller striking his board. The Diviner obligingly poured him another cup.

“See, Mr. Shen, Laozi was clever. He’d written a book thousands of years ago—he knew better than anyone that things change. Maybe no one could unseal those slips now, but what about a hundred years later? A thousand?”

He leaned in, eyes glinting. “So Laozi called Yin Xi—‘the man skilled in calendars, astronomy, and astrology’—and they built a stargazing platform.”

He grinned. “Not some fancy high terrace like you’re imagining. Just that rock halfway up the hill—looks like nothing more than a roadside boulder. But back then, Yin Xi searched the mountains for the right stone. Finally found this one, carved with the shape of the Bagua, like two fish chasing tails. One side dips just a little lower—and because of that dip, it holds water.”

He wagged his finger. “But not just any water. Only water that falls from the sky—rain, snow. Never dries in summer, never freezes in winter. Laozi told Yin Xi to have someone check the platform every night. If they saw nothing, all was well. But if someday stars appeared in the water—well, that was trouble. And the worst thing that could happen…”

He paused dramatically, ate a few peanuts, and steadied himself.

The Diviner couldn’t hold it in. “The worst thing what?”

“The worst,” Yin Erma said slowly, “is if those stars formed the Big Dipper—and stayed bright.”

The Diviner blinked. “The Big Dipper? Why would that be bad?”
He actually liked the Big Dipper—it was handy for navigation, and kind of comforting in the night sky.

Yin Erma tapped the table. “Mr. Shen, you’re a man of culture. You know this—the Southern Dipper governs life, the Northern Dipper governs death. Those seven cursed slips, they all carry deadly, malevolent energy.”

The Northern Dipper governs death… Seven stars…

A thought sparked in the Diviner’s mind.

In primitive times, when human productivity was low, people worshipped natural forces—wind, thunder, and lightning. But above all, they worshipped the stars.

What if the Seven Cursed Slips and the Seven Stars of the Dipper were connected—remnants of ancient stellar worship?

And the Phoenix-Luan seals meant to restrain them—symbols of the auspicious divine bird—might represent bird totem worship.

The more he thought about it, the more it sounded like two primal forces locked in eternal balance.