Mu Dai tightened her arms, her fingers clutching Luo Ren desperately. For a brief moment, she didn’t want to lift her head or see anyone at all—she just wanted to burrow into his arms, as if she might dig her way out through him.
The door opened. The fortune-teller’s voice rang out.
“Uh… sorry to interrupt, but can I take that book with me? I want to study it.”
Thank goodness for his arrival. The tension in Mu Dai suddenly drained away, exhaustion washing over her. She felt Luo Ren lift a hand to support her face.
Footsteps approached, pages rustled. Mu Dai didn’t want to move and just lay there, and the fortune-teller didn’t seem to think anything of it.
All his attention was on the book.
Muttering to himself, he said, “Why would Lie Bao have this book? Did she also know the story of the Singing Dog?”
Mu Dai thought that perhaps she did.
The Phoenix–Luan clasp knew, and the deadly slips surely knew as well. Among those who had subdued the slips, Lie Bao had been the most terrifying fusion with them. Even Ya Feng could sense the slips—Lie Bao must have perceived far more.
Suddenly, the fortune-teller exclaimed, “Huh? There’s English in here too?”
He stumbled through it. “Eh—cue, ah-ee, dee, uh… what kind of English is this?”
“Let me see,” Luo Ren said.
Mu Dai lifted her head, propping herself up with her arms. Her hair was a mess from all the rubbing and burrowing. Luo Ren took the book with one hand and, with the other, naturally smoothed her hair.
It was the inside back cover of the book, scribbled carelessly: h-i-d-e—meaning “to hide, to conceal.” Heaven knew how the fortune-teller had learned English; he’d read the final “e” as “uh,” as if it were pinyin.
That evening, Luo Ren was discharged from the hospital. In truth, he hadn’t fully recovered. The doctors and nurses were stunned, whispering privately, “This man has no regard for his life.”
Qingmu, on the other hand, thought nothing of it. In his view, as long as a bullet hadn’t gone through the heart or skull, it was just “a minor gunshot wound.”
Uncle Zheng was extremely nervous. He closed the Phoenix House early and went home to prepare. As soon as Luo Ren lay down on the bed, Uncle Zheng brought over a bowl of chicken soup that had been simmered over low heat for hours, fully expecting Luo Xiaodao to be touched and say something like family is the closest thing there is. Instead, Luo Ren frowned, lifted the bowl to sniff it, and said, “Do men drink this too? Isn’t this for women after childbirth?”
Uncle Zheng was inwardly fuming. Pingting, standing nearby, burst out laughing.
While Luo Ren was hospitalized, Pingting and Uncle Zheng visited often. Luo Ren had spoken with her several times; though she was still taking medication, her manner and speech were now no different from a normal person’s.
He asked her, “Have you thought about what you want to do in the future?”
Pingting froze for a moment.
“When I brought you back from the Xiao Shang River, it was because you were sick and I was worried. I didn’t ask your opinion, and I don’t know if you even like it here.”
“I like it here,” Pingting said softly.
Luo Ren smiled. “Liking it isn’t enough. You studied art. I think after you recover, further education would be good. Do you have any schools in mind? Domestic or overseas?”
Pingting was silent for a moment, then suddenly asked, “Brother Xiaodao… are you trying to send me away?”
Luo Ren frowned slightly and glanced at Uncle Zheng, signaling him to leave.
Uncle Zheng hesitated, but went out anyway. Though he often snapped at Luo Ren, he knew full well that when it came to major decisions, Luo Ren was the head of the household.
Luo Ren took Pingting’s hand and motioned for her to sit by the bed. “Your uncle has passed away. Though he left some inheritance, I’ve calculated it carefully—it’s not enough to support you for a lifetime.”
“Uncle Zheng will look after you, but he’s getting old, and his income is limited. So, Pingting, you need to establish yourself as soon as possible. Further study, more credentials—those are always good.”
Pingting’s eyes reddened. She knew he meant well. “But Brother Xiaodao… don’t I still have you?”
Luo Ren smiled. “Of course, I’ll take care of you. But I can’t take care of you for your entire life. Even brothers eventually go their separate ways. I can’t check every meal for the rest of my life to see whether you’ve got rice in your pot.”
Pingting didn’t speak. After a long pause, she said, “Brother Xiaodao… things were better before.”
Luo Ren said, “People only have one pair of eyes. If you keep staring at the past, you won’t see the present.”
That night, after the bar closed, Mu Dai and the others came over together and tried the water-images once more.
This time, there were no blank fragments at all. The scenes were even clearer—not just sounds and smells, but even the sensation of brushing against other people while walking through the market felt astonishingly real.
Luo Ren instructed them: don’t focus only on the street performers. Pay attention to the surroundings—any distinctive terrain or noteworthy detail could be a crucial clue for future investigation.
The five of them split up in the marketplace.
When the copper gong announcing the start of the show rang out, Wan San and the others couldn’t resist and crowded over. With the story of the Singing Dog as context, they watched even more closely, whispering to one another, “It really is true—look carefully at the dog’s face. It actually looks kind of human.”
Mu Dai didn’t want to watch. Because of Lie Bao, she felt an instinctive revulsion toward the scene.
She wandered on the outskirts of the crowd.
She came upon a fortune-telling stall. The fortune-teller stroked a tuft of goatee, wore small black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and had a banner behind him that read: Character Analysis, Fortune-Telling, Letter Writing, Auspicious Names.
Quite a range of services.
A middle-aged man sat on a small stool in front of the stall, pants tied up, honest and simple-looking, talking to the fortune-teller.
Mu Dai heard him say, “My wife’s belly did us proud—we just had a big, healthy boy. I don’t know many characters, so I’d like the sir to give him an auspicious name. If you can also establish a generational naming line, that’d be even better.”
“What’s your surname?” the fortune-teller asked.
“Yin.”
The fortune-teller flipped through a name book and put on a show. “To establish a lineage, one must begin at the source. The Dao De Jing says: Dao gives birth to One, One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three, and Three gives birth to all things. Thus, the lineage continues unbroken. As the sixty-year cycle turns, zi, chou, yin, mao—rat, ox, tiger, rabbit—years change and descendants multiply endlessly.”
“This year is… the Year of the Tiger. This child should be named Yin Dao-hu.”
The man nodded repeatedly, looking as if he found the reasoning impeccable.
Mu Dai found it amusing. This fortune-teller was clearly just making things up—who uses the twelve zodiac animals to name people? What about the year that corresponds to the pig? Wouldn’t that generation be furious enough to smash their heads against a wall?
Suppressing a laugh, she mentally followed the fortune-teller’s absurd naming scheme.
The first generation would be Yin Dao-hu.
The second generation would be Yin Yi-tu.
The third generation would be…
Mu Dai’s heart jolted.
Yin Er-ma.
The third generation would be Yin Er-ma.
Sam Williams On TYMIMA Chapter 152