Chapter 2: The Killing Entrance

Dawn mist clung to the Bund as Shen Qinghuan elbowed through the Lujiazui subway crush. Her left hand gripped a compass-shaped coffee mug, while her right thumb flew across her phone's memo app: 7-9 AM auspicious direction: Southeast Xun position. Favorable for contract negotiations.

The elevator doors parted on the 27th floor to reveal HR manager Wang Meilin leaning against the reception desk, Starbucks in hand. Her rose-gold acrylic nails tapped the timeclock. "Chen wants last week's tender documents. Now." The unspoken implication hung in the air, punctuated by snickers from the break room.

Qinghuan glanced at her watch—7:58 AM. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the Shanghai World Financial Center's blade-like silhouette loomed—a textbook Tian Zhan Sha killing formation in feng shui philosophy. On her first day three years ago, she'd discreetly placed Six Emperor coins and a Bagua mirror along the windowsill. Now, beads of condensation oozed from the mirror's bronze edges—a sign of gathering malignant energy.

"The documents, Mr. Chen." She pushed open the walnut office door, deliberately jostling the brass windchime above the threshold. General Manager Chen Guodong turned from adjusting his Hermès belt, fly still half-unzipped. "Early as always, Xiao Shen. Tell me—does my new Pixiu statue face the right direction?"

The nephrite figurine's gaping maw aimed directly at the female accountant's cubicle. Qinghuan nudged the blinds open with her pen. Sunlight refracted through the Pixiu's eyes, casting blood-hued prisms. "Wealth-attracting Pixiu should face northwest. Yours seems… contaminated during transport."

"Oh?" Chen's sausage fingers grazed her waistband. "Perhaps the feng shui master can purify it?" His agarwood bracelet brushed her shirt hem—scented with corpse oil, she realized. Ordinary people would feel inexplicably feverish from its fumes.

Qinghuan stepped back, heel crushing a hidden Five Emperor coin beneath the carpet. A sudden draft whipped through the room as the Pixiu vomited black smoke. Chen's bracelet snapped, eighteen beads rolling into AC vents.

"Don't turn on central air before noon." She retreated with the files. Behind her, Chen's sneezing fit erupted—last night's strategically placed peachwood nails had pierced every tainted bead.

Her desk greeted her with three towering stacks of blueprints. The HR WeChat group buzzed with 99+ messages. Wang Meilin posted an eye-roll GIF: Some people's 'mysticism' can't fix their 27% error rate. Qinghuan ignored them, massaging the golden serpent mark burning beneath her wristwatch—Chen had tripled her workload after she rejected his "private mentoring."

At lunch, her food delivery app displayed only Cantonese soup shops. Tangerine peel mung bean soup to detoxify corpse oil, American ginseng black chicken broth to replenish sha qi-drained vitality. As she paid, her coffee rippled—the reflection showed three lightning rods forming a hexagram on neighboring towers.

"Fortune-telling again?" The new intern's strawberry perfume assaulted her senses. The girl flashed Bunny-themed nail art. "Read my palm, Huan-jie! They say you're psychic."

Qinghuan aimed a laser pointer at the intern's desk. "Remove the rose quartz from the West. Fire sign + water elements = toxic romance." The intern paled—she'd just reported a married manager for harassment.

Rain lashed the windows at quitting time. Chen's crocodile loafers echoed through empty corridors. "Working late, Xiao Shen? Let me drive you." His Porsche keychain jingled, collar reeking of charred amulets.

"Check your southeast money tree first." Qinghuan hit send on her final email. "Wood sector decays before Yin hour." Hidden from security cameras, a yellow talisman slipped from her sleeve—anti-bowstring sha sigils in cinnabar ink.

Chen's scream pierced the parking garage as Qinghuan descended. His new Tesla Model X hood crumpled beneath fallen ductwork—the same ducts housing eighteen agarwood beads.

Her black umbrella bloomed in the storm, lightning-struck jujube wood ribs channeling raindrops into a Bagua pattern. A notification buzzed—the paranormal forum she'd visited pre-timequake had a DM: 7th sacrifice of the Seven Stars Soul Lock—woman in red at Lujiazui Exit C.

Through the downpour, a scarlet skirt flickered beyond CCTV coverage. The rain carried whispers of sandalwood—identical to the death throes of Tang Dynasty maids.