duyong

I was born in the 1980s, and officially stepped into the world of Feng Shui in 2006. Over the past decade, I’ve witnessed mysteries that most would never believe.

In 2013, over 100,000 fish died mysteriously in Liaozhong Reservoir…
In Tower Bay Street, spirits marched in a ghostly parade…
In Wenguantun, shadowy markets rose at dusk…
And in front of the Shenyang Imperial Palace, a ghostly princess once sat in her palanquin.

Were these the workings of nature — or something far more ancient and unseen?

In ten years, I’ve saved lives — and yes, I’ve ruined some too. Feng Shui is like a blade: it bears no evil or virtue. The darkness lies in the hearts of men.

This book is not written to boast about my mastery or to chase after the sensational. I write to share a truth:

Feng Shui can nurture life — or destroy it. There is no good or evil in the art itself. Only in the human heart.

Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

"Stop!" Old Wang snapped, frustration in his voice. "You charge in like a wild donkey! I sensed those figures were off—tried to warn you. Act this rashly, and you'll die young."

Before I could apologize, the rear doors creaked shut. A sudden gust whipped through the courtyard. Turning, I saw a photo of Old Wang and me—taken when we chose the temple site—nailed to the door with nine spikes: forehead, shoulders, feet, hands, abdomen, neck. My blood ran cold—this was a Nine-Nail Soul-Locking Formation, trapping us. If we left, we'd take nine steps before our souls scattered.

Old Wang 苦笑 (bitterly smiled), sheathing his Seven-Star Sword. "I learned Maoshan techniques without a master; the Maoshan Technique Records taught exorcism, not this. Look at the door's wooden holes—they're coffin nail holes. This door's made from three-year-old coffin wood. Leaving means the Yellow Spring Road."He clapped my shoulder."I came to help—get me out alive. I can fight, but the 阵法 (formation) eludes me."

Bitterness welled up. The temple was a facade; the shrine inside held dark secrets. We had to press on. Candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows. Offerings—fruits, pastries—were moldy. Before the fallen paper effigies: two bowls of fresh blood. The effigies bore 八九分 (80-90%) resemblance to Old Wang and me.

"Paper effigies worshiping blood," Old Wang mused. "Inside them: our birth charts, photos, hair. Someone swapped our fates with these effigies."

"How'd they get our birth charts?" I gasped—sharing them was taboo.

Old Wang's answer dawned on me: Zhou Jianguo had our IDs when we checked in. A sorcerer could deduce our birth hours by burning lifespan—a common 邪法 (dark magic) for odd 命格 (fates). What grudge drove Zhou Jianguo to this? Moldy offerings signaled clan - destroying karma.

Scanning the temple, I saw the trap: it was built in the shape of a 亡 (death) character. Sticky, foul - smelling liquid dripped from the main beam—above hung corpses of traffic - killed cats and dogs. Zhou had turned the temple into a 绝地 (绝地,absolute yin land).

The courtyard's gravel path was another clue. In ancient wars, 道士 (monks) paved roads with human bones to trap spirits; gravel was a substitute. The mountain path we'd taken was lined with willows—阴树 (yin trees) guiding ghosts, gravel sealing them in.

At the back door, I pried up a threshold stone: seven coins in Big Dipper formation— a 拦鬼阵 (Ghost - Barrier Formation) trapping spirits inside. But my 慧眼 (Divine Eye) saw no ghosts. Returning to the shrine, I studied the spirit tablets by lamplight.

Old Wang pressed, "What's wrong with the feng shui? What do you see?"

I exhaled, pointing to three palm - sized gold coffins before the tablets. Cold sweat poured as I unrolled a talisman on one: inside, bronze nails. "These are Seven-Death Coffins. My grandpa said the Japanese Nine Chrysanthemum Clan used them to break Korea's Dragon-Locking Pillar. Three are here; four more are buried in the four directions."

Chapter 30: The Seven-Death Gold Coffins (1/2)