Feng Shui magic

The morning sun cast long shadows over the Ye family cemetery as Li Chengfeng stood atop a gentle slope, surveying the terrain with a mix of awe and concern. The landscape stretched before him like a living painting: a central hill shaped like a crouching tortoise, its rounded back merging seamlessly into a smaller, egg-like mound. A river snaked around the base of the hills, its waters glinting silver in the light—a vital artery in the ancient feng shui blueprint known as **Golden Tortoise Hatching Eggs (金龟孵蛋)**.

"Your ancestors chose well," Li Chengfeng murmured, his voice tinged with reluctant admiration. "This formation is legendary. The tortoise symbolizes longevity and stability, while the 'egg' represents prosperity passed down through generations. The river nourishes it all, channeling **qi** like blood through veins."

Ye Mengyao crossed her arms, her designer jacket rustling in the breeze. "Spare me the poetry. My great-grandfather built our fortune through **silk trade**, not dirt and rocks."

Li Chengfeng turned, his gaze sharpening. "Then explain why every Ye patriarch since has died at 60—the tortoise's lifespan in folklore. Coincidence?"

She flinched but held her ground. "Modern medicine calls that *genetic predisposition*."

"Ah, yes." He pulled out his phone, waving it like a prosecutor's exhibit. "Tell me, Ms. Ye—how does this 'modern' device work?"

"It uses **signals**," she snapped.

"And can you *see* those signals?" Li Chengfeng's eyes glinted. "What about the Wi-Fi that runs your stock trades? The oxygen you're breathing? Invisible forces shape our world, whether your textbooks acknowledge them or not."

Ye Mengyao's nails dug into her palms. The man was infuriating—yet his words slithered past her defenses. *What if…?*

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**The Rot Beneath**

Li Chengfeng strode through the cemetery, his **Triple Harmony Compass (三合罗盘)** humming in his hands. The device—a brass disc etched with celestial symbols—spun wildly as they approached a neglected tomb at the formation's edge.

The grave was a grotesque sight. A gnarled pine tree had burst through the stone slab, its roots coiling around the coffin like skeletal fingers. Moss crusted the headstone, obscuring the name: **Ye Zhentao, 1879–1939**.

"**A tree pierces the coffin, descendants meet ruin (老树穿棺,子孙归天)**," Li Chengfeng recited, his voice hollow. He knelt, brushing dirt from the roots. Black sap oozed where bark met bone.

Ye Mengyao gagged. "That's… normal decay, surely."

"Normal?" He snapped off a root tip, revealing a **jade burial plug** stamped with the Ye family crest—now cracked and oozing a viscous green fluid. "This plug should've sealed your ancestor's **po (魄 – corporeal soul)**. Instead, the tree's roots pumped **corrupted yin** into his remains. Every downpour, every gust of wind…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing. "Who planted this pine?"

"A groundskeeper, decades ago. He's long dead."

"Dead, but not gone." Li Chengfeng pried up a root, exposing a **rusty iron nail** driven into the coffin. Three Taoist hexagrams curled around its shaft—a sabotage spell. "Someone wanted your family to *suffer*."

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