Feng Shui magic

The drive back to Qingzhou was quieter now, the tension between Li Chengfeng and Ye Mengyao thawing into uneasy curiosity. Ye Mengyao gripped the steering wheel, her earlier hostility softened by doubt. The words of Hu Yansong, the vice president of the Qingzhou Metaphysical Arts Association, now rang hollow in her mind. Had she been too quick to blame Li Chengfeng?

"Mr. Li…" she began hesitantly, her voice almost tentative. "Do… folk curses *really* exist?"

Li Chengfeng lowered his phone, surprised by the shift in her tone. "They do," he replied, wiping a smear of dried blood from his nose—a souvenir of their near-collision earlier. "But casting a curse isn't as simple as spitting venom. If a few harsh words could cripple someone, the world would be chaos."

He seized the moment to clarify: "Your father and aunt's conditions aren't my doing. True curses require **mediums**—hair, nails, blood, birth charts. They're elaborate, dangerous… and punishable by heaven."

Ye Mengyao's cheeks flushed. She'd been so quick to accuse him, fueled by Hu Yansong's manipulative insinuations. "I… apologize," she murmured. "I was wrong to blame you."

Li Chengfeng shrugged. "Don't sweat it. This is just business."

Yet her curiosity lingered. "But you *do* know curses, right?"

"I do." His voice turned grave. "But those who wield curses invite **divine retribution**. The Tang Dynasty outlawed such arts for good reason. What remains today—hex dolls, pin-pricked effigies—are pale imitations. Even Southeast Asia's *gu* poisons and Thai black magic are just offshoots of what China once mastered."

As he spoke, Ye Mengyao's focus wavered. A red light loomed. Tires screeched. Li Chengfeng slammed into the seatback, blood trickling from his nose.

"Are you *trying* to kill me?!" he barked.

Ye Mengyao stifled a laugh, her earlier guilt evaporating. "You're the one rambling about curses. Distracted me."

---

**Qingzhou Hospital – Noon**

The sterile smell of antiseptic greeted them as they entered the private ward. Ye Gucheng lay motionless on the bed, his once-commanding frame diminished by blindness and muteness. Beside him, Ye Wushuang trembled under an oxygen mask, her eyes vacant.

Ye Mengyao rushed to her father's side. "Dad, I found a way to help you!"

Li Chengfeng stepped forward, detailing the locust tree's blight on their ancestral grave. Ye Gucheng's breathing quickened—recognition flickered. This man knew the **Golden Tortoise Hatching Eggs** layout, a secret even most Ye descendants had forgotten.

"Nod if you consent to uprooting the tree," Li Chengfeng urged.

Ye Gucheng's chin dipped weakly.

A voice sliced through the room: **"Who dares tamper with the Ye ancestral graves?"**

In the doorway stood **Ye Wuming**, a cousin from the Beijing branch, flanked by two white-coated doctors. His smirk dripped with disdain. "The family sent *real* experts. We don't need village witchcraft."