The long-distance bus jolted over potholes, Feng’s elbow slamming the window. The Five Emperors coins dug into his wrist as he gripped the rodent fang artifact in his pocket—its hexagonal edges warming with each bump. Rats kowtowing on cliffs outside suddenly turned in unison, thousands of crimson eyes tracking the taillights.


    “Lord Grey…Underworld…” Feng wound a hair around a silver needle tip. The phantom hum of bronze vessels echoed in his skull. He tore open a Yin Breaker talisman packet, folding hair and paper into a triangle. A pen pierced three layers, inscribing “庚辰年戊子月辛亥日” (2000, November 28).


    By the time the old woman beside him noticed the blood scent, Feng had stowed the bloodstained needle. His bandaged finger oozed dark droplets as forged birth characters carbonized in Annals—a refined version of Huangjue’s fate-altering ritual.


    “Fengze Station!” the driver barked. Feng grabbed his pack, the rodent fang searing his palm.


    Three fortune-teller stalls later: the first two wielded fake compasses and greedy eyes.


    At the alley’s end, white smoke rose where Five Emperors coins touched the third stall.


    A blind man in cyan robes caressed a bronze luopan. Charred rat tails littered the ground; stray cats kept their distance.


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    “Fortune or love?” The blind man sniffed. “You reek of century-old corpse oil.”


    Feng slapped the forged birth chart on the stall. The luopan needle spun wildly. “甲戌年癸酉月丙寅日 (1994, September 14)—altered fate?” The man’s sunglasses tilted toward Feng. “Seven years’ lifespan for Taihang’s peace. Was it worth it?”


    The coin strand snapped. Feng caught a falling coin. “Trace this.” He tossed the rodent fang onto the stall.


    The blind man’s veins bulged. The luopan cracked. Removing his glasses revealed hollow sockets: “That beast took my eyes. If you can smash its vessel…” He froze, ears twitching southeast—three sparrows kowtowed on power lines.


    Amid shaking divination sticks and market clamor, Feng drew the “Zehuo Ge” hexagram. The blind man’s sleeve slid back, exposing rat-gnawed wrist bones: “No regrets in altered fates—you’ve been a pawn all along.”


    His cane sketched the hexagram: “Water over Fire, like a boiling pot capped with glass—” He tapped luopan fragments. “To break free, strike before the oil spills.”


    “Southwest 200 li—Mengla’s Yin-Yang River holds Lord Grey’s vessel in stagnant pools.” The blind man packed up. Feng noted the fragmented “Kan” position—normally due north—now pointing to Yunnan. The rodent fang stood upright on his knee, tip aligned with the crescent moon over Mengla.


    At sunset, Feng bought two tickets to Mengla. The blind man followed, luopan shards forming a broken “Kan.” As the bus started, the fang quivered, pointing moonward.


    “Lord Grey’s vessel lies in southern rainforests.” The blind man’s cane tapped the floor. “But what awaits is…” He silenced as his glasses reflected claw marks swarming the windows—hundreds of rats oozing fetid mucus.


    End of Sow Moon Worship