Wan Ketian opened his mouth to curse, but he was suddenly overcome by a violent coughing fit. He gasped for air and bent over, convulsing like a shrimp flailing on land.
Chu Qianli, who had just been speaking so casually, now felt a bit panicked. She instinctively looked toward the door and warned, “Wait a second, don’t try to frame me! I calculated it—it’s not supposed to be today. Don’t make this my problem. At least wait until I leave before having an episode!”
“I have class on Monday! I can’t be questioned by the police!” Chu Qianli, terrified that Wan Ketian might pass out on the spot, was worried she wouldn’t be able to clear her name and might end up as a suspect for no reason.
Wan Ketian coughed even harder upon hearing her words. He took a deep breath and finally calmed down after a while, sneering, “So your skills aren’t that impressive either, if you even doubt your own calculations?”
“It’s not that I doubt my calculations; I’m doubting that you’ll try to defy fate and move the timeline forward.”
“…”
Wan Ketian had never encountered such a rude child before. If it weren’t for his declining health, he would’ve angrily raised his cane to hit her on the spot.
Wang Ping’s past assessment was quite accurate: if Chu Qianli upset someone with her words, it wasn’t because of a lack of emotional intelligence—it was intentional. She deliberately provoked anger.
Wan Ketian didn’t bother arguing further with the cheeky girl. After a long moment of contemplation, he asked, “How long has it been since Chu Yilie passed away?”
Chu Qianli responded vaguely, “It’s been a few years.”
“Hmph. Back in the day, he was a legend among peers, but in his later years, he amounted to nothing,” Wan Ketian sneered. “I thought he was something extraordinary!”
Hearing him belittle her grandfather, Chu Qianli’s gaze flickered. She looked up and asked, “What do you mean by ‘amounted to nothing’?”
“If he couldn’t surpass his own lifespan, then isn’t that what it amounts to?”
Chu Qianli retorted coolly, “You don’t really think surpassing one’s lifespan is easy, do you? You’re trying to light a seven-star lamp like Zhuge Liang, but even he couldn’t extend his life. Do you think you deserve to?”
“Everyone dies. You’ve studied these things, seen so much life and death, but you can’t accept it when it’s your turn?” Chu Qianli added, “Double standards. At least my grandfather understood that much. The one who amounts to nothing is you.”
Wan Ketian’s attempt to extend his life by lighting the seven-star lamp was painfully obvious. Chu Qianli had already seen through it from the second floor and could only laugh.
Though Wan Ketian’s ploy was exposed, he didn’t get angry. Instead, he said coldly, “Little girl, it’s easy to talk big. If I told you to die right now, would you be willing?”
Chu Qianli fell silent for a moment before answering, “Yes. And no.”
“There you go! No one can be willing!” Wan Ketian suddenly became agitated, his breathing labored as he raised his voice. “Others may not understand, but you should know what it feels like to have little time left. We’re practitioners! Of course, we must try to change things.”
Wan Ketian’s eyes sparkled with desperation, like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.
Chu Qianli tilted her head slightly, her tone calm. “Turns out what the books say is true. The belief that one’s existence is important is what distinguishes humans from other animals.”
“What?”
“Heaven and earth value human life. But of course, those are words written by humans. If a cat were to write them, it might say, ‘Heaven and earth value cats.’” Chu Qianli continued with composure, “You think of yourself as a practitioner, someone extraordinary. It’s only natural to think that way.”
Practitioners of fate had a universal challenge: predicting their own destinies. They could easily divine for others, but when it came to themselves, emotional involvement often led to errors, a major taboo in divination.
When emotions and interests were at stake, even the most composed individuals became unsteady. This was human nature.
When the person is in turmoil, the divination is disrupted.
“My earlier phrasing might have misled you,” Chu Qianli corrected herself. “What I meant to say was: ‘No. And yes.’ Subjectively, I can’t accept dying. But objectively, I can.”
“This doesn’t mean I’m pessimistic. It’s just that what I’ve learned tells me my death might also be reasonable.”
“Unlike you, I’ve already died once. So I know I’m special, but not that important.”
If it had been the Chu Qianli of her previous life, she might have been like Wan Ketian—restless and desperate, unwilling to accept that someone as talented as her had to disappear. She, too, had exhausted all efforts to change things. But when the curtain of fate fell, even the most extraordinary person was insignificant.
Because of this, she could now calmly face life and death, analyze everything objectively, and regain the ability to divine for herself.
The room fell into silence, the air seemingly frozen.
After a moment, Wan Ketian’s gaze turned cold. He reached out a hand toward Chu Qianli and said indifferently, “Well then, since you don’t care about living anymore, hand over the compass of our sect. Let someone who wants to live use it.”
Chu Qianli retorted, “…When did I say I don’t care about living? Your comprehension skills need work. Why do you always think in extremes?”
Chu Qianli had just explained that she was trying to think objectively, but Wan Ketian immediately labeled her as not wanting to live.
“Enough nonsense!” Wan Ketian scowled. “The compass is the token of the Hao Sect’s head. It was left by the first headmaster and holds the lifelong knowledge of our founder. I’ve been lenient by not holding Chu Yilie accountable all these years. You’re not even part of the Hao Sect, so what right do you have to keep the compass!?”
Chu Qianli: “…You weren’t being lenient. You just couldn’t find my grandfather, right?”
“Ridiculous! After all your lofty talk, when faced with a life-or-death crisis, you still won’t let go of the compass!”
“No, sir, let’s be reasonable here. Even inheritance needs to follow the rules. You’re not related to my grandfather in any way, so why are you demanding the compass? Don’t you know the law?” Chu Qianli exclaimed urgently. “Besides, you already have one foot in the grave. When you die, I’d have to go through the trouble of getting the compass back. Why bother with all this fuss?”
Wan Ketian was so infuriated by her words that he nearly jumped to his feet. Furious, he shouted, “Shut up! Once I have the compass, everything will change!”
“If this thing actually worked, my grandfather and I would’ve already changed our fates. What makes you think it’s your turn?”
“That’s because you two were shallow and incompetent, unable to grasp the essence of our founder’s teachings. I’m not like you!” Wan Ketian retorted.
“Tsk, you’re right, you’re different—more confident despite being more ordinary,” Chu Qianli raised her eyebrows. “Fine, if I figure something out, I’ll be sure to burn some paper offerings to let you know. The compass won’t help you; you’d be better off relying on me.”
Wan Ketian was so obsessed with the compass that he refused to listen, like a drowning man clinging to a blade of grass. He could not accept Chu Qianli’s words.
The two of them kept bickering back and forth, their verbal sparring growing increasingly heated.
Wan Ketian’s gaze turned sharp. He looked to the side, narrowing his hawk-like eyes. In a piercing tone, he said, “The compass should be in your bag, right?”
Chu Qianli’s expression shifted slightly. She instinctively reached for her bag and suddenly fell silent.
Wan Ketian was confident as he said, “Since we can’t agree, why don’t we use the compass as a wager? Let’s see who can make the more accurate prediction. Whoever wins gets the compass.”
Chu Qianli muttered, “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you? Trying to get something for nothing? The compass is mine to begin with. Why should I gamble it with you?”
“Of course, I won’t make you bet for nothing.” Wan Ketian casually placed several old books on the table, his tone calm. “These are our sect’s secret techniques on Ziwei Astrology, as well as records of our founder’s exploits. If you’re truly better than me, I’ll give them to you with both hands and admit defeat.”
Hearing this, Chu Qianli skeptically flipped open one of the books. Recognizing the familiar handwriting, her heart skipped a beat, and she began to examine it more carefully.
After a moment, she nearly burst out laughing. “Old man, who are you trying to fool? This is my grandfather’s handwriting. Turns out you’re learning from what he left behind!”
Wan Ketian growled angrily, “You…”
“If you like these so much, I’ll send you a whole box someday. I didn’t realize how deeply you feel about my grandfather,” Chu Qianli clapped her hands in mock admiration. “I couldn’t even be bothered to organize them, but you’ve kept them so well. Truly amusing.”
What she didn’t say aloud was that while these old books were indeed written by her grandfather, she had never seen their contents before. Back then, they only discussed Ziwei Astrology, never the sect’s founding history. These books contained records of the Hao Sect.
Wan Ketian, hearing her unrestrained laughter, was momentarily unsure of how much Chu Yilie had actually revealed. He said sternly, “Then what do you want to bet on?”
“Just these isn’t enough; we need to add more,” Chu Qianli glanced at the old books. “How about money?”
Wan Ketian immediately glared. “Why are you so vulgar, like an ordinary mortal!?”
“Hey, I need to save up for a proper burial. These days, you can’t even afford a grave without money. Even dying has become too expensive, so of course I need to make some cash.”
“…”
Wan Ketian had long since moved beyond concerns about money. He took out a full set of Daoist jade artifacts and placed them atop the stack of old books as the stake for the bet.
Chu Qianli stared at the vivid and exquisite jade pieces, marveling at how they combined Daoist culture with craftsmanship. She remarked, “Your burial items are pretty nice, but they’ll be mine soon enough.”
Wan Ketian snorted, “What an arrogant little girl.”
“To be safe, let’s record this, in case I take the jade and you call the police,” Chu Qianli said, picking up her bag. She confirmed again, “So we’re betting the compass in my bag?”
“Yes.”
“What are we betting on?”
Wan Ketian moved his fingers slightly, fixing his gaze on Chu Qianli for a long moment. With a malicious grin, he said, “Little girl, you have just over two years left to live. Others might extend their lives by doing good deeds, but you…”
Chu Qianli replied calmly, “We’re back to this topic again? I figured this out before I even started elementary school. Let’s talk about something I don’t already know, like the exact day, the type of accident, or how to resolve it. If you can do that, I might think more highly of you.”
Wan Ketian, seeing her unafraid of death, was momentarily speechless. He couldn’t understand how she could remain so nonchalant.
Chu Qianli chuckled. “Can’t figure it out? Then why keep bringing it up? If you’re curious, I can help you figure out how, when, and what illness you’ll die from.”
“You can’t predict mine, but I can predict yours. The only question is whether you dare to listen,” Chu Qianli said nonchalantly. “Want to hear it?”
Despite her young age, Chu Qianli was an experienced hand when it came to matters of life and death. Her mentality was far more composed than Wan Ketian’s.
Wan Ketian stared at her, his fists clenched tightly. Ultimately, he said nothing.
Feigning calm, he picked up a coin and shifted the topic. “Let’s not complicate things. We’ll keep it simple—three coin tosses. Guess heads or tails.”
Wan Ketian proposed that each of them write down their predictions on a piece of paper before tossing the coin three times to see if their predictions matched.
“The highest level of skill, demonstrated through the simplest means?” Chu Qianli nodded. “Alright, but what if we both guess the same?”
“Then we’ll try another method.”
Both of them finished writing within seconds, placing their notes to the side. The time was so brief that there was no way to calculate probabilities—they were relying entirely on instinct.
Once the predictions were written, they couldn’t be changed. Continuing to calculate after that would be useless.
All divination relied on finding a meaningful starting point. The hardest part was capturing the fleeting moment of inspiration. This was akin to the creative spark in painting or sculpting. It wasn’t about technique but intuition.
For example, if an ancient person saw two sparrows fighting on a branch and felt a sudden premonition, they might predict that someone would fall from a tree the next day. This had nothing to do with the sparrows themselves but with the human ability to notice and interpret anomalies in their surroundings.
The moment Chu Qianli entered the room, she knew Wan Ketian had prepared in advance. This was his sanctum, and he was intimately familiar with every detail of the environment. Even the seat she had chosen could become part of his calculation.
Divination was inherently a battle of information, seeing who could extract more from the smallest details and outguess their opponent’s guesses.
The time it took for the coin to fall was extremely short, especially when it was about making three consecutive guesses without divination—accuracy was even lower.
“It’s happening now.”
Master Wan gestured, indicating he was ready. The coin spun in the air, landed on the table, rolled in a circle, and finally stopped, showing its inscribed side up.
Master Wan glanced at his own note, which matched the result exactly. He grew even more confident and pushed the coin across the table toward Chu Qianli. “Your turn to toss.”
Chu Qianli picked up the coin, curiously inspecting it. “What did you guess?”
There was no point in concealing predictions once both sides had written them down.
Master Wan replied openly, “Heads, tails, tails.”
Chu Qianli blinked. “Two flowers and one inscription? That’s ‘minor yin.’ Tossing that result isn’t great.”
“You’re saying your guess isn’t the same?”
Chu Qianli casually tossed the coin into the air. “Nope. Someone on their deathbed wouldn’t guess that outcome.”
The coin spun midair and landed with the blank, floral side facing up.
Master Wan, seeing this, felt even more assured that his prediction was correct. He smirked, “Then you’re destined to lose. I didn’t expect you wouldn’t even make it past the second round.”
“Ziwei divination emphasizes precise forecasts. Sometimes the process is more meaningful than the result,” Chu Qianli remarked, handing the coin back to him. “You can toss the third time.”
“I’ll let you toss if you want. The result won’t change anyway.”
“No, I don’t want you accusing me of cheating later.”
Master Wan hesitated but ultimately took the coin. He mulled over Chu Qianli’s words as he prepared to toss it. Distracted, his motion was less controlled this time.
The spinning coin struck the edge of the tea table and didn’t settle as before. Instead, it ricocheted, bounced, and landed upright, slanted in the incense ashes on the nearby burner.
Seeing this, Master Wan reached out, saying, “This one doesn’t count. You toss again.”
Chu Qianli blocked his hand, refusing to let him touch the coin. “Cheating, are we? Why doesn’t it count?”
Master Wan glared at the coin stuck in the incense burner and frowned. “Can’t you see it hasn’t fully landed? If we count this, then it’s clearly tails!”
The coin leaned precariously on the burner. Had it fallen flat, it might indeed have shown its inscribed side. This would confirm a result of “heads, tails, tails.”
“Who said it’s tails?” Chu Qianli opened her note, revealing what she’d written: “Heads, tails, neither.” It matched the coin’s current state precisely.
She smiled. “One heads, one tails, one unresolved. Perfect balance.”
Master Wan saw her prediction, stood up in disbelief, and was consumed with rage. “You can’t write it like that! It’s obviously tails!”
“Someone’s upset,” Chu Qianli quipped. “And if you’re this insistent, there’s no end to how many times we’ll have to toss it.” She reached for the stack of old books and the Daoist jade treasures, dismissively adding, “I’m done arguing. I’ll just take my things and go home—I’ve got homework to do.”
As she grabbed her prizes, Master Wan tried to stop her, leaning on his cane to block her way. Suddenly, he noticed her pulling a compass out of her bag, and he froze in shock.
Chu Qianli raised the compass high, waving it recklessly with one hand, while the other stuffed the books and jade into her bag. She even jumped around, taunting, “Look at this! What’s this, huh?”
Master Wan’s face went pale, sweat dripping from his brow. He panicked, shouting, “Don’t throw it around like that! Are you crazy? This is a priceless antique!”
A compass required precision. Even a small bump could throw it off, and repairing it would take great skill.
Like a mischievous child, Chu Qianli had no regard for its value. She juggled the compass theatrically, sending Master Wan into a frenzy.
“Pretty good moves, huh?” she bragged, tossing it higher into the air.
“Stop it! Please, just stop tossing it around!” Master Wan’s voice trembled, desperate with fear.
“You lost the moment I stepped in. You’re too desperate to live, but I don’t care much about that. Whoever gets read first loses.”
Chu Qianli threw the compass into the air again, her eyes following it as she mused aloud, “Living or dying doesn’t matter to me, really. I just don’t want the people who care about me to feel sad. I don’t want them grieving over me someday…”
She caught the compass, steadying it in her hands. Then, right in front of Master Wan, she hurled it with force against the wall, grinning as she declared, “So, I’ll choose to keep living!”
The compass hit the wall with a dull thud, shattering into countless pieces like a burst of starlight.
Master Wan’s complexion turned ashen. His chest heaved, his eyes bulging in fury. “No—!”
He rushed to gather the fragments of the shattered compass, while Chu Qianli, already packed up, bolted for the door without looking back.
Outside, Tan Muxing had been waiting. When she burst out, he looked at her in surprise. “All done?”
“Let’s go! The old man’s lost his mind.” Chu Qianli grinned wickedly, gesturing for Tan Muxing to hurry. The two darted downstairs, laughing as they escaped.
Tan Muxing, still clueless about what had happened, could only hear Master Wan’s anguished screams from upstairs.
Inside, chaos reigned as Master Wan demanded repairs, while the others scrambled to calm him down.
Meanwhile, Chu Qianli and Tan Muxing easily made their way out, even pausing briefly on the villa’s dimly lit second floor.
Seeing the Seven Star Lamps, Chu Qianli couldn’t resist sneaking a glance. Before leaving, she casually remarked, “If he really believes in this stuff, he should keep an eye on those lamps tonight—two of them are bound to go out.”
She added breezily, “Out of respect for my elders, I won’t mess with his lamps. But if they extinguish on their own, he’d better not blame me.”
Her remark left everyone else at a loss for words.
After Chu Qianli finished speaking, she and Tan Muxing both got into the car, and the door closed, hiding their figures.
The convoy slowly started, leaving the community one by one, and no one dared to stop them.
Inside the car, Chu Qianli opened her bag, checked its contents, and then extended her hand to Tan Muxing.
Before she even spoke, Tan Muxing took the initiative to hand her the red crystal compass. He noticed that her bag was a mess and said helplessly, “I was wondering why you said it was heavy, you’re carrying so much stuff.”
Other senior students were pretending to have homework, but her desk mate was carrying something else entirely.
Chu Qianli’s bag was packed with various Tarot cards. Recently, she had been studying the red crystal compass and started buying Taoist tools more frequently, resembling the habits of an astrology apprentice.
No matter the research outcome, they didn’t skimp on buying all kinds of research tools. Chu Qianli often complained about expensive Tarot cards as a rip-off but would still buy new ones or upgraded versions, perfectly embodying the “complain and buy” mentality.
“Hehe, today I used up one compass, so I can buy a new one,” Chu Qianli said as she pulled out her phone, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Let’s see what I’ll get this time.”
“What were you talking about in the house?”
“We were exchanging burial items,” Chu Qianli looked up and asked, “By the way, what kind of tea does the elder like?”
“Everyone has different tastes. My grandpa likes Pu-erh tea, and my grandma likes black tea.” Tan Muxing scratched his head. “The price of tea varies, and there are different grades, depending on what you need it for.”
“It’s just for a tomb visit, so something cheaper will do. Otherwise, I’ll just go with milk tea.”
Tan Muxing: “?”
