TGA Chapter 57

Pan Yicheng noticed her utterly baffled expression and said humbly, “But my divination skills aren’t as accurate as theirs, and my fortune-telling is probably no match for your master’s—maybe even not as good as yours. I’ve indeed spent more time on civil engineering.”

Chu Qianli’s expression turned peculiar. “Writing it as civil engineering but calling it geomancy?”

Pan Yicheng maintained a gentle demeanor, reminiscing fondly, “Pretty much. If you study civil engineering, you definitely have to understand feng shui. Back then, I was probably the worst diviner among the group. They all had family traditions or were taught by masters, while I only had a university degree.”

“……”

Chu Qianli’s understanding of the world was completely overturned, leaving her momentarily speechless, overwhelmed by a profound sense of shock.

Education really matters. The world is so realistic. A master without education is called a fortune-teller; a master with education is called a professor of classical studies.

Since Chu Qianli knew from the moment she walked into the room that she wouldn’t be selected, she didn’t bother to introduce herself much and instead used the interview as an opportunity to casually chat with Pan Yicheng.

In his youth, Pan Yicheng had traveled to scenic places with friends, one of whom was Chu Qianli’s grandfather. Unlike other metaphysical practitioners, he had no master or sect. He simply entered the field as an architect, learning feng shui through civil engineering projects. His earnest attitude and ability to make connections across disciplines led him to deepen his knowledge over time.

In short, Pan Yicheng was an academic heavyweight. While he might not have had an innate talent for metaphysics, his persistence and determination allowed him to achieve significant insights. Of course, if a love of learning counts as talent, then he undoubtedly excelled.

Other masters had strengths in specific areas; Pan Yicheng’s strength lay in his lack of weaknesses.

“You’re quite young, aren’t you?” Pan Yicheng glanced at her resume and asked, “Are you a university student?”

Chu Qianli replied honestly, “Senior in high school.”

Pan Yicheng’s tone remained gentle. “Oh, do you have a target major in mind?”

“…Marxist Philosophy.”

“Philosophy? That’s just like me. You’re welcome to apply to our university.”

Faced with this composed and confident academic, Chu Qianli hesitated for a long moment before quietly saying, “I might not be able to get in…”

Pan Yicheng chuckled. “Why not? The entrance score for the university where I teach isn’t that high—at least not as high as my undergraduate alma mater!”

Chu Qianli, who excelled in fortune-telling but was trounced by academic scores: “…”

Chu Qianli usually carried herself with a bit of swagger and arrogance, primarily because she was unparalleled in divination. She never expected Pan Yicheng to open a new playing field. He competed with ordinary people in fortune-telling and with metaphysical practitioners in academic scores, introducing an entirely new standard for evaluation.

Knowing from the start that Pan Yicheng and his team had already made their decision and that she wouldn’t be chosen, Chu Qianli couldn’t help but ask, “So, was I filtered out because of poor academic performance?”

“It’s not simply because of that; mainly, you may not have fully understood the situation,” Pan Yicheng explained as he rummaged through some materials. He pulled out a thick stack of booklets and continued, “This is more like a bidding process, and we even said group resumes were acceptable. Look at this—some sects submitted booklets with resumes for over a hundred people. Compared to that, the two of you submitting just this—don’t you think it’s a bit much?”

Pan Yicheng waved the thick booklet in his hand and then held up Chu Qianli’s thin resume with a smirk. “Even if you’re trying to scam us for money, you should at least make it look like you’ve got enough people. I wouldn’t even dare submit something like this when reporting to the university.”

Exposed by his comment, Chu Qianli lowered her head sheepishly. “But the more people we bring, the less money we get to split…”

Pan Yicheng replied, “But if you can’t even present a proper team, how can we trust you enough to hand over money?”

Chu Qianli blinked and, with a serious expression, said, “The details of the project are still confidential, so we weren’t sure about the specifics, which naturally led to some oversight. Now that you’ve mentioned your requirements, we can go back and reorganize the team. Everything can still be negotiated, right?”

Her eyes sparkled with a cunning glint as she clung to her last shred of hope. She refused to give up on the huge reward and tried her best to persuade Pan Yicheng.

Pan Yicheng sighed and said, “Let me be honest with you: no one has been selected this time. We simply couldn’t find a suitable candidate.”

Chu Qianli was shocked. “You already had someone in mind? Was the bidding process just for show?”

“No, no, no. At the beginning, we really wanted to find someone, and it was the first time such a large sum of money was put on the table. I’ve been a consultant for so many years, and I’ve never seen this kind of budget…” Pan Yicheng explained earnestly. “But there truly wasn’t anyone suitable. Initially, they thought that as long as the money was sufficient, some extraordinary talent would show up. The reality is that we couldn’t find anyone—perhaps no one better than me.”

“Since the project details have long been public and I’m not bound by a confidentiality agreement, I can briefly tell you about the work. We plan to construct a railway in a certain area in the west, including the surrounding infrastructure. However, the region has complex mountains, treacherous terrain, and, critically, is home to a predominantly religious ethnic minority population.”

Pan Yicheng’s expression turned serious. “This project isn’t just about basic geomancy. It’s tied to local customs and traditions, and even to the religious beliefs of the local people. It’s a highly complex situation, where a single misstep could cause a chain reaction of issues…”

“I understand that you probably earn a lot more outside, maybe even the equivalent of my ten years’ salary just by doing a single reading. You might think this kind of work is thankless and that our requirements are excessive or the exam was deliberately difficult. But the nature of this job means that raw skill alone isn’t enough—you also need a certain level of ideological awareness,” Pan Yicheng explained. “If you’re only looking to make money, you might as well not bother. This isn’t the kind of job where you can just walk away whenever you want. You might even have to pass a political background check.”

Different types of leadership roles cannot have religious affiliations, but leaders working in special regions must respect local customs and the religious beliefs of the local population. Striking the right balance in such situations is a major challenge.

Chu Qianli was taken aback. “Are the people there really so difficult to deal with?”

Pan Yicheng remained calm. “Not exactly. They follow a form of primitive belief, and it’s a domestically recognized, legitimate religion. Our goal is to guide the practice of religion to align with and uphold the core values of socialism.”

“…”

Chu Qianli began to grasp the complexity Pan Yicheng was describing. As someone who studied both Western and Eastern astrology, she was often criticized for being unconventional. Despite the commonalities between Western and Eastern astrological practices, many people only focused on the differences.

Even among practitioners of fate studies, there were endless debates: whether one adhered to atheism or not, whether one believed in reincarnation or not, and even how to define reincarnation. These arguments were reminiscent of the age-old philosophical debates about the nature of the “Dao.”

Pan Yicheng and his team weren’t looking for a master to stir up trouble in the area—they needed someone to mediate conflicts and push the railway project forward. It required not only an understanding of interpersonal relationships and geomancy but also political awareness. Recruiting at the level of a civil servant made perfect sense.

“If it were someone else, I wouldn’t say this to dampen their spirits. But your situation is unique, so I’ll be straightforward,” Pan Yicheng said kindly. “You’re exceptionally skilled in divination, but you should also understand that technical skill alone isn’t enough. Many people out there only know the techniques, and that’s one of our concerns.”

“Even though your readings are incredibly accurate right now, you must also realize there are things beyond your control. In fact, the more accurate your readings, the more you understand this truth.”

Chu Qianli knew exactly what he was implying. She pressed her lips together and replied softly, “Yes.”

“Generally speaking, people in your situation often choose to renounce the world and live a quiet life of meditation. That can help avoid some troubles,” Pan Yicheng said.

Chu Qianli was considered to have a life marked by early death. One traditional way to counteract this was to cut ties with one’s family, take refuge in a religious path, and devote oneself entirely to reciting scriptures and cultivating the Dao. This could potentially prolong one’s life.

Chu Qianli retorted, “But that’s just self-limitation; essentially, it’s running away. If someone completely separates themselves from human connections, can they still be considered human?”

“How can you inspire others to grow, change, and accumulate good deeds if you yourself don’t understand the joys and sorrows of life or the myriad facets of human existence? How could you possibly empathize with others?” Chu Qianli lowered her eyes. “It’s like becoming a god who stands aloof from everything.”

Chu Qianli had discussed this with her grandfather. Embracing such a path from an early age was indeed an option, but she didn’t accept it. She had studied these arts to bring happiness to others and help those around her. If she couldn’t even experience human emotions, it would defeat the whole purpose.

Thus, she chose a middle ground. Instead of immediately returning to the He family, she followed her grandfather to train near Yinlong Village. She needed to live among ordinary people, or her abilities would lose their meaning.

Pan Yicheng nodded in agreement. “Then there’s another traditional approach: the simplest one—accumulate good deeds. It’s like wealthy individuals donating to charity, or using your skills to guide others…”

“That’s what I’m doing now, but honestly, it feels like a drop in the bucket,” Chu Qianli lamented, still reeling from Pan Yicheng’s earlier display of academic prowess. She added melodramatically, “I can’t help it; I’m too talented. It’s just not enough.”

Pan Yicheng, with his scientifically rigorous mindset, pondered for a moment before hypothesizing, “It’s probably not that it’s ineffective, but rather that the quantity hasn’t reached the point of triggering a qualitative change?”

Chu Qianli sighed helplessly. “That’s the tricky part. If I follow this logic, I’d have to save the entire nation to make a difference. How is that even possible?”

Chu Qianli occasionally felt her future was bleak, primarily because the task before her was so daunting. She couldn’t imagine what action would generate the massive karmic merit required.

This wasn’t just about surface-level acts of kindness or charity. In metaphysical terms, true karmic merit came from solving problems at their root. For example, the effect of helping someone differed greatly between simply giving them money and helping them secure a job. If the guidance led in the wrong direction, it might not count as salvation at all—instead, it could even incur penalties.

Even if Chu Qianli donated the fortunes of several of the world’s richest people, it still wouldn’t offset her own “debuff.”

And time wasn’t on her side. Mastering any field required decades, but she only had twenty years. Her current strategy was to continuously search for rare astrological resources and explore more possibilities. In the meantime, she used her skills to sustain herself, making incremental progress wherever she could.

“That’s why I said earlier that I wouldn’t say this to others to avoid discouraging them. But with you, I can be candid,” Pan Yicheng said calmly. “Right now, your priority isn’t making money; it’s figuring out how to elevate yourself to the next level.

“Solely relying on that individual fortune-telling model, it’s nearly impossible for you to change your current state. You need to step onto a larger platform.”

“I suggest you join a larger team and take part in major projects. That might create new possibilities. One person’s power is too limited—it’s like I could never build a skyscraper on my own, but with my team, we can make it happen,” Pan Yicheng said earnestly.

Chu Qianli seemed to understand somewhat, but then pretended to be on the verge of tears. In a low voice, she said, “Professor Pan, please reconsider my team. Isn’t this a big project? I’m desperate to save my life!”

Pan Yicheng hadn’t expected her to seize the opportunity and go along with the flow. She was practically unstoppable. He chuckled in exasperation. “How am I supposed to reconsider? I don’t have the authority to decide!”

“How do you not? You’re on the panel of judges.”

“Sigh, let me be honest with you—this was never going to work out. Spending five billion yuan to select someone? What if the wrong person is chosen? Who’s going to take responsibility for that?” Pan Yicheng slapped his thigh repeatedly. “It just doesn’t sound reasonable!”

Chu Qianli started lowering the bid, hoping for some wiggle room. “What about four billion? Or three billion?”

Pan Yicheng waved his hands frantically. “Young lady, you’re good at fortune-telling, but you also need to understand these intricacies. There are so many hidden layers to this process. Even I wouldn’t dare be careless. It’s really not just about the money!”

Pan Yicheng remained vigilant throughout, even giving Chu Qianli books and dried fruit snacks without making any rash promises.

A little while later, Chu Qianli left the room, carrying a box of dried fruit and looking rather glum. She made her way to the lounge to find Tan Muxing.

Tan Muxing noticed that she had entered the interview empty-handed but was now carrying dried fruit. Confused, he asked, “Where did that come from?”

“The interviewer gave it to me.” Chu Qianli casually tossed the book aside. “This book, too.”

“Most people bring gifts to the interviewer, but you ended up receiving them?” Tan Muxing picked up the dried fruit, bewildered by the peculiar dynamics of an astrologer’s interview process.

“It’s because I got played by these old foxes! They’re just placating me with snacks like I’m a kid!” Chu Qianli fumed. “They’re too scared to take responsibility, so they won’t pick anyone. No wonder I can’t earn this paycheck.”

The project was overly complex, and if the wrong candidate were selected, the decision-makers would face serious consequences. Naturally, they were cautious and implemented thorough screening processes.

“Still, it’s obvious that professors from prestigious universities and the school of hard knocks are on a different level. Their rhetoric is far superior to that of ordinary people. You can tell they’ve been sharpened by knowledge.” Chu Qianli grumbled while opening a packet of dried fruit and held it out to Tan Muxing. “Want some? I had some during the interview, and it’s actually pretty tasty.”

Tan Muxing took the dried fruit and said softly, “…Thank you. I can manage.”

Watching Chu Qianli casually toss raisins into her mouth, Tan Muxing couldn’t help but suspect that the interviewers had spent all their energy trying to coax her out of the room. She must have been clinging to them relentlessly—otherwise, who eats snacks during an interview?

Isn’t that something only kids do at the mall, throwing tantrums until they’re pacified with toys and ice cream?

“Oh, by the way, do you know this university?” Chu Qianli asked as she looked down at her phone. She showed the screen to Tan Muxing. “Is their admissions cutoff high? What rank would we need to be at to get in?”

Tan Muxing was briefly stunned before replying, “Based on rankings, He Shichen and Qi Yan could probably get in.”

“Great. Your examples have successfully discouraged me. I’ll look up the university where he teaches instead.” Chu Qianli redirected her search and asked, “What about this one? He said the cutoff isn’t as high as the first one.”

Tan Muxing avoided her gaze uneasily but offered gentle encouragement. “…If you work hard, you could make it.”

“‘Work harder’—which characters are you using? Is it the one for effort or the one for a billion?”

Tan Muxing’s gaze wandered awkwardly, clearly uneasy.

Chu Qianli read the answer from his face, put away her phone, and fumed, “Ugh! Not only a top student but a genius-level academic? No wonder he was so smug about having higher qualifications than my grandfather. Turns out his undergraduate school is that prestigious!”

Tan Muxing, having heard about the interview, gently reminded her, “…University degrees were more valuable back then. These days, there’s a lot of academic inflation.”

Chu Qianli replied blandly, “Let’s not even get into that. My rate of learning has never kept up with the devaluation of degrees.”

Tan Muxing: “…”

It had always been Chu Qianli crushing her peers. She had rarely, if ever, been outdone by anyone else’s credentials.

Pan Yicheng was clearly one of those academic prodigies from childhood to adulthood, effortlessly exuding the aura of a scholar. He didn’t bother talking about wealth, power, or fame; instead, he fully embodied the intellectual demeanor of a cultured person.

To make things worse, he played it coy, claiming he wasn’t as good at divination as others, that being a professor didn’t pay well, and that he was just an unremarkable bookworm who happened to stay in school longer than most. It was humblebragging at its finest.

Pan’s intellectual aura hit Chu Qianli like a truck. If his achievements were so casually downplayed, what did hers even amount to?

At home, Yu Shen passed by the hallway on the second floor and noticed no sound coming from Chu Qianli’s room. She remarked with concern, “Qianli’s been so quiet lately. She’s not even watching cartoons anymore.”

Chu Qianli was usually glued to her animations when she wasn’t studying. The recent extended study sessions had her parents a little unsettled.

He Shichen sneered, “She failed the special talent selection process. It’s probably her first real setback.”

Yu Shen was surprised. “But why go all out for that? She never even wanted to go to college before. What’s with the sudden interest in special talent programs?”

He Shichen, who had helped Chu Qianli fill out her resume, sensed that there was something unusual about the selection process. Calmly, he replied, “Those who pile pressure on others inevitably get crushed themselves. My guess is she ran into some academically gifted competitors.”

At her desk, Chu Qianli was indeed engrossed in her studies—an extremely rare occurrence, all thanks to being rattled by the interview.

During the interview, she had wanted to challenge Pan Yicheng to a contest in divination, astrology, and feng shui, planning to seize the opportunity to reclaim the project. But he had casually dismissed her by saying, “Academic discussions count as working hours.”

Pan Yicheng told her to get into the university where he taught if she wanted to engage in such exchanges. Until then, there was nothing to discuss during the interview—it was a professor’s domain, not a consultant’s.

Chu Qianli never would have imagined that the gatekeeping of a university acceptance letter would someday block her from engaging in a professional debate about her craft.