Chapter 053: The Strange Fortune Stick
This story is entirely fictional.
Nearby, a young Taoist priest, fingers strung with prayer beads, muttered incantations as he observed the middle-aged man inserting coins. After the man finished, the priest stepped forward and said, “Sir, please wait.”
Zhaoming looked up at the Taoist priest dressed in a gray robe and asked, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Greetings,” the priest replied, unhurried. “I see a dark patch on your forehead, casting a shadow over your brow. It suggests that you are walking a road fraught with adversity. Would you like me to help you ward off disaster and resolve your worries?”
“Is that so? My brow is dark?” Zhaoming replied. “It’s merely an old blemish that’s been there for ages. What disaster could it possibly foretell?”
“All things are governed by cause and effect. Where there is a cause, there must be a consequence. That is Buddhist doctrine. Don’t dismiss it. My observation is based on your features. Some things exist only for those who believe,” the priest intoned, drawing out his words as though reciting scripture.
Zhaoming considered this. The priest’s words seemed not entirely unreasonable. After all, this journey was meant to resolve his current predicament. Despite Dujuan’s hundred protests against his trip north—despite her ignorance of her husband’s true purpose—she only wished not to be apart from him for ten days, even feigning illness to keep him home. Yet he remained steadfast. “How do you propose to dispel my misfortune?” he asked.
The priest gestured invitingly. “Please follow me.”
Zhaoming trailed behind and settled into the priest’s booth.
With courtesy, the priest introduced himself, “Do you know about 8341? I am the last disciple of the old Taoist who once read Chairman Mao’s fortune.”
Zhaoming replied, “Of course I know. But that’s irrelevant to our conversation now. Let’s be practical. Please, tell me about my luck.”
The priest felt an inexplicable sensation toward this middle-aged man. He knew about 8341, but believed neither in rumors nor the notion of a last disciple. Yet, the priest was certain that the man before him was facing a crisis he could not resolve.
“Don’t doubt it, some things are destiny, are heaven’s will!” the priest insisted. “If you believe, it works.”
Zhaoming nodded repeatedly. “Indeed, indeed.”
“Come, let me calculate for you.” The priest handed Zhaoming a tube of fortune sticks. “Shake the tube naturally, let the sticks fall, and their message will reveal your fate.”
Zhaoming closed his eyes and shook the tube gently. When a stick fell to the ground, he heard its sound and stopped shaking.
He picked up the stick and handed it to the priest.
The priest glanced at the number and said, “Sir, you’ve drawn the worst fortune stick. Forgive me for being frank.” He remained courteous.
He unrolled the slip and read aloud:
“A dragon swims in shallow waters and meets perilous shoals,
Struggles with each step, troubled and restless.
Three feet of ice does not form in a single day,
Yet willows bloom bright by the riverbank in time.”
The priest explained, “You are a noble dragon by birth, yet have, by mischance, wandered into shallow waters where your talents cannot be displayed. Now, you face grave danger, as if treading on thin ice, unable to progress. The predicament, like three feet of ice, did not form overnight; you must quickly turn back from the precipice—the shore is within reach.”
Zhaoming listened, and felt the priest’s words fit perfectly, as if the calculation precisely matched his reality. He had always considered himself a dragon among men—not unrecognized, but certainly someone whose talents should have taken him to great heights. Yet, reality had not matched his ambitions; even his current deputy director position had kept him waiting nearly twenty years. Now, finally, his good days had arrived—a turning point after darkness.
He glanced at the priest, somewhat puzzled, and asked, “So you mean my luck is terrible, as indicated by this worst fortune stick?”
“It’s not that your luck is bad because you drew a poor stick, but rather, the stick reflects your current state, your fate,” the priest explained.
“My fate? Who would believe a single stick could represent a person’s fate? If I drew another stick and it was different, wouldn’t my fate change?” Zhaoming shook his head. “Let me try again, let me try again.”
“You may draw as many as you wish. If you don’t believe, try again,” the priest replied patiently.
Zhaoming pressed his hands together in silent prayer, then picked up the tube once more.
He shook it vigorously, murmuring prayers for Bodhisattva’s blessing...
Another stick finally dropped. He retrieved it and checked the number—he was stunned.
Zhaoming’s mood soured, and his face darkened. “I seriously doubt your professional ethics.”
“You doubt my integrity?” the priest retorted, displeased. “If you make such claims, you should have evidence.” He squinted at Zhaoming. “Are you questioning the sticks?”
“Yes, I suspect there are no other numbers in your tube, that all the sticks are identical. You claim to be the last disciple of the master who read Chairman Mao’s fortune—I didn’t expose you out of courtesy. But your theatrics here are dishonorable,” Zhaoming accused with confidence.
“Facts speak louder than words. You may open the tube and examine every fortune stick; see if any matches the one you drew. I would never sully the reputation of Taoism with such disgraceful tricks,” the priest said angrily.
Zhaoming, as though holding irrefutable evidence, opened each stick one by one. There truly was no duplicate. He was embarrassed, speechless, uncertain how to respond.
“I’m sorry, truly sorry. Drawing the same stick twice is so unbelievable that I said things I shouldn’t have. Please forgive me.”
“It’s understandable. No need to apologize. Sir, perhaps you’d like to offer some incense to this DQ temple?” the priest suggested.
Zhaoming felt somewhat awkward and handed over a hundred yuan.
The priest did not accept the money, simply looked at him.
Zhaoming, embarrassed, realized the priest thought a hundred was too little. “How much is appropriate?”
“Three hundred minimum, no upper limit,” the priest answered crisply.
Zhaoming was troubled. He only brought a thousand yuan for this trip, and hadn’t expected this move from the priest so soon. He hesitated, wanting to give but feeling reluctant, touched his pocket, withdrew his hand, and stared at the priest in silence.
The priest quickly reassured him, “There’s no need to worry, you don’t have to give anything.”
With those words, Zhaoming’s anxious heart eased, though it still thumped wildly. Red-faced, he rose and left the priest’s booth.
He rode the coach, mulling over the events at DQ temple. By the time he returned to the hotel, dusk had already fallen. The guide was arranging their check-in, and Zhaoming, dragging his suitcase, waited nervously in the lobby, eager to reach his room and start betting on his beloved Italian Serie A.
Once the hotel staff had sorted his room, he rushed to the elevator with his suitcase, entered his room in haste.
He set down his luggage, took out his laptop, plugged in his wireless card, and logged onto a football betting site.
He analyzed two matches—one featuring the feisty Chievo, and the other his favorite, Sampdoria. For both games, he felt no need for deep analysis, and bet directly on Chievo to win, Sampdoria to win. The wager was larger than ever before—ten thousand per match, twenty thousand in total.
He felt certain of victory in both matches. Even if things went awry, his football intuition would allow him to reverse bets during live play, minimizing losses. Since all bets remained valid throughout the ninety minutes, he was unconcerned about errors. After placing his bets, he stretched, feeling fatigued, and decided to rest before the Serie A games began, so he could enjoy the match and bet simultaneously.
To ensure he woke up on time, he set an alarm on his phone for fifteen minutes before kickoff. With preparations complete, he lay down and fell into a deep sleep. He forgot about the deputy editor’s evening arrangements, forgot the trip to the beer festival entirely.
When he awoke, he was stunned. He glanced at his phone—several missed calls from the deputy editor.
Through the blackout curtains, he saw daylight streaming in, and knew it was morning.
His heart lurched painfully, as if seized by an invisible hand. A sense of foreboding overwhelmed him; he felt something catastrophic had happened—particularly concerning his twenty-thousand-yuan bet.
In panic, Zhaoming opened his laptop and checked the results online.
The scores leapt out at him—not the outcomes he had hoped for. Both matches resulted in losses, and the betting site showed a negative twenty-thousand balance.
He slumped in a corner of the bed, eyes vacant, unable to pinpoint the problem. He picked up his phone to check the alarm settings. Sure enough, the alarm was set for weekdays and had not activated, as he had forgotten it was Saturday night. He sat in despair, staring at his laptop, lost in thought. In just over ten hours, such unimaginable events had occurred. Previously, his losses accumulated in thousands, but this time, losing twenty thousand in a single blow was more than he could bear—far more than his prior losses combined.
He began to wonder if it was his own fault, if failing to sincerely offer three hundred yuan at DQ temple had cursed him, or perhaps the priest laid some spell upon him. This sleep that led to such tragedy was unprecedented in his life. (To be continued)