Divining the Flow of Energy and Tracing the Veins of the Land

“It’s too late tonight; Thirteenth Uncle is probably already resting. We’ll visit him tomorrow, so you can drink freely tonight—just get up by ten in the morning,” Feng Tianbao said to Chen Fengyun after they sat down.

“All right, I’ll do as you say, Uncle Feng.”

While in YN, Chen Fengyun had already learned to drink with Geng Chunming and Xu Dalin—spirits, no less. Whether it was his robust constitution or the circulation of spiritual energy in his meridians dissolving the alcohol, he never left a drop in the glass, nor did he ever refuse a toast.

As the saying goes, a man’s drinking shows his character.

Though this was Chen Fengyun’s first time dining and drinking with Feng Tianbao, Ye Mingfu, and the others, his forthrightness won the admiration of these men. Whether they were from Feng Tianbao’s side or Ye Mingfu’s entourage, all went several rounds with him.

Chen Fengyun estimated that by the end of the meal, he’d killed at least two bottles of century-old spirits, yet he felt nothing—any alcohol entering his body was swiftly neutralized.

“Young man, you’re something else.” Even masters like Feng Tianbao and Ye Mingfu, martial artists of high skill, ended the night swaying, giving him a thumbs-up.

“Brother, let’s keep drinking.” Ye Linchuan, no longer caring about anything else, clasped Chen Fengyun’s arm, calling him brother again and again.

“Master Chen, that’s some tolerance!” Around them, the others were sprawled out from drink, all full of awe for Chen Fengyun.

Returning to his room, Chen Fengyun didn’t need to sleep. He set up the Spiritual Gathering Array, sat in meditation, and replaced sleep with cultivation. He soon noticed that the spiritual energy around West Lake was slightly richer than at his home in Rongcheng. Once the array was set, wisps of energy quickly gathered.

“No wonder Thirteenth Uncle chose to live in seclusion by West Lake. He must have discovered the faint presence of spiritual energy here. Even if it’s not enough for cultivation, long-term residence would certainly benefit the body.”

The night passed uneventfully. Early the next morning, Chen Fengyun left his room while the others, who had drunk with him last night, were still fast asleep. After asking for directions, he set off for a run around West Lake.

West Lake is, after all, a place of great renown. Its scenery has captivated poets and scholars throughout history, with famous causeways and legendary verses left behind. Even just the tale of Lady White Snake and Xu Xian has made West Lake a pilgrimage for countless travelers.

After all, in the sixth lunar month, West Lake’s beauty is unlike any other season: endless green lotus leaves stretch to the horizon, and the sunlight makes the lotus blossoms glow with a unique crimson.

Chen Fengyun arrived at the end of June, and the early morning greeted him with a sea of green—a vast expanse like an emerald ocean, filling him with peace and joy. As the sun shone from afar, the clusters of lotus leaves, some with buds yet to bloom, others in full blossom, caught the light and glowed with a delicate halo, mesmerizing the eye.

A gentle breeze carried a faint, refreshing fragrance—of dew, of lotus leaves, and of the subtle scent of lotus blossoms—an intoxicating experience.

He began his run with the very first rays of sunlight, and soon discovered that many others also came to exercise by the lake at dawn—some local residents, some visiting tourists. Meeting on the red paths by the lake, everyone exchanged a smile, and the heart grew even more tranquil.

“Young man, I’m truly impressed.” After an hour’s run by the lake, Chen Fengyun returned to find Feng Tianbao struggling out of bed. Being a martial artist adept in inner strength, he could neutralize some of the effects of alcohol, but hearing that Chen Fengyun had already been running for an hour left him full of admiration.

“Uncle Feng, I’m only eighteen—you’re in your forties. If you were my age, I’m sure you’d be just as energetic.”

“Let’s have some porridge. We drank a lot last night; something light will be good for the stomach.” Feng Tianbao led him to sit in the manor’s courtyard, where they sipped porridge while enjoying the distant view of West Lake.

“Uncle Feng, can you tell me about your lineage’s traditions? I’ve read some novels before—things like ‘Grave Robbers’ Chronicles’ or ‘Ghost Blows Out the Light,’ and movies like ‘Mojin: The Lost Legend’ and ‘Chronicles of the Ghostly Tribe.’ They’re all about tomb raiding and such, and I’ve always been curious.”

After breakfast, as someone brought the morning tea, the two chatted idly. Chen Fengyun was very interested in the southern school’s tomb-raiding heritage—not that he wanted to join the profession, but as an archaeology major, more knowledge could only help.

“Our lineage, in fact, wasn’t involved in tomb-raiding in ancient times. According to Thirteenth Uncle, our ancestors called themselves Qi-Channel Masters. They practiced the art of observing energy flows and searching for dragon veins and auspicious sites, assisting emperors in finding geomantic treasures.

“For example, Xu Fu of the Qin dynasty, Zhang Liang and Fan Zeng of the Han, Yuan Tiangang of the Tang—these were all ancestors of our school. But after great changes in the world, true Qi-Channel Masters became almost impossible to train; the craft gradually evolved into different professions,” Feng Tianbao said with a sigh.

“So Thirteenth Uncle is a cultivator—has he mastered the art of observing energies and finding veins?” Feng Tianbao’s words sounded mystical, but Chen Fengyun couldn’t help believing them.

He remembered a passage from his middle school literature textbook—in Sima Qian’s ‘Feast at Hongmen,’ Fan Zeng says to Xiang Yu: “When Liu Bang was in SD, he lusted for riches and women. Now, he takes neither riches nor women in the pass—his ambition is not small. I sent someone to observe his aura—it was all dragons and tigers, radiant with five colors. That is the aura of an emperor. Act quickly or it will be too late!”

Since Sima Qian recorded the art of energy observation in history, Qi-Channel Masters must have existed in ancient times; thus, Feng Tianbao’s words held some truth.

Even today, there are geomancy masters skilled in feng shui and finding burial sites—likely offshoots from the ancient tradition of Qi-Channel Masters.

“Thirteenth Uncle truly has learned much from the tradition; he possesses many techniques we cannot perform. I suspect he’s mastered some of them, though he is still far from the level described of our ancestors in the records.”

Hearing this, Chen Fengyun’s interest in Qi-Channel Mastery grew, but since it was their family’s tradition, he didn’t press further. He would wait until meeting Thirteenth Uncle to see if an opportunity arose to learn more.

“Let’s go—Thirteenth Uncle should have finished his morning cultivation. We’ll pay him a visit,” Feng Tianbao said around ten o’clock, rising to his feet.

Soon after, Ye Mingfu and his son Ye Linchuan also joined them, the latter still rubbing his temples. The previous night, he’d kept drinking with Chen Fengyun until the very end and had nearly failed to get up—his father had had to kick the door to wake him.