My grandfather's hand was still trembling as he clutched the compass in his final moments. A drop of blood fell from the Ren position onto Notes on the Green Satchel, turning the words "Nine Dragons Locking the Veins" red. When Lin Qingnang reached the last page, cold sweat soaked through his shirt. A crooked annotation read: "Liu Fei's tomb conceals the true copy of Zuo's Commentary. The ward protecting the book is still active. To see the ward is to see me." Three days later, Ye Zhao from the archaeology department came to his door with half a jade cicada engraved with the words "Jiangdu." "Your grandfather's probe is at the bottom of the robbers' tunnel." When the compass needle suddenly reversed in the wilderness, and the sinister wind from the "Black Tortoise Swallowing Qi" formation blew dust from the tomb inscription, Lin Qingnang finally understood. The feng shui formulas he'd carried with him for twenty years were meant to help him fight antiquities traffickers for a coffin concealing history.
