Wedge: The Last Feng Shui Master
Great Cold, Zishi.
The wind from the Huangpu River is like a knife, making the century-old buildings on the Bund tremble. The halo of the street lamp melted into the river mist, creating circles of dim yellow, like incense sticks that were about to be extinguished.
Shen Qingya was standing on the terrace of No. 18 On the Bund.
Wearing a black windbreaker, black gloves, and holding an equally black long-handled umbrella in his hand. The tip of the umbrella touched the ground, making a very slight "ta, ta" sound on the granite ground, the rhythm was as precise as a heartbeat.
He is waiting for someone.
Waiting for someone who shouldn't show up at this time.
The high-rise buildings in Lujiazui on the other side of the river are brightly lit, and the glass curtain walls reflect an unreal cold light. Those buildings—Jinmao, Universal, Shanghai Tower—are like a giant sword thrust upside down, with its tip pointed toward the sky and its hilt buried deep in the mud at the bottom of the Huangpu River.
Some people call this the "rise of a financial center."
Shen Qingya knew otherwise.
That's the Feng Shui Bureau. Someone, or some kind of existence, nailed seven "dragon-suppressing nails" on the dragon veins of Shanghai.
Seven skyscrapers, seven directions, nailed the water dragon spirit that Pujiang has cultivated for six hundred years.
Despair. Despair. Despair.
The sound of footsteps came from the other side of the terrace, neither fast nor slow.
It's a woman.
Dark red cheongsam, the slit stops just three inches above the knees. Holding a slender lady's cigarette in her hand, amid the smoke, her face was as delicate as Jingdezhen's thin-bodied porcelain.
"Mr. Shen is so elegant." The woman stood three meters in front of Shen Qingya, "On a cold night, I stood by the Huangpu River and watched the scenery."
