When I was nineteen, my master passed away, and I was kicked down the mountain to fulfill a ridiculous childhood engagement. My fiancé was Rongcheng’s richest man, held doctorates in both finance and computer science, was aloof and ascetic, and hated superstition more than anything. The first time we met, he shoved a contract at me: take the money and leave after three months. But then his brakes failed for no scientific reason, and my casual warning, “You’ll face a bloody disaster within three days,” came true. Now the staunchly materialistic CEO knocks on my door in the middle of the night: “You said my office had bad feng shui. Can you explain?”
