Chapter 174: Did you figure out that today would bring this disaster?

The old manor lay deep in night, the city walls returned to tranquility.

The bustling crowd and the Dharma gathering dispersed together, turning into scattered whispers in twos and threes, which drifted into the streets and alleys of Zhoufu.

Fucuzi took off that embroidered ceremonial robe, changed back into his half-worn blue-gray Daoist robe, and still sat under the oil-paper lantern at the mouth of the narrow alley.

The small table, stone inkstone, and bald brush were all there; even the creases on those few sheets of yellow paper on the table were exactly the same as a few days ago.

People coming and going walked past him.

Some carried incense baskets, some pinched freshly obtained talismans, and some were still excitedly discussing how, from afar during yesterday's fast-and-offering rite, they had caught a glimpse of the Celestial Master's dignified bearing.

Fucuzi listened with a smiling squint; whenever his eyes met a passerby's, he nodded.

That smile was gentle and harmless; to anyone looking, he appeared just an ordinary young Daoist making a living.

This scene actually attracted a person resembling a merchant, who stopped his steps in front of the stall.

He wore a short gray-brown coat, a pack slung over his shoulder, looking travel-worn; at a glance he was clearly not a local.

He stood before the stall, tilted his head to look at the cloth banner reading 'Divination and Fortune-Telling', then at Fucuzi's smiling baby face, hesitated a moment, took out several copper coins from his pack, and placed them on the table:

"Little Master, help me cast a hexagram. I set out on a trading trip and lost half a wagon of goods; I want to ask whether I can recover them."

Fucuzi lowered his eyes to glance at the few copper coins, then lifted his gaze to the itinerant merchant, shook his head, and said with a gentle smile:

"Today I do not tell fortunes."

The merchant blinked, obviously not expecting a stall fortune-teller to say he wouldn't tell fortunes.

He furrowed his brows, pointed at the cloth banner:

"Isn't this banner saying 'Divination and Fortune-Telling'?"

"It is."

Fucuzi nodded, still smiling:

"Today I do not."

The merchant's frown tightened further; he gave Fucuzi a once‑over, muttered "Strange," bent to pick up the copper coins one by one from the table, slipped them into his pack, and turned to leave.

After walking a few steps, he continued to mutter under his breath, his voice neither loud nor soft—just audible to Fucuzi:

"Zhoufu is truly strange. Everyone is busy praying and burning incense; I lost half a wagon of goods and went to the government office to file a report, but there wasn't even a clerk to register it— they said the Celestial Master's altar‑opening period means no official business. The Celestial Master is probably just chanting scriptures behind layers of curtains; all I saw was a shadow, couldn't even make out his face. Now even a roadside stall Daoist who tells fortunes refuses to do so."

He shook his head, quickened his pace a bit, muttered "Ill omen," and soon vanished into the crowd.

Fucuzi watched his retreating back with that same smiling squint; the smile hung on his face unmoving, like a delicate human‑skin mask.

Only after the person had gone far did the smile on his face gradually fade, like fireworks slowly cooling.

He lowered his eyelids, extended his right hand from his sleeve, and lightly tapped his thumb against the joints of his middle and ring fingers a few times, pinching, then pinching again.

His brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed out, shifting to a look of doubt as he murmured to himself:

"Ah, you ought to have come looking for me at this time……"

Before his words faded, a hand reached from behind and covered his mouth.

That hand was slender and capable, the fingertips bearing thin calluses; its strength was neither great nor slight, but just enough to prevent him from making a sound.

Fucuzi's eyes widened sharply, then quickly returned to calm; even the corner of his mouth curled slightly through the gap in that hand.

He offered no struggle, no resistance, letting that hand lift him from the stool and drag him into the narrow alley behind.

The oil‑paper lantern swayed, light and shadow shattered; the wind lifted the yellow paper on the small table, it fluttered twice, then settled back onto the surface.

In the narrow alley the light was dim, the walls covered in moss, and underfoot lay wet stone slabs.

Fucuzi was pressed against the wall, the back of his head bumping it; he did not cry out in pain, merely lifted his eyelids to gaze at the face before him.

Du Shanü's face.

She was a bit thinner than a few days ago, her jawline more defined, her eyes holding a layer of something—whether fatigue or ruthlessness—like a blade repeatedly honed, grown ever thinner.

Chinu stood half a step behind her; he was the one who had just covered his mouth and pulled the person away. Now he crossed his arms, leaned against the alley wall, and stared expressionlessly at Fucuzi, as if looking at a mouse whose neck had been seized.

Fucuzi smiled.

That smile was exactly the same as when he told fortunes—crooked brows and eyes, lips slightly upturned, gentle, innocent, harmless to man and beast.

His voice rolled out from his throat, a touch hoarse, yet steady and resonant:

"I knew you would come."

Du Shanü said nothing, merely looked at him.

Fucuzi thought she had been cowed by him, straightened his waist a little, was about to say more, when Du Shanü suddenly reached out and slapped him smartly on the back of the head.

It wasn't heavy, but not light either; it sent his head lurching forward, nearly making him bite his tongue.

He staggered, not yet reacting, when Du Shanü slapped him again—this time on the shoulder—throwing his whole body sideways so his lower back struck the moss at the wall's base.

"All my life......"

Du Shanü's voice was low, light, as if speaking of something insignificant:

"Most annoying are those who pretend to be garlic!"

"Stop playing mysterious, or else......"

Fucuzi opened his mouth to say something, but Du Shanü had already seized his collar, yanking him away from the wall and then pressing him back against it.

The motion was swift and decisive, like tidying up a disobedient half‑grown child.

After taking several blows in succession, he finally dropped the lofty immortal façade, his shoulders slumping, the half‑smiling baby‑face mask cracking halfway to reveal the genuine grievance beneath.

"Stop hitting! Stop hitting!"

He shrank his neck, his voice growing softer:

"I, after all, am......"

"the Celestial Master—I, after all, am a Celestial Master!"

"Although this title was lifted up by that prefect, his abilities are genuine!"

Du Shanü glanced at him, and Fucuzi's hand instinctively rose to shield his head, even his inner voice falling silent.

Looking all aggrieved and wronged, and......

Again the look of "as you wish, kill if you want".

This isn't quite the same scene the two of them had planned when they arrived.

The alley fell silent for an instant.

Du Shanü had originally intended to use this person to take the prefect hostage, but seeing how unrestrained he was, she couldn't help but reconsider, and she asked thoughtfully:

"You just said you knew we'd both come?"

Fucouzi immediately let go of his hands, smoothed his wrinkled collar, cleared his throat, and lifted his head with renewed vigor:

"Of course!"

"My fortune-telling has always been dead on; your last prophecy was only half fulfilled, so you'll surely come back to find me!"

Du Shanü said nothing, her gaze landing on his face, neither cold nor hot, as if waiting for him to finish.

Seeing she didn't move, Fucouzi grew a bit bolder, leaned in, lowered his voice, and a hint of seriousness appeared in his doll-like eyes; he was no longer wearing that earlier goofy grin:

"I've thought it over, and maybe we can make up that prophecy a bit~"

"Would you like to know how to make it up?"

Du Shanü gave the smiling little Taoist a once-over, and just then recalled the drop of blood that had fallen onto her face.

She didn't reply, and it was rare that she couldn't be bothered to hide a knife behind a smile; she simply said coldly:

"Ten out of ten accurate? I doubt it."

"Before we told fortunes that day, you also gave a little girl a reading, right?"

"That little girl had already figured out her fate and freed herself from that so-called forty‑seven‑year‑old husband."