I walked up to the second tombstone and took a look: Chen Zhenhua (Born in 1950 – Died in 1975). My brows furrowed as I read it. After paying my respects to this ancestor and inserting the incense, I moved to the next tomb.

Chen Jinnan (Born in 1825 – Died in 1850).
Chen Guohui (Born in 1875 – Died in 1900).

…

After going through all twenty tombs, I was shocked to realize something uncanny: apart from some other grandmothers, not a single Chen in the family had lived past the age of twenty-five. After finishing the rituals, I turned around abruptly and stared at the Old fortune-teller in disbelief. He was also looking at me, his brows deeply furrowed.

Seeing I was done, he walked up to me and said, “Seen enough?”

I nodded numbly. My mind was in turmoil—how could anyone stay calm after finding out something like this? the Old fortune-teller continued, “Now you understand why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Does this mean no one in our family lives past twenty-five?” I asked, my voice trembling. If my ancestors couldn’t, then what about me?

Frantic, I pressed on, “Is it some kind of hereditary disease? With modern medicine, surely it can be treated, right?”

“As I expected, you’d start panicking.” the Old fortune-teller reached out to pat my head, his eyes showing a rare moment of tenderness. “Alright, let’s head back to my place. I’ll explain everything.”

“No! Just tell me, is there a cure?” My gaze bore into him like steel. Perhaps you can’t understand what I was feeling at that moment, but if you put yourself in my shoes—learning at nineteen that you might not live past twenty-five—you’d probably react even more intensely than I did.

“Calm down,” the Old fortune-teller tried to soothe me, but I roared, “How am I supposed to calm down?! I’m so young—what’s going on? How could I possibly not make it past twenty-five?!”

Slap!
The sharp sound echoed in the air as my left cheek burned. the Old fortune-teller had slapped me. That hit jolted me back to my senses.

“Kid, you’re too rash. ‘A blessing in disguise,’ as they say. What’s with all the drama?” The Old fortune-teller shot me a glare and then turned to leave, leaving me standing there alone, stunned.

I had no choice but to follow him. The whole way back, my mind was a chaotic mess. I couldn’t stop thinking: Should I check into the best hospital in China? But I had no money. Maybe I could rob a bank? Which bank? Should I scout out the place tomorrow? My thoughts spiraled endlessly.

Looking back now, I have no idea how I even made it to the Old fortune-teller’s house.

Once we arrived, he gestured for me to sit on the sofa and said, “I don’t know everything, but tell me what you want to know.”

“Everything!” I stared at him, my voice filled with desperation. “Old man, I’m begging you. This is too important for me. Please help me.”

“Alright, let’s start from the founding of the Qing Dynasty,” the Old fortune-teller began after some thought, clearing his throat.

He explained that the Qing Dynasty’s rise to power wasn’t just due to their strong military but also their mastery of dragon veins—a concept where each dragon vein represents the prosperity and decline of a dynasty.

During the late Ming Dynasty, when the dragon vein was weakening, Qing Taizong Aisin Gioro Nurhaci used shamanic rituals to awaken the Qing’s dragon vein. This allowed them to sweep across the land and establish their rule. Because of this, Nurhaci had immense faith in spirits and shamanism—what we’d now call superstition.

Shamanism, known for rituals like jumping the god, gained the Qing government’s favor. In return, the shamans allied with various wild spirits to protect the dynasty. These wild spirits were the famous Five Immortals of the Northeast: Hu, Huang, Bai, Liu, and Hui.

However, Daoism was suppressed under shamanism. At the time, the leader of the Zhengyi sect was a man named Chen Lu—my ancestor.

Chen Lu was just twenty-three when he became the sect leader. He was ambitious and wanted to revive Daoism, but he failed to understand that shamanism’s rise was tied to its alliance with the dragon vein. Naively, he thought he could outmatch shamanism with superior Daoist skills. He challenged the shamanic leader to a duel.

The shamanic leader, being more experienced, saw no point in such a contest and declined.

Coincidentally, at the time, a mysterious entity called the Red Gate Inn appeared. This inn was notorious for its lethal nature—anyone who entered rarely came out alive. To settle the rivalry, the shamanic leader proposed that whoever could subdue the demons of the Red Gate Inn would win.

Chen Lu, as the leader of Zhengyi and a master of Daoist arts, quickly found the inn. But he was defeated by its demons and barely escaped with his life. This caused an uproar among the people, further tarnishing Daoism’s reputation.

In contrast, the shamanic leader strolled into the Red Gate Inn and returned unscathed, even presenting the emperor with a letter from the demon leader praising his unparalleled power and pledging a hundred years of peace.

This news enraged Chen Lu so much that he coughed up blood and passed away at twenty-five. Though he left behind a son, his descendants—all of them—died before the age of twenty-five. People said it was a curse from the Red Gate Inn’s demons. This made the shamanic leader even more revered.

The Old fortune-teller ended the story there. I frowned deeply and said, “Was my ancestor really that foolish?”

“That’s just how the story’s been passed down. The truth might’ve been distorted over the centuries. But that’s all I know,” the Old fortune-teller replied with a chuckle. “Still, some suspected foul play. The shamanic leader had ties with the demons of the Red Gate Inn. There might’ve been a conspiracy.”

“What do I care about conspiracies?!” I exclaimed. “What matters is my life! Do I just wait to die? End my life in my prime?”

“Not necessarily,” the Old fortune-teller said thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you find the Red Gate Inn, there’s a way to lift the curse.”

Then he smirked and added, “And I happen to know someone who’s seen the Red Gate Inn.”

“Who?” My hope reignited. I had thought the inn, being centuries old, couldn’t possibly exist anymore. But now it seemed there was a chance.

“Not only has he seen it, but he even went inside,” the Old fortune-teller said with a sly grin.

“Your shifu, Wu Jiu. If you have the time, go visit him. After all, you’ve become his disciple but haven’t paid him a proper visit yet. Use this as an excuse to ask about the Red Gate Inn.”