The Art Of Chinese Character Divination

After the new shop opened, I delivered soup noodles to Master Hong every day.

One month passed. Then two.

Even after three months, I kept it up.

While dropping off noodles, I'd linger to eavesdrop on his consultations. Strangely, my sister never scolded me for coming home late.

By the third month, I realized something was off—my sister hadn't assigned me any real work.

One day, I asked, "Sis, what should I do?"

She glared at Auntie Li, then jerked her chin toward the kitchen.

So Wan Shanhong—the "Buddha Tree Noodle Shop's" anonymous mastermind—got demoted to washing dishes and prepping veggies?

"I helped build this shop. Let's split shares," I suggested.

Her face twisted. "Shares? Your brother-in-law and I are family. When did you ever invest money?"

My brother-in-law tried to mediate: "Shanhong's ideas grew the business. He deserves—"

Crash! My sister hurled her teacup. "Wan Shanhong! You want to kill me? No shares! You've done nothing!"

I bit my tongue. I created the Buddha tree myth. I brought Master Hong here. But arguing was pointless—she'd erase my contributions in a breath.

"Sis, I want my own path. Lend me money to start fresh."

She burst into tears. "We starved together! Now you'd abandon family for money?"

Cue the parental guilt-tripping. My dad listed my "three sins":

1. Ungrateful to my sister.

2. "Lazy" for prioritizing noodle deliveries.

3. "Too proud" to wash dishes.

Thus, the shop's "executive" became a full-time delivery boy.

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One day, I proposed a slogan: "Eat Buddha Tree Noodles, Bond with Buddha!"

My seventh-grade-educated sister scoffed. "Stay out of the shop. You annoy me."

So I stopped returning after deliveries. Instead, I camped at Master Hong's, absorbing his consultations.

Strangely, he never asked why I wasn't working. His wife smiled when I visited. Even the housekeeper poured me tea.

Compared to my sister's venom, this felt like heaven.

---

Late July. After a delivery, a flashy man stormed in. "Master Hong!"

The master stood. "CEO He! What brings you?"

The man plopped into a chair. I served tea.

He explained: A 500-million-yuan project in Guangxi. His dying mother. "Can she hold on ten days?"

Master Hong had him write "xiang" (想 – think).

"The first radical is 'mu' (木 – wood)—a coffin. But the 'mu' isn't closed. She'll last half a month."

CEO He rushed out.

A month later, he returned with 20,000 yuan cash. "Five-billion project secured! Buried Mom yesterday. Thanks!"

Master Hong pocketed the stack like it was spare change.

My mind exploded. That's 10,000 noodle bowls!

Right then, I decided: Screw dishwashing. I'm learning divination.

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Days later, a man thanked Master Hong for finding his car keys. After he left, I kneeled.

"Master, take me as your disciple!"

He raised me. "The Buddha tree… your doing?"

I flushed.

"Why apprentice here?"

I spilled my story: Failed college. Sister's abuse. Desperation.

He nodded. "I was like you—too weak for manual labor. My uncle kicked me out. Then I met Master Hongyuan."

"Will you teach me?"

"Fate sent you. Months ago, I dreamed of my master. He said, 'A youth will bring you noodles. Teach him.'"

I kowtowed. "Master!"

"Ask your family first."

---

My sister clapped. "Good!You're useless here anyway."

That afternoon, she dragged me to his house for a "formal ceremony."

Master Hong refused. "My rule: No local disciples. You're outsiders, so I'll test him. If he's unworthy, he'll return to noodles in a year."

No rituals. No titles. Just: "Call me teacher for now."

At 21, my destiny shifted. No more scrubbing pans. Now, I studied under Master Hong—divination, feng shui, and the secrets of words.

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