Volume One, Chapter Two: Encountering the Master

Years later, when I watched the TV drama "Young Marshal," I could deeply understand the childhood feelings Zhang Xueliang had for his sister-in-law—a sentiment that could also be called youthful ambition.

Enough, I must not speak of Meiyu anymore.

Perhaps it was that very night when I decided to leave the village. I wanted to earn money—lots of it. I wanted to marry, to have a home...

Who would have thought that even at a young age, I harbored ambitions akin to Cao Cao’s? Though mine was a fondness for married women, it could still be said that my shoulders bore the weight of a hero.

There’s a saying: a tree dies if it stays rooted, but a person thrives when they move. If I, Xu, changed places, perhaps I could achieve something greater.

But the reality was that I had just over a single coin—not even enough for the fare to the county seat. My thought was simple: scavenging scrap could earn money. As long as I had the three coins needed for the bus ticket, reaching the county meant picking up scrap was almost like finding money on the ground.

Also, I wanted to go to the county to learn something.

I always believed knowledge could bring greater wealth, for even renting DVDs with Chinese subtitles cost an extra fifty cents and sold very well.

Clearly, people were willing to pay for knowledge.

Don’t laugh at me—this was my ambition back then.

There was no other way. The mountainous region was isolated; before this, I had never been to the county nor received news from the outside world. I just wanted to go out and collect scrap.

To me, picking up scrap was like picking up shining silver coins.

While I was striving to save money, a fortune-teller came to our village. He wore a blue Taoist robe and held a divination banner. He sat beneath the old cypress tree at the village entrance, attracting many young women and wives who came to ask when they might become wealthy.

The fortune-teller introduced himself as someone who emerged from a certain mountain cave, studied under a famous master—he rambled on with a story far longer than my own life.

At that time, aside from petty traders and the occasional firework seller, few outsiders came to our village, so his sudden arrival sparked much discussion.

He charged two coins for a reading. Some villagers even joked with me, saying, “Crazy kid, why don't you ask him who your real father is?”

By the way, Xu was a surname I had invented for myself; my given name was Duoqian, meaning "many coins," and people often just called me Duo.

Faced with the villagers' crude humor, I could only respond with a mild retort—I dared not offend them since I still depended on their offerings to get by.

Unexpectedly, when the fortune-teller heard about my background, he insisted on reading my palm.

I said, “I don’t have money.”

“Poverty is no obstacle; I’ll read your fortune for free,” he said.

I thought to myself, “Ah, this sneaky Taoist just wants to mess with me, trying to crack lewd jokes about my fate to entertain everyone.”

“How about it? A free reading,” the fortune-teller said very seriously.

“Fine, then. Read it and tell me when I’ll marry two wives,” I said, guessing they wanted to see me humiliated. Well, I’d give them a show—I was a man of substance.

I sat beside him and offered my left hand, but he didn’t take it. Thinking I gave the wrong hand, I switched to my right and asked, “They say men show the left, women the right. Which hand will you read?”

He drew in a sharp breath and said, “No rush. Let me first study your face.”

When our eyes met, I took a good look at the fortune-teller. He seemed over fifty, with long hair tied in a fist-sized bun atop his head. Long wisps framed his temples, and a sparse goatee adorned his chin.

His face was thin and pale, giving an impression of malnutrition, with ordinary features that clearly marked him as no farmer.

Calling him a transcendent hermit was a stretch, but his lean, tall frame lent him a certain ethereal aura.

What impressed me most were his hands—though over fifty, they looked like those of a young man in his twenties, pale and smooth, with unusually long fingers.

He studied me for five or six minutes, making me uneasy. The crowd began to mock, saying I was tough, that I’d encounter romantic troubles next year—basically projecting their fantasies onto me.

I ignored them and asked the fortune-teller, “Master, what’s my fate?”

He stroked his goatee, puzzled. “Wait, let me examine your palm again.”

He scrutinized both hands for some time. Growing impatient, I asked, “Well, am I tough?”

He clicked his tongue repeatedly. “Tough? No, your fate is very weak. Young man, what year were you born?”

“’91 or ’92, I’m not sure. People say all sorts of things.”

The villagers chimed in, trying to recall the exact year.

The fortune-teller’s expression grew grave. “Your fate is weak and fragile.”

I bristled. “Nonsense! My vitality is like Sun Wukong’s golden staff—solid as a rock.”

The crowd chuckled mischievously, but the fortune-teller remained serious. After they quieted down, he said, “I mean your lifespan. According to the heavens, you should have died before age three.”

Suddenly, an old man in the crowd exclaimed, “Isn’t that true? When he was two or three, a wolf snatched him at the temple gate.”

I was shocked. “Really? Why have I never heard that?”

“You were too young to remember. If not for the mountain herders who chased the wolf away, you’d be wolf dung by now. You’re lucky…”

The fortune-teller raised his hand to silence the old man and said slowly, “You’re an orphan, living hand to mouth. Come with me.”

“Why follow you?”

“Travel the world with me. I can protect you—not guarantee a normal lifespan, but you can live decades longer.”

“Tell me about my fate.”

He shook his head. “I can’t say. But come with me, and I’ll ensure you never want for food or clothing.”

“Where to?”

“The county.”

It was uncanny—just as I longed for my family, the child’s uncle appeared. It was like being tired and having someone bring you a pillow.

“Alright,” I agreed at once.

In those days in rural Northeast China, there were no flower sellers, only human traffickers. Every family had one child; no one dared to have more, let alone buy children. My thinking was simple: I’d follow him to the county and at least save on travel expenses. Once there, I would be in charge.

I was leaving the village, and no one tried to stop me. They said it was good for me to learn a trade from the Taoist and travel the world, able to support myself anywhere.

I felt no attachment to the village—no house, no land, no family. What was there to miss?

Only Meiyu, my young wife, I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

Before I left, I kowtowed to the village three times, thanking it for raising me. In my heart, I vowed to make a fortune and return in glory.

The Taoist rode a vintage two-eight bike and took me away from my homeland.

“Boy, if you hadn’t lived in the temple, you’d be dead long ago.”

“Alright, when I have money, I’ll offer a pig’s head to the Earth God.”

“From now on, call me Master. I’ll take you as my disciple.”

I thought to myself, whether disciple or not, as long as you feed and shelter me, you might as well be my father.

Though lean, the Taoist was surprisingly strong. He rode the mountain paths on the old bike without needing to catch his breath, standing up to pedal uphill in a somewhat comical manner.

By dusk, we reached a village near the county seat. I swear, that was the farthest place I had ever been—my first time seeing a two-story red brick building.