Chapter One: The Forsaken Pawn

Every afternoon, the teahouse nestled in the ancient alley would fill with people. Amidst the bustling splendor of the city, this teahouse seemed untouched by time, its air steeped in quiet antiquity. Those who gathered within were all venerable masters of the esoteric arts, their years etched into faces as weathered as old stone.

They came each day, drawn by habit, to listen to a single story—a story about a man named Qin Yanhui.

Qin Yanhui existed only in legend, for his era had long since faded into the mist. Were he still alive, he would be older than any soul present. He was a sorcerer, what people commonly called a Taoist priest, and his life was so extraordinary that it needed no embellishment. He endured things beyond the imagination of ordinary men. Some claimed that every tale about him was pure fabrication, that he had never existed at all—he was simply too mysterious and powerful for most to believe in.

Yet the elderly scholars in the teahouse thought otherwise. From their lips came snippets of Qin Yanhui’s wondrous and dazzling life, though these fragments were scattered and incomplete, for all who had seen him with their own eyes were long gone.

Still, I loved to listen. Each afternoon, I would take my seat in the teahouse’s window-lit corner, order a cup of tea, and drink in every word about Qin Yanhui. I was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Day after day, without fail.

The elders found it odd—a young man in his twenties so enthralled by the story of a Taoist. But I had a reason: I wished to write his story.

Perhaps only I could capture everything about him.

For I am Qin Yanhui.

Chapter One: The Abandoned Son

I was born in a mountain village in western Sichuan. The children there bore simple, unadorned names—Doggie, Fool, Pretty Girl, and the like. Mine, however, was out of place: I was called Qin Yanhui.

It was much later that I learned my name was drawn from a line in one of Li Qingzhao’s poems: “When the wild geese return, the moon fills the western chamber.”

The one who named me was called Qin One-Hand. He truly had only one hand; it was said the other had been broken during the campaign to eradicate superstitious practices. Over time, everyone grew used to calling him Qin One-Hand. As for his real name, not a soul in the mountains knew it.

The mountain soil was rich, and come spring, one needed only to scatter seeds—if heaven was kind, there would always be a good harvest. In times of famine, not a single villager starved. People called it the grace of nature, and perhaps it was so.

Working the fields demanded strength, which Qin One-Hand, crippled as he was, could not offer. Yet in this labor-revering village, his status surpassed all others.

He was a seer.

The villagers were honest and humble folk, their world hemmed in by mountains. Faith became their spiritual sustenance. For weddings and funerals, for planting or trading at the market, people would walk for miles just to ask Qin One-Hand to read their fortunes.

Since I could remember, our yard was always crowded. Each person entering the house seemed burdened with worry, but left brimming with hope. In gratitude, they would leave eggs, rice, sorghum wine, sometimes even meat. Money meant little to them; these offerings were far more precious. They were meant as payment for Qin One-Hand’s counsel, and by them, I was raised.

Qin One-Hand was my father, but I never saw him smile at me. As for my mother, I once asked about her when I was small. He slapped me so hard I lost a decayed tooth. I never asked again.

Sometimes I doubted that Qin One-Hand was truly my father; even his identity was a mystery. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, never washed, always had a jug at his side, and I rarely saw him sober. Yet this same man had given me so poetic a name.

Qin One-Hand never refused those who came for a reading—as long as you brought a gift, he would answer every question. But he never once read my fortune. I remember pestering him for a reading once; he answered with another slap.

Then, one night, Qin One-Hand was drunk beyond measure. He pointed at me as I caught grasshoppers in the yard and slurred, “Read your fortune? I’d rather not tempt fate. Your bone structure is rare—the Dragon and Tiger of Sun and Moon. The lines of your forehead, from the brow to the fontanel, form two jade pillars—the horns of sun and moon. Such a fate is imperial; had you been born in ancient times, you’d have been an emperor.”

He claimed I bore an emperor’s destiny, though I never believed it.

If I truly had an emperor’s fate, surely no one would dare harm me, for fear of heaven’s wrath. And yet, Qin One-Hand cut off half my finger.

Looking back, if not for what happened next, perhaps I would have led a life much like his—rising with the sun, toiling in the earth, marrying, raising children, and finally dying in the mountains, as all villagers did. Destiny, they called it, and I would have been no exception.

The cause of it all began with an incident in my childhood. Qin One-Hand was a solitary man of few words. Since I could remember, I could count the words exchanged between us. So I spent nearly all my time in his secret library.

He had built a hidden chamber in our house, filled to the brim with ancient books—astronomy, geography, all manner of subjects. I always wondered why a man like him would have such a collection. Yet when he entered that room, he became a different person—cultured, gentle, inscrutable.

In that secluded mountain world, I grew up on these mountains of books. My days were poor but full. Qin One-Hand did not mind me reading, so long as I washed my hands first. Until, by chance, I discovered another secret: a smaller, concealed chamber behind the library.

The books inside were unlike anything I had ever seen. They contained the essence of the Five Arts of Taoism. Strangely, though the texts were arcane, I seemed to understand them as if I had seen them before, remembering them at a glance.

I seemed to possess a rare talent for Taoist arts. Qin One-Hand had obviously tried to hide these books, but I read them all and absorbed their secrets. Later, when Qin One-Hand read fortunes for others, I would sit on the threshold and make my own predictions. At first, my readings matched his exactly. But as time went on, my results grew more detailed and accurate.

He never noticed. I thought my efforts and talent would earn his praise—perhaps even a smile. But one day, Qin One-Hand returned home unexpectedly and found me reading those hidden books. His demeanor changed completely.

“You’ve read all these?” he demanded, gripping my collar in fury.

I nodded, not understanding his anger.

I remember the look in his eyes—fear and panic. He dragged me outside, laid my hand on the millstone, and, without hesitation, brought the sickle down.

Pain tore through me, sweat beading my brow. When I looked up, half of my ring finger lay on the stone, blood soaking my clothes.

Qin One-Hand didn’t glance at me. He pulled a crumpled five-yuan note from his pocket, threw it at my feet, and uttered a single word.

“Leave.”

I no longer remember how I left home, or how I made my way out of the mountains. I only remember not looking back, not shedding a tear, not even taking the money. With stubborn resentment, I clutched my bloody hand and walked away.

I believe, now, that Qin One-Hand severed more than my finger with that stroke. He cut the bond between father and son.

Yet, perhaps I do believe his words after all. Perhaps I truly am fated for greatness—for though my finger bled profusely, it never became infected, and somehow, I survived.

I was twenty-one that year.