Chapter 2: The Lu Family Ancestral Rite

Standing before the wooden door, the two conversing men could not have been more different in their achievements: one, a billionaire with assets in the tens of billions; the other, a renowned archaeologist and scholar who had studied in America. Every word exchanged between men of such stature could not possibly be mere jest.

“Brother, just speak your mind. After all these years, only the two of us remain from our four brothers. If I can’t trust you, who else could I trust?”

“Very well, that’s all I needed to hear. Guofu, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but your current status means you shouldn’t get entangled in these matters. Tombs, geomancy, dragon veins—strictly speaking, these are all remnants of feudal superstitions.”

“Oh come now, even you are talking like a bureaucrat? I know what I believe. Let’s get to the point.”

With that, Lu Guofu pulled a key from his breast pocket, intending to unlock the door, but Lu Guoqiang stopped him.

“Don’t speak of these things before the ancestral shrine. Guofu, years ago, when I was surveying the mountains, I discovered that the lay of the land around Dianlong Mountain had subtly changed. As if some hidden hand was moving mountains and rivers, rearranging the entire terrain like pieces on a chessboard. You may not believe it, but it’s the absolute truth. When we were children, we often climbed the highest peak, Jiming Mountain, and knew every ridge by heart. Natural events can shift rivers and landforms, but not in this way. You can’t imagine the terror I felt—it was as though someone stood above the clouds, gazing down at me with a cold, mocking smile, viewing all of humanity as mere ants.”

Lu Guoqiang was clearly lost in memories from eighteen years ago, sweat beading on his brow even as he spoke.

“Brother, you’ve read too much and are overthinking it. The world is still governed by material laws. Are there really gods above? Even if there were, I, Lu Guofu, have nothing to be ashamed of—my deeds are upright, and I am true to heaven and earth!” Though his words were resolute, Lu Guofu’s right hand trembled ever so slightly.

“And what if it’s true?”

Lu Guoqiang shook his head hard, as if wrenching himself free from the depths of recollection. Yet his eyes were no longer calm.

“In archaeology, we have unearthed many ancient tombs—from emperors to commoners, all sought to be buried in auspicious ground. Some to bless their descendants, others for comfort in the afterlife, but do you know why else?”

He paused, and after a moment, forced out four words between clenched teeth: “To live forever.”

“The ancients were superstitious, fearful of ghosts and gods, but how is this related to our family’s feng shui?”

“There’s a law in physics: conservation of energy. Energy in the universe is neither created nor destroyed. If geomancy and fortune are forms of energy, then perhaps the Lu family’s luck is about to run out. Our ancestors migrated here from the Central Plains and built their tombs on Dianlong Mountain, forcibly claiming a dragon vein for themselves—a selfish act. Think about it: other than the two of us, has anyone from the village become truly wealthy? On the contrary, the village has grown poorer with each passing year; everyone has left. I researched the county annals before the Republic—this pattern holds not just in our village, but across the entire county. Throughout history, only a handful of notable figures, barely any who passed the imperial exams.”

“Is it really that serious?”

Lu Guofu gasped, eyes wide, fixed on his elder brother—a rare expression for a man of vice-provincial rank.

“Eighteen years ago, I thought I was mistaken. Later, when I returned to the States for research, I tried to put it from my mind, but the memory haunted me like a nightmare. I began monitoring Dianlong Mountain with America’s most advanced geographic and satellite technology. For eighteen years, the land veins have continued to shift—a change imperceptible to most, but to me, it’s a waking dread. Eventually, I returned to China alone and consulted a master. He said there was only one solution: open the tomb and move it. But if the feng shui pattern is broken and we handle it poorly, both we and our descendants will suffer. Worse, we’ve already missed the best window to do it…”

With those words, Lu Guoqiang fell silent. The brothers stood before the wooden door, mute and unmoving. Above the courtyard, rain fell harder, the droplets rolling off the eaves, some striking stone, some soaking into moss.

About fifty paces from the wooden door, on the south side of the ancestral hall, stood two old rooms—the childhood home of the Lu brothers. Inside, two children sorted through their grandfathers’ old possessions. One was Lu Tingfang, Lu Guoqiang’s grandson, age fourteen. Gifted and hard-working, he’d skipped ahead to a top provincial high school and ranked among the best in his class. Influenced by his grandfather, Lu Tingfang was already well-versed in history, poetry, classical language, and several foreign tongues—a veritable star in the family. In contrast, nine-year-old Lu Xin, a touch spoiled and mischievous, seemed insignificant.

“The art of burial is to harness vital energy. Where wind scatters, water halts. The ancients gathered this energy, guiding it to remain. Thus, the practice is called feng shui. The highest method finds water; next best, shelters from wind... The mystical art of feng shui, also called the art of the greenwood, demands a mastery of geomantic subtleties. Our Lu family has passed down the ‘Classic of Auspicious Burial’ for generations, but alas, times change, and Lu Ji failed to safeguard it, shaming our ancestors and descendants…”

Lu Xin rolled about on the old bed his grandfathers once slept on, delighting in his own world. Lu Tingfang, the avid reader, picked up a yellowing ancient tome. The book was so old that dust fell as soon as he opened it. The characters, written in brush and traditional script, dated at least to the Republican era.

“‘Classic of Auspicious Burial’? What a strange name. The Buddhists have a ‘Sutra of the Earth Store Bodhisattva,’ but that’s not about burial. Grandpa once said our family used to make a living as feng shui consultants; this must be a record of those days.”

Lu Tingfang frowned as he read and muttered to himself. Even with his knowledge, deciphering the ancient text was no easy feat.

“Tingfang, what’s the ‘Classic of Auspicious Burial?’ Is it a martial arts manual? If I master it, can I walk on walls? Let me see!”

Lu Xin, hearing something interesting, tumbled out of bed and snatched the book from him. Lost in reading, Lu Tingfang reacted too slowly, his fingers instinctively clutching the pages. With a sharp rip, the book tore in two.

Startled, Lu Tingfang clapped a hand to his mouth. This was an ancestral heirloom—if the adults saw, he’d be punished for sure. For a moment, he stood rooted, at a loss.

“Hmph! I thought it was some martial arts secret. ‘Classic of Auspicious Burial’—what nonsense!” Lu Xin, unconcerned, tossed the book aside when he found it unreadable. At that moment, footsteps approached outside as a couple hurried toward the room.

“Xin, quick, hide the book under the bed before your uncle sees it, or there’ll be no red envelope for you this New Year.”

—

Behind the Lü Ancestral Hall, a small hillside rose. Crossing the slope and heading due east for half an hour brought one to the foot of Dianlong Mountain. The peak, scarcely a hundred meters high and sparsely vegetated, appeared unremarkable at first glance. Lu Xin followed the elders of the family up to the summit at noon.

The mountain’s highest point, known locally as the Dragon’s Head, symbolized the dragon raising its head, ready to soar skyward. In truth, Dianlong Mountain was but a segment of a range stretching east to west, its eastern tip resembling a dragon’s head—lacking only eyes. From above, a reservoir lay before the peak, once a lake, with streams flowing in from both north and south. Captured by drone, the entire ridge would indeed look like a dragon flying in from the east: the southern and northern streams as whiskers, the lake before as the dragon’s pearl. Anyone would have called it a site of exceptional feng shui.

“The dragon raises its head, soaring to the heavens, purple energy rising from the east! One must admit, our ancestors had true wisdom. Even apart from geomancy, this place is beautiful—a landscape of rare loveliness.”

“Indeed, our ancestors must have been masters of the art, to place the family tomb precisely at the dragon’s eye with no modern tools. That not only brings the auspicious qi from the east, but also gives meaning to the dragon’s gaze. Pity that, when we were children, the lake at the dragon’s mouth was turned into a reservoir—the dragon’s pearl dispersed, and the feng shui was broken. No matter how skilled our ancestors were, they could not foresee the changes of centuries.”

Standing atop the mountain, the Lu brothers gazed out at the familiar landscape, lost in memories of childhood. Those who stand highest are often the loneliest.

“I heard from the villagers that, in the Tang dynasty, the sorcerers Yuan Tiangang and Li Chunfeng were tasked by Emperor Taizong with predicting the future, and together wrote the ‘Tui Bei Tu,’ foreseeing thousands of years ahead. Is there any truth to this? As a historian, what do you think?”

“Hahaha, what can I say? It’s just the inventions and embellishments of later generations, misunderstood by the curious today. Who could truly predict the future for millennia? Physics tells us time travel is only possible if we exceed the speed of light—which is itself impossible.”

As their conversation reached its height, a child ran toward them from afar.

“Grandpa, Great-Uncle, everything for the ancestral rites is ready. Uncle says you should come now.”

“Haha, Xin, is that you? All right, we’re coming. Go tell your uncle to start the firecrackers.”

At precisely one o’clock, fireworks and firecrackers echoed over Dianlong Mountain. The villagers all knew—the illustrious Lu family was about to honor their ancestors once more.