“Facing south, the lone star and the crescent moon rise”—indeed, it’s a riddle in itself.

  Seeing that Zhuang Zi’ang was still deep in thought, Zhang Banxian couldn’t wait to expin.“Picture this: ‘up’ means north, ‘down’ south, ‘left’ is west, and ‘right’ east. The bottom part of the character for ‘wang’ (king) is there, the lone star is represented by a single dot, and the crescent moon is nothing more than a short stroke. Put them together, and you can barely make out the character ‘Zhuang.’”

  “Kid, what do you think?” Zhang Banxian asked, clearly pleased with himself.

  “Eh… you really know my surname,” replied Zhuang Zi’ang, a bit surprised.

  Then suddenly he recalled with a skeptical look, “At Xiāoyáo Pace st time, did you overhear one of my friends call me by name?”

  Zhuang Zi’ang and his friend Deng Haijun were on good terms—he always addressed him affectionately as “Haijun.” But that guy Deng was utterly unfeeling; he always used the full name, making him seem so distant. It must be that this old con artist overheard them st time.

  “Ahem, ahem…” Zhang Banxian coughed dryly to cover his embarrassment before continuing, “These little tricks are nothing more than parlor games—trivial details you need not overthink. Since we’re already acquaintances, I’ll read your palm for ten yuan.”

  “No way—ten yuan could buy me a bowl of beef noodles,” Zhuang Zi’ang immediately shot back.

  “Then five yuan—let’s be friends,” Zhang Banxian offered smoothly, sshing his fee in half.

  “No, I’m not falling for your nonsense,” Zhuang Zi’ang insisted, already turning on his heel to leave.

  “Hey, stop right there!” Zhang Banxian bellowed, raising his voice. “Young man, you have no idea your pce—spouting off like that! I’ll read your palm for free, and if I’m right, then I’ll charge you. Deal?”

  But Zhuang Zi’ang shook his head. Ever since Little Butterfly had warned him about such tricksters, he was wary of being conned.

  “Look around—the overpass is packed with people! Can’t you at least have a little decency? What, do you want me to get down on my knees and beg?” Zhang Banxian pleaded in an almost groveling tone.

  Noting that the man was nearly fifty—peddling on the overpass te at night wasn’t an easy life—Zhuang Zi’ang felt a twinge of sympathy. “Fine, then. Which hand do you want to read—left or right?”

  “Left,” came the reply.

  Extending his left hand, Zhuang Zi’ang thought he’d just humor the man. Surely, Zhang Banxian’s real aim was to use him as a prop—to show off his palm-reading “skills” in front of a crowd and drum up business. Whatever he said, Zhuang Zi’ang decided, it was best to take it all with a grain of salt.

  Pinching Zhuang Zi’ang’s fingertips and scrutinizing the lines on his palm for a full half-minute, Zhang Banxian suddenly let out a deep, almost mournful sigh.“Your life line is too short—you’ve got the mark of a short life!”

  That single sentence immediately unsettled Zhuang Zi’ang. In the past, if any fortune teller had uttered such words, he would have immediately walked away. But now—already diagnosed with an incurable illness—having his fate so bluntly revealed made his heart race with terror. Could it be that this old con artist really knew something?

  Typically, even a shifty fortune teller would couch such gloomy predictions in gentle terms. Who just blurts out bad news right away?

  Flipping Zhuang Zi’ang’s hand over, Zhang Banxian abruptly changed the subject:“Your hand is a bit dry. Let me recommend a hand cream that moisturizes and helps slow skin aging—only twenty yuan a tube.”

  With that, he produced a small box of hand cream from behind his back.

  Zhuang Zi’ang’s eyes widened. “Aren’t you supposed to be a fortune teller? And now you’re peddling skincare?”

  Zhang Banxian chuckled, “Extra income helps put food on the table!”

  “You really are unreliable—I don’t have time for your nonsense,” Zhuang Zi’ang decred as he withdrew his hand and strode away.

  Little Butterfly hadn’t been wrong after all—this guy was a con artist.

  Watching Zhuang Zi’ang’s retreating back, Zhang Banxian called out calmly, “Kid, you’ll be back for more.”

  “Yeah, right. If I come back and you con me again, I’ll call you ‘grandpa’,” Zhuang Zi’ang replied disdainfully.

  Unperturbed, Zhang Banxian slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dark object that looked like a cow horn, complete with variously sized holes. It was a ceramic flute.

  As Zhuang Zi’ang walked away, a gentle, melodious tune began to drift from behind him. The clear, crystalline notes cut through the night air and carried off into the distance. Suddenly, his body stiffened, his face frozen in astonishment—he couldn’t take another step. The melody that Zhang Banxian pyed was all too familiar. He had heard it once before, beneath a sprawling ginkgo tree:

  Lai-suo-suo xi-duo xi-, suo- xi xi xi xi- xi- suo…

  “Grandpa, what is the name of this tune?” Zhuang Zi’ang obediently returned to the palm-reading stall.

  Setting aside the ceramic flute, Zhang Banxian burst into hearty ughter. “I told you you’d come back!”

  “Stop teasing—tell me the name of this song!” Zhuang Zi’ang pressed impatiently.

  Extending his hand with a coy gesture, Zhang Banxian replied, “Ten yuan.”

  Without hesitation, Zhuang Zi’ang produced a ten-yuan note and grumbled, “Con artist.”

  Grinning mischievously, Zhang Banxian accepted the money. He even pretended to inspect it under the streetmp for authenticity. Tucking the note away in his pocket, he then said slowly, “This tune is called Mengdie [Dreaming of Butterflies]. It’s used in Taoist rituals to honor the South Hua Zhenren.”

  “Could you teach it to me?” pleaded Zhuang Zi’ang.

  “Not unless you join me in becoming a Taoist priest,” Zhang Banxian replied firmly.

  “What if I pay you?” Zhuang Zi’ang persisted.

  “I’m talking about something as refined as music, and here you are discussing money so crudely,” Zhang Banxian said in all seriousness. Then, raising an eyebrow, he asked, “How much are you willing to pay?”

  Zhuang Zi’ang hesitated. When it came to haggling, he was clearly no match for this old trickster—after all, his modest savings would st him more than two months.

  Just then, a young man who had been applying a screen protector on his phone suddenly shouted, “Run, the urban management is here!”

  Zhang Banxian’s eyes went wide with arm, and he scrambled to pack up his stall. Casting a gnce at Zhuang Zi’ang, he barked, “What are you standing there for? Help me out!”

  “Okay,” Zhuang Zi’ang agreed, scooping up the yellow cloth spread on the ground and gathering the assorted odds and ends.

  Grabbing a banner, Zhang Banxian led Zhuang Zi’ang in a hasty retreat down a set of stairs on the opposite side. To dodge the approaching urban management, the two dashed quickly through the crowd. Despite being over fifty, Zhang Banxian ran just as fast as a young man—clearly no stranger to being chased.

  But after a while, Zhuang Zi’ang began to feel something was off. “I’m not even running a stall—why am I sprinting like this?”

  “Why have we stopped?” panted Zhang Banxian.

  “Because I’m not your accomplice. Why should I run for you?” Zhuang Zi’ang retorted, tossing a bundle of yellow cloth his way.

  Peering up at the overpass and seeing that the urban management hadn’t caught up, Zhang Banxian finally sighed in relief. He grinned and said, “You’re an interesting kid. Weren’t you craving beef noodles? I know an authentic noodle shop nearby.”

  Zhuang Zi’ang hadn’t had dinner, and after all that running his stomach was growling. Besides, he was eager to learn that tune Mengdie, so he followed the old con artist along winding streets until they reached an aging residential district—and sure enough, there was a noodle shop.

  The décor in the shop was decidedly old-fashioned, clearly showing its age. Perhaps because it was so te, there weren’t many patrons. With the air of someone used to command, Zhang Banxian swaggered over to a table and called out to the owner, “Two rge bowls of beef noodles—and throw in an extra ten yuan’s worth of beef!”

  Taking a seat across from him, Zhuang Zi’ang barely settled in when Zhang Banxian suddenly banged the table.“This pce is pay-before-you-eat. Why are you just sitting there like an idiot?”

  “Why should I pay?” Zhuang Zi’ang grumbled, unhappy that he was expected to foot the bill when extra beef was added.

  “Because I’m your senior—don’t you know the value of respecting your elders?” Zhang Banxian decred with self-assurance.

  That old con artist really knew how to carry himself!