O Mestre de Feng Shui Popular

Keqiao Textile City, beneath the vast dome, the air was always laced with the faintly acrid scent of synthetic fibers and the constant clamor of haggling voices. Yang Rui had just seen off a Northeastern merchant who had haggled for half an hour over a mere thirty-cent price difference. Rubbing his throbbing temples, he returned to his stall—a space of less than ten square meters, crammed with bolts of fabric in every hue. His phone rang, the screen flashing “Director Zhang.”

“Brother Yang, are you busy? If it’s convenient, could you come over now? My office… sigh, something’s gone awry again!” On the other end, Zhang Jianguo’s voice was thick with exhaustion and irritation. Zhang Jianguo ran a wholesale accessories business in the market; he was an old client of Yang Rui’s, and one of the “special attention” customers for his feng shui services.

“Sure thing, Brother Zhang, I’ll be right over.” Yang Rui replied, briskly locking the glass door of his booth and heading toward the market’s office area. Dressed in an ordinary polo shirt and casual pants, he blended into the crowd without drawing attention. Only his eyes, sharp and searching, occasionally betrayed a scrutiny at odds with the bustling atmosphere of bargaining all around.

Zhang Jianguo’s office was on the top floor of the market’s east section—an independent suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and a sweeping view, an enviable location. But as Yang Rui pushed open the door, his brows knit ever so slightly.

Zhang Jianguo slumped in his oversized executive chair, his complexion ashen, bags