Chapter 3: The Mountain Hand Technique

Our history teacher once said that Taoist culture is deeply rooted in the hearts of our people, especially the study of fate. In ancient times, if a monk told you that you had the aura of an emperor, you would think he was just seeking alms. But if a Taoist priest told you that, you might be tempted to take a chance.

On the train, this stranger Liu Qingshan spoke and acted with a certain Taoist air. I couldn't understand his mention of the "Three Origins Converging at the Crown," but the rest of what he said instantly ignited a spark of hope within me, who was already lost about the future. The sense of decay on me lifted considerably, making me feel that my future might indeed be limitless.

I wanted to ask him more, but Liu Qingshan gave me a sharp look and said, “Charging you one yuan means only one yuan’s worth of talk. What I’ve told you is already worth more than that. If I go on, you might not even have enough money left.”

That’s the art of language.

Most people, when encountering someone like him, would not hesitate to spend money. It’s a blessing to have such a master guide you through confusion, and I too felt the impulse. But thinking about where the money came from, I could only grit my teeth and hold back.

Liu Qingshan got off at the next stop. Shortly after, the man and woman who had stolen something earlier returned in a panic. The scar-faced man pointed to Liu Qingshan’s seat and asked me, “Who was sitting here just now?”

I covered my pocket and said, “He got off at the previous stop.”

The scar-faced man looked regretful and sighed, “My fault. He said he was from the Jiang Xiang sect, but I didn’t notice his hand seal was from the Shen Diao sect. If he really was a senior from Shen Diao, and I could learn a thing or two from him, how many detours could I have avoided!”

I didn’t dare to respond much. After muttering to himself, he looked at me and asked, “Do you know him?”

“Yeah,” I said, bluffing with false confidence.

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. If we really knew each other, would I have gotten off the train when he did? Anyone with eyes would know we were just strangers who happened to cross paths.

But the scar-faced man only smiled faintly without exposing me. He asked, “Which station are you going to?”

“Guangzhou,” I answered truthfully this time.

He nodded and said, “We’re getting off soon too. The road is long and the world unfair. Let me leave a mark on you. Fellow travelers on the road will recognize it and show you some respect, won’t bother you. Just don’t wipe it off.”

With that, he took a black marker and drew an X on my chair, then circled the X. He patted my shoulder and left.

Along the journey, multiple thefts occurred on the train. In those days, such incidents were far too common. Yet I remained safe. Several times, I distinctly felt others’ eyes scanning the mark on my seat.

This was my first encounter with people and matters like this. Instantly, my interest was piqued.

There was a unique aura about them that attracted me. I understood it as the spirit of the underworld.

So I took out the handwritten “notes” Liu Qingshan had left me and began to read.

On the first page was a quote inspired by the “Discourses on Salt and Iron”:

Wealth lies in skill and calculation, not in physical labor.

Profit comes from seizing opportunity, not from hard tilling.

There was another sentence:

A horse can travel a thousand miles, but without a rider, it cannot go on its own; a man may have ambitions that soar to the heavens, but without fate, he cannot realize them.

In a poor family, without talent for study, to desire to defy heaven and change destiny is to waste a man’s life, or for a woman, to risk her body.

Reading that first page—though I barely understood it—I was already covered in goosebumps.

What confused youth could refuse a book that promises to teach you how to become rich?

I eagerly flipped through it, but the contents didn’t quite align with the first page. It didn’t tell you how to get wealthy, but recorded a myriad of underworld techniques.

Various sects’ methods, rules, legacies, spring rituals, hand gestures, tea formations, markings, and beyond that, some seemingly simple magical or mystical arts.

Of course, I was deeply interested and couldn’t put it down. I read only a small part before the train arrived at the station, as the material was dense and fascinating—I dared not miss a single word.

My distant cousin, Chen Jianjun, met me at the station. He was the eldest son of my cousin’s family. After picking me up, he carried my luggage and said, “Hey, I thought the family would finally have a university student to bring us some prestige. Why’d you just quit studying all of a sudden?”

“I’m not cut out for studying,” I replied.

“You’ll understand after working hard for a couple of years. The money out there is not earned by ordinary folks. Come on, let’s eat first,” Chen Jianjun said.

We found a small restaurant outside the station. Chen Jianjun treated me well, buying a bottle of white liquor for two and a half yuan. He poured me a glass as a welcome drink. After two cups each, I felt a slight dizziness. We chatted casually and, after finishing the stir-fried noodles, stepped outside.

A crowd had gathered outside, gambling on melon seeds.

On the ground lay a bowl, next to it a handful of melon seeds. One person would toss some seeds into the bowl and cover it, while the others guessed how many seeds were inside, betting on the number. If guessed correctly, the payout was one-to-one.

The dealer’s hands moved neither too fast nor too slow, and his eyes were sharp enough to see the number of seeds before covering the bowl. Two bettors kept winning several rounds in a row, betting large sums of fifty or fifty-five yuan each time, doubling their money with each win.

Chen Jianjun looked tempted. His face was flushed from the alcohol. After watching for a while, he thought his eyes could outpace the dealer’s hands and was eager to try.

I tugged at him and said, “Let’s go. Something’s not right.”

But Chen Jianjun insisted on trying with a ten-yuan bet.

He bet on three seeds. I saw clearly that there were indeed three inside the bowl.

The result was three seeds. Chen Jianjun won ten yuan.

If I hadn’t met Liu Qingshan, I might have fallen for this trick. But after reading his book and reflecting on the train experience, I knew this was a scam. The dealers and the winners were in cahoots, plants meant to lure passersby.

They would let us win one or two rounds before closing the trap.

Chen Jianjun won three rounds in a row, each time betting ten yuan. I knew the scammers would soon reel him in, but I dared not say so out loud.

The book Liu Qingshan gave me started with the code of the underworld: “See through the rules but do not expose them. We are all boats on the river, horses on the road. Cutting off someone's livelihood is like killing their parents. I may refuse to play, but I cannot spoil others' business.”

Moreover, there were seven or eight people in the crowd. If they got physical, we would suffer losses. So I told Chen Jianjun to quit while we were ahead. Thirty yuan was not a small sum—better to come back another day.

Chen Jianjun, confident and dismissive, thought the dealer was not very clever and said, “Let’s play two more rounds and then leave.”

But then he began to lose—and got more and more obsessed as he lost.

Not only him; even the earlier winners started losing. One of them cursed while pulling my cousin aside, “I just don’t believe this!”

At that moment, the dealer made a mistake. When covering the bowl this time, the lid was skewed, revealing two seeds inside to everyone except himself. Yet he insisted the game go on, saying, “All bets are final. Bet more, win more. A bicycle turns into a motorcycle!”

The gamblers exchanged glances, thinking the chance to break even had arrived.

Chen Jianjun went all in, putting down all his money—about a hundred yuan.

My eyebrows twitched.

This was no accident.

It was a deliberately staged flaw, to make you think it was a sure win, but in truth, it was a death trap. The dealer’s hands were not clumsy—he held the game in his grip. When opening the bowl, he could swiftly add or remove a seed. As long as he wished, you could never guess correctly!

I grabbed my cousin’s hand and said, “Brother, let’s stop. Today’s not our luck. Let’s come back another day.”

But Chen Jianjun said, “This time I won’t be wrong! I’ve lost eighty already. This round will get it all back. Once the old hen comes back, we’ll leave immediately! I’m not greedy!”

The dealer glared at me and said, “You playing or not? If not, get lost! What, you can only win, can’t lose? I’ve lost five or six hundred today running this stand. Who do I complain to? All bets are final. Let’s go!”

I knew as soon as the bowl was opened, Chen Jianjun would lose everything.

In desperation, I raised both hands and formed the “Mountain” hand gesture.

The Thousand Gates’ hand sign lies in the Mountain gesture.

By signaling with my hands, I was conveying my allegiance: I told them they were scammers, members of the Thousand Gates sect, and that I was a disciple of the same sect.

Then, with one hand, I made a fist and raised it—a sign meaning “master” or “expert.”

My heart pounded wildly as I made these gestures because Liu Qingshan had warned me: it’s fine not to understand, but pretending to understand and being caught in your flaws can cost you your life!