182: Chapter 182 Ziwei Cuts Off Unorthodox Paths of Survival

Less than half an hour after putting away Lin Shuo's information, a customer arrived at the stall.

He was a tall, thin young man in his early twenties, with hair as messy as a bird's nest and a loose, sagging T-shirt collar.

The most eye-catching thing was the object on his back.

It was a solid wood drawing board, nearly half the height of a person, with corners that were chipped and battered. Several half-dry gouache practice sheets were pinned to the board's surface.

The young man stood in front of the stall for nearly a minute, shifting his weight from one leg to the other like a primary school student being punished to stand by a teacher while desperately needing the bathroom.

Written here, I hope readers will remember our domain name, Taiwan Novel Website, to accompany your reading—super thoughtful.

"Sit down. I can't do a reading while you're standing."

The young man pulled out a bamboo chair, unloaded the drawing board from his back, leaned it against the table leg, and spoke the moment his butt touched the seat.

"Master, I want to check something."

"Check what?"

"Check if I'm fundamentally incompatible with a paintbrush."

Jiang Feng glanced at him.

The young man's fingernails were filled with dried paint debris, and a hard callus had formed on the second joint of his right middle finger—a result of years of gripping a brush handle.

"Tell me the situation first."

The young man sniffed, his voice sounding muffled.

"This is my third year taking the art academy entrance exam. The results came out in April; I was six points short on the professional exam and two points short on the academic portion."

"The first year I was fourteen points short, the second year nine points, and this year I was eight points short."

"I'm improving every year, but every year I'm just that little bit short. I just can't cross that line."

He lowered his head and rubbed the paint stains on his knees.

"My family's financial situation isn't good. My parents sell tofu at the vegetable market."

"Between three years of art studio tuition, exam registration fees, and rent, we've borrowed money from seven different relatives."

"Last month, my second uncle came over for dinner. By his third drink, he started making snide remarks, saying art students are a bottomless pit and a losing business, and that I'd be better off going out to move bricks."

"My dad didn't say anything at the time. But that night when I went to the kitchen for water, I saw him crouching by the stove smoking, one after another. He smoked half a pack."

The young man stopped talking, his Adam's apple bobbing twice.

"The day before yesterday, I looked at a recruitment app. New delivery riders get a three-and-a-half yuan subsidy per order. With full attendance, the monthly income is six to eight thousand."

"I'm planning to chop up my drawing board for firewood and register a rider account tomorrow."

He looked up, his eyes rimmed with red but with no tears falling.

"Master, please give me a reading."

"If it's truly my fate to have no connection with the brush, I'll give up on this dream and just go deliver food honestly."

Jiang Feng set his thermos aside.

"Give me your birth details."

"Born in 1999, on the seventh day of the twelfth lunar month, around six in the morning. My mom said it wasn't light out yet."

Jiang Feng closed his eyes.

In his mind, the Ziwei Doushu chart began to rotate automatically.

Year Pillar Ji-Mao, Month Pillar Ding-Chou, Day Pillar pending, Hour Pillar Mao.

The fourteen main stars fell into their palaces, and the Four Transformations stars took their positions.

The data meshed and turned like gears until finally, with a click, it locked into place.

Jiang Feng opened his eyes.

"What is your name?"

"Zhao Xiaobei."

"Zhao Xiaobei, your life palace is occupied by the Lianzhen and Qisha Stars. Your Travel Palace has neither Wenchang nor Wenqu."

The young man straightened his back, staring at him nervously.

"In plain English, your natal chart doesn't have a single literary star governing the orthodox path of examinations."

"With your destiny, if you take the path of mainstream art academies, even if you test for ten years, the result will be the same. You will never be able to bridge those few missing points."

"This door is locked tight."

Zhao Xiaobei's shoulders slumped by three centimeters.

"I knew it," he said, his voice dry.

"Then I'll go register my rider account tomorrow."

"Wait a moment."

Jiang Feng tapped the table twice.

"I haven't finished speaking. What's the rush?"

Zhao Xiaobei's hand stopped near the edge of his drawing board.

"The Qisha Star in your life palace is in a 'fallen' state; it doesn't follow the orthodox path."

"But in the palace of illness of your chart, Tianji-Hua Lu sits with Taiyin, and their radiance is incredibly bright."

Zhao Xiaobei looked bewildered. "The palace of illness is for illness, right? I'm in good health, no problems at all."

"The palace of illness doesn't just govern illness." Jiang Feng rotated his thermos.

"In Ziwei Doushu, the palace of illness also governs a person's connection with the body and the most private parts of people."

"Your Hua Lu falls in this position, which in technical terms is called Unconventional Success."

"It means that if you want to succeed in this life, it absolutely won't be through the front door. You have to carve a path through an unconventional route that others dare not or are unwilling to take."

Zhao Xiaobei frowned, completely unable to follow.

"What unconventional path?"

Jiang Feng looked up, his gaze falling on Zhao Xiaobei's paint-stained fingers.

"The callus on the second joint of your left middle finger is over five millimeters thick, isn't it?"

The young man looked down at his own hand.

"That kind of callus can only be formed by one specific way of holding a brush."

"The Three-Finger Tripod Coloring Method, using an extremely fine brush to repeatedly layer colors on an extremely small area."

"This is a standard technique for restorative coloring, not something taught in art studios."

Zhao Xiaobei's mouth hung open.

"I saw a documentary on Bilibili where a restorer was adding color to a silk painting from the Qing Dynasty using this technique. I thought it was interesting, so I practiced it myself for over half a year."

"How long did it take to get the hang of it?"

"In the first month, I messed up over a hundred sheets of paper. In the second month, I could barely control the lines. Now, I can manually layer seven colors in a fingernail-sized area without them bleeding together."

Jiang Feng leaned back into his chair.

"Zhao Xiaobei, have you ever considered going to a funeral home?"

The young man practically bounced off his chair like he'd been stung by a bee.

"Go where?"

"A funeral home, to be a Mortuary Makeup Artist."

Zhao Xiaobei's eyes widened, his lips trembled, and he shrank back half a step.

"Master, are you serious?"

"Do I look like I have a joking face?"

Jiang Feng held out his right hand, counting off on his fingers for him.

"In this life, your destiny has blocked the front door to art academies. That's non-negotiable."

"But this unique skill of three-finger layering in your hands, when placed in a different field, is a desperately rare resource."

Zhao Xiaobei stood there in a daze, his fingernails digging into his palms.

"In the mortuary makeup industry, there are fewer than ten thousand certified practitioners nationwide."

"Among those ten thousand, no more than five hundred can handle special body restoration."

"What counts as a 'special body'?"

"Car accidents, fires, high-altitude falls, drowning—any accident that leads to severe facial destruction."

"A family's final wish is to see their loved one's complete face at the farewell ceremony."

"That face has to be painted back, stroke by stroke, by a restoration artist."

Zhao Xiaobei's Adam's apple bobbed.

Jiang Feng continued.

"In the art studio, you draw plaster statues for teachers to grade and examiners to review. Thousands of people are crowding onto a single-log bridge, and you can't get across."

"But body restoration is different."

"The deceased won't nitpick whether your brushwork is academic enough. The family only cares if their loved one looks like they are still alive."

"You can layer seven colors in a fingernail-sized area without mixing. If you apply that skill to facial reconstruction, you can restore a person who was burned beyond recognition to a state where they look like they've just closed their eyes to sleep."

"This is merit, it's a craft, and it's money."

Zhao Xiaobei's mouth opened and closed.

"A single case of ordinary mortuary makeup has a City market rate of two to five thousand."

"A single case of special facial reconstruction pays eight to thirty thousand."

"For high-difficulty cases, some funeral homes offer up to fifty thousand."

Zhao Xiaobei lowered his head blankly, staring at his paint-stained hands.

His five fingers slowly spread open, then slowly clenched shut.

He looked up at Jiang Feng, the gray, lifeless look in his eyes being pushed away bit by bit by something else.

"Master, is this profession really that short-staffed?"

"Go back and search the official website of the Jinghai City Funeral Service Center. See how long their recruitment notice has been up without being taken down."

"It was last posted in March of last year, and they're still hiring now."

"The educational requirement is just an associate degree or higher in an art-related major. You qualify."

Zhao Xiaobei placed both hands on his knees, cracking his ten fingers one by one.

He was silent for a full twenty seconds.

"If my mom knew I was going to put makeup on dead people, she'd chase me through three streets with a rolling pin."

"Your mom chases you because she's worried about you."

Jiang Feng reached under the table, grabbed his thermos, and unscrewed the lid.

"But seeing you in this decadent state hurts her even more."

"If you go to a funeral home as a restoration artist, your starting monthly salary during the first year's apprenticeship is five thousand. Once you start taking orders after finishing your training, after three years, your annual income will be at least two to three hundred thousand."

"Next time your second uncle comes over for dinner, your mom can throw that bowl of tofu soup right in his face."

A short laugh escaped Zhao Xiaobei's mouth, and his eyes turned red again.

He bent over to lift the drawing board from beside the table leg, slung the two old canvas straps over his shoulders, and the board rested steadily against his back.

"Master, how much?"

"Fifty."

The young man pulled out his phone and scanned the code. After packing his things, he stood up and gave Jiang Feng a deep bow.

He straightened up, took three steps out, then stopped.

"Master."

"Yes?"

"Should I keep this drawing board?"

"Keep it. That's the tool for your livelihood."

Zhao Xiaobei nodded heavily and ran off.

After running twenty meters, his speed didn't decrease; instead, he got faster and faster, his back much straighter than when he had arrived.

Jiang Feng held his thermos, watching the tall, thin figure with the drawing board disappear into the shade of the plane trees.

The glass doors of the building pushed open, and Old Chen walked out.

He was carrying two boxed lunches and an iced Americano.

"What was up with that young man? He ran out of here like he had springs on his feet."

"An art student who failed for three consecutive years. I helped him find an unconventional path."

Old Chen set the boxed lunches on the table and sat in the opposite chair.

"What path?"

"Mortuary Makeup Artist."

Old Chen's chewing paused for a beat.

"You told an art student to go paint dead people's faces?"

"His skills would always be a few points short in an exam hall, but in a morgue, it's an overwhelming advantage."

"Well said." Old Chen swallowed the mouthful of rice. "Your stall really can find an unconventional path for people at the edge of a cliff."

"The path was already there." Jiang Feng broke apart his chopsticks.

"It's just that most people standing on the cliff only think to look down, forgetting there's a path on the side."

"What I do is simple: I give their head a tug and make them look to the side."

"To see the path that belongs to them."