Feng Shui and Funeral Rites

My name is Yu Wei, an orphan. When I was four years old, Mister took me from the orphanage, and since then I have lived with him.

Mister is, in truth, my adoptive father. But he forbids me from calling him "dad," "father," "adoptive father," "teacher," or any such title. No matter the time or place, I can only refer to him as "Mister."

His surname is Zhang, and he is a master of feng shui, earning his living primarily through geomancy.

Since I can remember, I've followed him everywhere, helping people with their feng shui. I've never attended school for even a single day. Yet I am hardly illiterate; under his guidance, I have studied the classics and histories, the philosophical texts and anthologies. Besides these, I have always learned the art of geomancy from him.

I am now eighteen—well, to be precise, I am about to turn eighteen.

Over the years, I have learned much of the art of feng shui and have seen many real-life cases. Now, unless it is a particularly grave matter, Mister lets me handle things myself.

Mister is a towering figure in the geomancy circles of the three southwestern provinces—a true authority. And since I am his only disciple, I am somewhat renowned within our field as well.

From as early as I can remember, Mister has been exceedingly kind to me. He has never once raised his hand against me. Even when I made mistakes, he would instruct me patiently and calmly, rarely losing his temper. Even if he did, it was nothing more than a stern look and a few r