Chapter One: The Tattoo Artist

Summers in Guangdong are scorching, the merciless sun brandishing its claws across the sky, while the cicadas’ relentless chorus echoes through the courtyard hidden deep within a certain alley.

In the yard, a radio plays, its opera melodies weaving through the air: “Spring fills the eyes with a thousand blossoms, the sights of the season never before seen. Twin swallows circle the emerald pavilion, butterflies dance in endless delight, flowers vie to show their splendor. Tender green willows lean by the pond, swaying gently in the breeze. My heart aches for time’s swift passage, beauty fading like smoke in a day. Alas, spring is so fleeting, sorrow lingers on. By the Peony Pavilion, a thousand blossoms bloom; let me climb the eastern wall and call spring to return.”

On the nearby bamboo lounge chair, a young man dozes, rocking gently as if he has melted into the very dream of the opera.

“Xu, someone’s at your shop! Aren’t you going to check?” A little boy in split-crotch pants dashes in from the gate, shouting breathlessly into the courtyard.

“All right, all right, I’m coming.”

My name is Zhang Xu, a “proper” craftsman.

To be precise, I’m a tattoo artist—a keeper of the needle and ink. My family runs a small shop called “Peaceful Yin-Yang Embroidery,” the only inheritance my grandfather left me. As for my parents, I’ve never seen them since childhood. Why the shop is called “Yin-Yang Embroidery” instead of something like “XX Tattoo,” I’m not quite sure. The name, to be honest, sounds rather odd, which probably explains why business is always so slow.

I pass through lush banana trees typical of the south, the stifling heat making it hard to breathe. I’m not originally from Guangdong; I recall vaguely that our family moved from Hunan when I was young. My grandfather brought me here in search of work, joining the tide building up the Pearl River Delta when Grandpa Deng drew his circle in the south—and, just like that, I found myself inside it.

Yet I’ve always felt my life wasn’t meant to be so comfortable. This comfort could easily slide into decadence. After high school, my grandfather persuaded me to leave my studies. As a member of a tattooing lineage, I’d been trained in drawing from an early age. But the art school entrance slots were limited, and we had no money to grease the wheels, so I was inevitably edged out.

Lost in thought, I stepped out of the alley. The layout of Guangdong’s cities is indeed peculiar: on one side, a row of upscale office towers with spotless pavements, white-collar workers clutching Starbucks as they dart by. At night, giant screens flash advertisements, broadcasts of games or news. Diagonally across, however, are the dimly lit, densely packed residential blocks, reminiscent of Pig Cage Walled City. My shop sits awkwardly between these two worlds.

Crossing the not-so-broad street, I reach my shabby storefront. A deliveryman has been waiting for some time. “Of course,” I mutter, “who would come for a tattoo at this hour? Just a package.”

After signing for the parcel, I lift the shop’s rolling shutter and sit on the tattoo bed, examining the sender: “Nine Dragons Coffin Carriers,” address: Beijing. The recipient is “Heir to Yin-Yang Embroidery,” with my phone number and shop address staring back at me.

The unexpected delivery leaves me puzzled—Heir to Yin-Yang Embroidery? Is that me? Opening the packaging, I find an oversized, dusky yellow leather envelope and a black box. Inside the envelope is a letter, addressed: “To my grandson, Xu.”

Opening the letter, I instantly recognize my grandfather’s handwriting. The content is standard fare: look after the shop, practice your drawing, don’t tattoo just anyone off the street, always remember the profession’s taboos.

Oh, right—our trade has a well-known hundred-line verse:

“Each pattern has meaning, consider before inking; easy to tattoo, hard to erase, ponder deeply. A dragon across the back denotes power and respect; a green dragon on the shoulder brings boundless fortune. Lucky carp bring great luck; leaping carp, abundant blessings. A tiger on the body invites great fortune; a lion on the back, the bearing of a king. Divine turtle and golden toad, wealth for a thousand years; green dragon at the thigh, fortune flows like floodwaters. Guan Yu on the chest, personal safety; Guan Yu on the back, wealth for the boss. Peonies bloom, prosperity arrives; bamboo brings peace and climbing wealth. An eagle on the shoulder, grand ambitions; a soaring eagle, aspirations in all directions. Finished phoenix, good luck at hand; a rose, romance and passion. A demon’s head, endless fortune; finish the demon face, strange fates arise. Zhong Kui on the back, awe-inspiring presence; Buddha on the body, steadfast career. Tiger’s head on the body, wealth without worry.”

This poem lays out the meanings and blessings of each tattoo motif. In truth, the tattoo trade has always dabbled in feng shui. The human body is said to have three souls and seven spirits; the ancients claimed each person carries three lanterns—one atop the head, one on each shoulder. If a person’s health falters, if they commit heinous acts or tangle with unclean things, these lanterns waver and may be extinguished. When all the souls have departed and the lanterns die, one's fate is sealed.

My grandfather drilled these old rules into me from childhood—this is what sets me apart from the punk-metal tattooists who favor rock, punk, and heavy metal, while I prefer opera, birds, and antiques.

Suddenly, my eyes catch a line of tiny script at the end of the letter:

“Yin-Yang Embroidery is no ordinary tattooing. Yang embroidery nurtures and heals; Yin embroidery is fierce and may harm. Their techniques and materials differ. I taught you these methods when you were a child, blending them into your lessons. Now that you’re twenty-five or six, I have sent you the Yin-Yang Embroidery needles and pattern book. Study them well and never use Yin embroidery for evil deeds.”

I glance at the blackened metal box beside me, a ripple of unease stirring in my heart.