Chapter Sixty-Six: Vermilion Flames and Azure Smoke

Walking along the campus path, I was surrounded by bursts of laughter and the sound of students chasing each other. All around me, young men and women radiated the vibrant energy of youth. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret—if only I had gone to university, how different things might have been.

Arriving at the laboratory Yangzi had mentioned, I knocked gently on the door. Yangzi called for me to come in. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind me. Yangzi was sitting at the lectern, reading through student papers on her laptop. She saw me enter, gestured for me to sit, then stood up to pour me a glass of water. Handing it to me, she said, “Boss Zhang, do you have any ideas? Can you share them with me? As your patient, I should be allowed to hear about your treatment plan, shouldn’t I?”

“Of course,” I replied, only now realizing how difficult Yangzi could be to deal with. If she were faced with some ordinary charlatan, it would be impossible to trick her out of a cent. Luckily, I had real skills to offer, so I didn’t fear any of her questions.

I said, “Professor Yangzi, based on your situation, I’m fairly certain your nightmares are caused by a little ghost clinging to you. You must have recently encountered some misfortune, haven’t you?”

She sighed, “Yes, things haven’t been going smoothly lately. Please, continue.”

“If it’s a little ghost haunting you, the most effective way to ward it off is with a Buddhist talisman.”

“Buddhist talisman? Such as...?”

“I have a design here called Vermilion Flame and Azure Smoke.”

“Vermilion Flame and Azure Smoke... that sounds familiar. How much is it?”

“Fifty thousand.”

Yangzi nodded without hesitation. Understandable—successful women like her wouldn’t bat an eye at such a sum. In truth, Vermilion Flame and Azure Smoke had evolved over time to refer to a Buddhist censer, and in the art of Yin-Yang embroidery, it’s a classic motif of a Buddhist incense burner.

Yangzi nodded again. “There’s an ancient Han dynasty poem: ‘Vermilion flame burns within, azure smoke drifts through the air.’ I suppose it describes this very censer?”

I was quietly impressed—cultured people are truly different. She understood at once, her words revealing her depth of learning.

I took out a sheet of draft paper and handed it to Yangzi. The design depicted a dark red censer, its lid pierced with eighteen round holes, its exterior inlaid with scattered scripture in Sanskrit. The entire censer was smooth and perfectly symmetrical, exuding an air of gravity and solemnity.

“But where should this censer be tattooed? I still have to teach classes; it’s best not to put it somewhere obvious.”

I understood her concern—a female teacher must consider her reputation.

“Tattoo it just behind the right shoulder blade, on the upper back. But you’ll need to be cautious if you wear off-the-shoulder clothes.”

Yangzi fell silent, clearly torn by both the design and its placement. But at last, she gave a slight nod.

“Will it really work?”

I could tell Yangzi was no simple woman. On the surface, she appeared well-mannered and intelligent, but her speech was sharp and commanding, her presence almost overbearing.

But I wasn’t afraid of her. My business was my craft—what did I have to fear, that she wouldn’t pay?

In truth, Yin-Yang embroidery is quite particular. Buddhist symbols, by tradition, should not be tattooed on women. Buddhism is inherently masculine in energy, while women are more yin. Yin and yang can clash, and over time, this might affect the wearer’s health and fortune.

“So why did you pick this design for me?”

Actually, the Vermilion Flame and Azure Smoke has an interesting story. It’s said that in the Han dynasty, the daughter of a wealthy official attended a temple fair. There, she was captivated by a shamanic performance and unwittingly followed the troupe far from the crowd. That night, when she returned, she was seized by a wild madness, acting like a lunatic.

Her family was thrown into chaos. She was of marriageable age, and after the festival, plans were in place to introduce her to the county magistrate’s son. The festival should have been a time of celebration, but this madness spoiled everything. When the magistrate saw her wild-eyed and babbling, he declared it an ill omen and broke off the engagement. Her family’s standing in the county plummeted, but there was nothing to be done—it was their own daughter’s fate. They had to swallow their bitterness.

From then on, the family sent two handmaids to accompany her daily to the temples on the outskirts, praying for blessings. In those days, people believed in karma and divine retribution, and hoped that prayers might win the gods’ mercy. Day after day, she knelt and burned incense before the Buddha. Oddly, though she was otherwise mad, whenever she knelt in the temple, she appeared serene and devout, with no sign of insanity. This continued for half a year.

On the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, the festival of weaving and wish-making, she went again to the temple. Suddenly, from behind the temple, a little bald monk ran out. Though just a child, he said something astonishing upon seeing her beauty.

“Sister, will you marry me?”

The two handmaids burst into laughter.

“Ha! Where did this little monk come from, so lacking in propriety?”

“Yes, how old are you? Saying such things violates your vows!”

But the young lady blushed before the little monk.

Curiously, no one in the temple knew who he was or had seen him before.

On the way home, the little monk followed behind her no matter how they tried to lose him.

“Perhaps he’s an itinerant monk from somewhere else?” the maids wondered, but had no choice but to let him tag along back to the estate.

The master of the house, a devout Buddhist, took pity on the boy, seeing how little he knew, and kept him on as a servant. The little monk let his hair grow out and left the order, calling himself Zhu Qingyan, or Ah Zhu. Yet he never gave up his childish proposal to marry the young lady, which no one took seriously. Still, everyone liked him for his cleverness and diligence, though the young lady’s illness saw no improvement.

As she grew older, gossip filled the streets. Her father, not wanting to see their fortune marry outside the family, finally decided to wed her to Ah Zhu.

Her wedding was a quiet affair—no lanterns, no fanfare, just a simple union. Miraculously, after spending the wedding night with Ah Zhu, the young lady was completely cured. She was never troubled by madness again.

The magistrate, who had broken off the engagement, was incensed. He believed the family had feigned madness to avoid marrying into his house, and that they’d ultimately given the girl to an outsider. He made life difficult for them, sending officers to harass the family incessantly. The household bore it all in silence.

Ah Zhu, once a little monk, proved more than capable—strong and skilled in martial arts. One day, when the officers came as usual and a scuffle broke out, the young lady was caught in the middle. Seeing his wife at a disadvantage, Ah Zhu stepped in and struck one of the officers, who, whether by ill luck or frailty, died on the spot.

Ah Zhu was imprisoned, awaiting trial. Strangely, the day after his arrest, he vanished without a trace. The city was plastered with missing person notices.

That night, the young lady dreamed of Ah Zhu. He told her he was originally the incense burner from the temple, brought to life by her persistent prayers. Now, having experienced worldly love and suffering, he had to depart, and came to say farewell. Upon waking, she found a small incense burner, the size of a palm, by her pillow. She named it Vermilion Flame and Azure Smoke, and remained a widow for life, living to a ripe old age.

So, while this motif belongs to Buddhism, its story is also one of love and devotion; thus, unlike other Buddhist symbols, it does not bring harm to women.

Yangzi listened, utterly captivated, and immediately decided on this design.

With her approval, I let out a long sigh of relief. Thankfully, growing up with my grandfather, I’d pestered him for the stories behind these motifs. Though strange, they were invaluable—in front of this beautiful teacher, I hadn’t embarrassed myself.

“Miss Yangzi, please lower your top a bit and bare your right shoulder.”

Yangzi didn’t hesitate, taking off her blouse in one swift motion, leaving only a lace bra on her upper body. The sight gave me quite a shock. Although I’d always seen Yangzi as a rational and mature woman, this was a visual impact far beyond my expectations.

Her figure was flawless—flat stomach, elegant curves, skin soft as silk...

I coughed loudly to cover my embarrassment, shook my head to clear it, then took her finger to collect a few drops of blood and dripped them into a small jar.

Oddly, the “thing” inside the jar didn’t react; instead, there was a faint sizzling sound, as if the blood had scalded it.

I glanced up at Yangzi, who looked innocent and confused.

No rejection, at least. I disinfected the tattoo needle and began to work.

About an hour later, the motif was finished—a small purple censer appeared on her shoulder. I leaned closer to her neck and saw that the ghostly handprint had vanished. Yangzi transferred the money to me without hesitation.

I applied some antiseptic, instructed her to lie down and let it air dry, and wandered around her laboratory.

A specimen jar filled with formalin caught my attention.