Let me tell you about Grandpa. After that roller-coaster of joy and tragedy, he lay in bed for a month before he recovered. This time, he didn't push Uncle to remarry. Instead, he secretly took Uncle's birth details to a Taoist master for a divination. The oracle read only two lines:
"A lone wild goose flies south—Mandarin ducks cannot form pairs."
In plain language, Uncle was fated to lose every wife he married.
Remembering the fate of my two aunts, Grandpa accepted it and called together my father, my second uncle, and a few of my aunts to strategize. Convinced that Uncle was simply "one-way doomed," they decided to adopt a son for him—keeping "good water from flowing outside our own fields." My second uncle suggested that my cousin and I be offered to Uncle.
To decide which boy it would be, Second Uncle produced a small box filled with green beans, secretly tossed in a single red bean, and shook it. Whoever could pluck out the red bean first would stay. My cousin rummaged fruitlessly, while I reached in and found the red bean on my very first try. From that day forward, I called Third Uncle "Father" and my own father "Elder." (Years later I learned that my cousin was color-blind to reds and greens.) Only when I turned eighteen did Uncle let me revert to calling him "Uncle."
That's enough about Uncle. Now, my story.
Mom says I was born with my eyes wide open—so startling that the old nurse nearly dropped me. I cried a few times at first, but the moment she lifted me from the warm basin I burst into laughter, cooing and patting her arm with my tiny hand. The nurse jumped and nearly dropped me again.
Folks whispered I was an ill omen, even urging my parents to abandon me, calling me a demon child who'd harm the neighborhood. But Grandpa chased them off with one glare and a few choice words: "An extraordinary boy is extraordinary from birth. And he's my eldest grandson—who dares toss him out?"
Because I laughed right away, Grandpa gave me a bold name: Shen La.
I spoke early too—by six months I was calling out "Grandpa, Grandma, Daddy, Mommy." Grandpa was over the moon, and he marched to that meddler's house and gave him a tongue-lashing.
Until age six, my mind ran faster than most children's. Everyone thought the Shen family had produced a prodigy—until the "Under-the-Bed Auntie" incident changed everything.
Mom told me I had a habit of talking to empty air. At first they chalked it up to childish play. Then one day, Mom pulled me out from underneath my bed and asked what I was doing. I blinked and said, "There's an auntie under the bed. She's bored. She wants me to play with her." Mom flew into a panic, yanked back the bed skirt—and found nothing but darkness. Her hair stood on end.
That evening, our neighbors were framing up a new house and Dad was at the build site, so it was just Mom and me. She trembled all the way to Grandpa's house and told him. Grandpa investigated our home himself, then turned to me and asked, "What else did you see?" I repeated my story and added, "She's always in our house. She won't let me tell." Chill ran down Grandpa's spine.
He summoned my father home. We stayed overnight at Grandpa's. The next day, he brought back a balding old Taoist. The two of them spent ages at our house until dusk. When they returned, the old man came straight to me, peered at my head, and then asked when I saw those things. He wrote some characters on his palm and squeezed his fist, asking if I could read them.
My mom still chuckles at the memory: "You couldn't write yet, but you grinned and pointed. Grandpa then gave you a piece of charcoal to draw on the ground—you neatly wrote the character '人' ('person'). The Taoist slapped his palm in delight—there was the same character. Grandpa was floored until the master explained that I'd been born with the 'Heavenly Eye,' able to distinguish yin and yang and commune with spirits."
The master wanted to take me on as a disciple—such a gift shouldn't go to waste. But Grandpa refused: "He's the Shen family's eldest grandson—he must carry on our line. Besides, seeing spirits every day isn't healthy." Instead, Grandpa asked the master for a remedy: wash my hair with black dog's blood to seal the Heavenly Eye. The master groaned—it was a pity to spoil such a raw gem—but consented. Later my father slew their big black dog and used its blood to bathe my head. After that, no one ever saw me talk to ghosts again.
I have no memory of the "Under-the-Bed Auntie." But when I later lived with Uncle in the military compound, other unbelievable things happened.
In middle school, I moved into Third Uncle's quarters and noticed a small locked wooden box hanging on the wall. I asked him what was inside many times—he never answered. Eventually I stopped asking. I even thought about prying it open, but whenever I raised the courage, his glare stopped me cold. (Next to Grandpa, I feared Uncle the most.)
Back then, schoolwork was simple and I couldn't sit still. I'd skip class two or three days a week to swim in a pond on the outskirts of town or pick mulberries in the hills. Uncle thrashed me plenty for it—strict as a father.
One day I'd arranged to meet classmates at the pond. I arrived early, stripped bare, and swam a quick lap. Just as I was about to stand, I felt a hand clamp my ankle and pull me toward the center. I kicked and strained with every ounce of strength, but couldn't break free.
Onshore, my friends saw me bobbing and assumed I'd cramped. Seven of them jumped in and hauled me out. They all swore afterward that it felt like a tug-of-war—some force was wrestling them for me.
That was the last straw for Uncle. He never let me swim in that pond again.
After we hauled me out of the water, each of my classmates saw two hand-shaped bruises—fists dug into my ankles, turning them purple. Their faces drained of color. None of them stuck around; they all bolted back to town in a panic.
I don't know if it was the shock, but that night after sundown, I briefly reopened my Heavenly Eye. I saw a swollen, waterlogged figure—a pale "man"—standing next to me. He looked surprised to find I could see him. Then, as if spotting treasure, he grinned widely.
What he did next terrified me. He pressed himself against me as though trying to merge with my body. I actually felt something pushing inside me—and, horrifyingly, I felt myself begin to be pushed out.
I screamed so loudly that Third Uncle, cooking in the next room, rushed in. I trembled out what had happened. His face broke into a sweat—he remembered my childhood episodes. Suddenly he dashed to the cabinet, yanked down that little locked box, and slammed it to the floor without bothering with the key. It shattered, and a gleaming short sword clattered out.
He seized the sword and, standing guard at my side, glared at the apparition. "Get out! Don't you dare touch my nephew—or I swear I'll kill you!" The phantom shivered, peeled itself away from me, and vanished in an instant.
That night, Third Uncle stood watch by my bedside, sword in hand. The next day he somehow procured a black dog, brought it into the courtyard, and slaughtered it. I endured another dog-blood bath—this time a full basin poured over my head.
After that, I became fixated on the short sword. I pestered Uncle again and again to let me see it. But he'd only grin and say, "Wait until you have white hair."
My hair never went white, though I certainly grew older. Before long I graduated high school under Uncle's guidance and sat for the military academy entrance exam—but despite my best efforts, I didn't get in.
Perhaps the Shen family was never meant for military academies. Uncle, Grandpa, and my father then sat me down and laid out a new plan for the rest of my life: "You're enlisting!"
And so I became a proud member of the People's Liberation Army. After a month of hellish boot camp, our recruit company held its only live-fire exercise before squad assignments—two rounds each on the Type 95 rifle. With no prior experience, most of us couldn't hit a target at 100 meters. The divisional chief of staff, observing, shook his head in disbelief. Our company commander's face turned beet-red.
"Shen La—step forward!" I was last. Under the platoon leader's watch, I loaded two rounds, lay prone, and took aim at the bull's-eye. I admit, my heart was pounding. My only prior live-fire had been a single shot from Third Uncle's Type 54 pistol years ago—and I'd hit something around the four- or five-ring.
I exhaled, centered my focus on the front sight, pressed the butt firmly into my shoulder, gripped the trigger with my forefinger hooked, and squeezed. The rifle discharged, jarring my shoulder.
"Two rings!" came the scorer's call. I settled in for the second shot—but before I could fire, the chief of staff stood up. "That's enough. I've seen enough embarrassments for one day—a whole company, two shots each, and we can't even crack one hundred total rings. And you still think—"
"Bang!" I squeezed off the second round. Silence. The staff officer sneered, "Missed again?" The commander's face went even redder.
"Score!"
"Ten rings!" The scorer's voice was finally triumphant.
"Repeat that. How many?" the chief of staff demanded.
"Ten rings!"
"Bring the target here!"
The scorer jogged over with the paper target. Under the holes was a perfect shot group—no nail-holes or scratches. The staff officer blinked at me. "Lucky shot?" he asked. Before I could answer, our commander spoke up: "Change the target. Give him two more rounds."
He personally handed me two bullets. "Do exactly as before. Show them what our recruits can do."
"Yes, sir!" I said, mustering bravado—and even dared glance at the staff officer.
Back in position, I drew a deep breath. I remembered the strange clarity I'd felt before the second shot—the bull's-eye in my vision seemed to grow larger, closer, as if a rotating wooden practice target were materializing right in front of me.
I fired twice in quick succession: "Ka-bang! Ka-bang!"
"Twenty rings!" the scorer announced without hesitation—this time no mistake possible.
"Two more rounds," said the staff officer, now intrigued. He stepped behind me to watch my technique. I squeezed: "Ka-bang!"
"Twenty rings!"
He broke into a grin. Turning to our commander, he laughed, "Well, I never. I didn't expect you to hide talent like this. Which shooting team do you come from? Kid, you're small but pack a punch with that rifle."
"Sir, I've never trained on a shooting team. This was my first time on a rifle." His surprise grew.
"Impossible! First time—and you score tens every shot? Who do you think you are—Hou Yi?" the staff officer joked—Hou Yi being the legendary archer. He didn't believe me. Even our commander suspected I'd hidden my marksmanship when I enlisted.
But that afternoon, my record spread through the battalion—and would change the course of my military career.