My Real-Life Story
When I was five, a fortune-teller insisted on reading my fate. He claimed I'd grow up to see through people's thoughts at a glance and achieve fame and fortune.
Word spread, and the whole village pegged me as a prodigy.
My parents pooled every resource to send me to school. But I disappointed them. My English and math scores never cracked 60.
No amount of "brain-boosting" tonics could fix my IQ.
A high school diploma became my highest achievement. My mother nearly cursed the fortune-teller to his grave.
So I followed the same path as every mountain village kid—migrating for work. I became a stir-fried noodle cook at my sister and brother-in-law's joint:
Enough said. Too many tears. Back to the wok.
Southern September nights still burned like furnaces. My sister barked:
"Wan Shanhong—your turn!"
My arms screamed in protest, but I obeyed, replacing my brother-in-law.
Drizzle oil. Toss in the noodles. Deftly sprinkle salt, sauce, garlic, pepper flakes, chili powder…
One hand flipping the wok, the other tossing the noodles skyward. Up, down, up, down—a greasy circus act.
One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six—
My arm suddenly went rogue. The wok crashed to the floor. Yellow, white, green—a Jackson Pollock of failure.
Every customer stared.
My brother-in-law lunged forward, grabbed another wok, and reignited the show in under a minute.
My sister hunched over cleaning the mess, shot me a glare, and growled: "Useless."
If this kept up, my life would be ruined. Frying noodles day and night. All I gained was sore arms.
"Sulking here? Can't handle it? Go rest. You're an embarrassment."
She glared at me like I was trash.
I stormed back to the dorm.
Ever since I came to Wu Township to work at my sister's shop, restless ideas gnawed at me.
First month: I suggested renting the dying junk shop next door and hiring pro cooks to expand.
She scoffed: "Just lazy. What if we lose money?"
Second month: I pitched adding daytime buffet service. She snapped: "Quit if you hate it."
After countless rejections, I gave up.
I became a robot arm, repeating the same toss-and-flip motions.
My exhausted arms kept failing—tonight's noodle avalanche wasn't the first, nor the last.
The noise outside faded. Almost closing time. I checked my phone: 1 AM.
Alone on my bed, my arms throbbing. Surely someone will check on me?
No one came.
Rage surged. I hurled a pillow—it smacked a book teetering on the nightstand.
A battered copy I'd scavenged from the junk pile days ago.
The title: Business Breakthroughs. I grabbed it and started reading. Sleep could wait.
The book said some guy made no profit selling scrap copper and silver—until he melted them into Buddha statues.
My eyes locked on the words "Buddha statue." I slapped my thigh—got it.
I'd create a miracle. Because Buddhists believe hardest.
Little did I know—this dumb idea would rewrite my fate.
I ordered a Buddha mold from Taobao, about the size of a coin.
At 1 AM the next day, I crept out with a hammer and ladder to the old tree.
Climbed up, hammered the mold into the trunk. Climbed down.
Month one, two, three… I'd sneak out nightly, injecting nutrient solution around the mold with a syringe.
Spring of year two—the mold fell off. The trunk had grown a Buddha.
March. The junk shop next door closed. Time for Phase Two.
One afternoon, I challenged my sister to badminton.
I'd hidden a shuttlecock in the tree beforehand. Feigning a serve, I palmed it into my pocket and yelled: "It flew into the tree!"
She groaned.
"I'll get it." I dragged over a ladder, climbed to the shuttlecock's spot, then conveniently trembled and slid down. Sat frozen.
"What's wrong?!" She shook my shoulders.
"Something… weird."
"What?!"
"There's… a Bodhisattva. In the tree."
My sister scrambled up.
She climbed, saw the lifelike Buddha nestled in the branches, and scrambled down. Pulling me aside: "Why's there a Bodhisattva?!"
"Our golden age starts now."
"Golden age?" She blinked, lost.
I whispered: "Why did the junk shop fail?"
"Why?"
"Piling trash here insulted the Bodhisattva. That's why it flopped."
"Makes sense! No wonder that shop was half-dead—there's a deity in the tree!"
"If we take over the shop, expand the noodle joint, and offer hot meals daily to honor the Bodhisattva… it'll bless our business."
Her jaw dropped. Literally.
"Wait too long, and someone else grabs the spot. Imagine rivals thriving under *our* Bodhisattva."
My sister froze for a beat, then yanked my brother-in-law over.
He grinned wildly: "Isn't this the Bodhisattva's blessing? Why else would Shanhong's shuttlecock land there?"
My sister chewed her lip. "Let's get Master Hongyi to check the feng shui. If he approves, we expand."
I volunteered: "I'll fetch him tomorrow."
Master Hongyi was legendary around here. I'd passed his compound a hundred times buying groceries—never dared enter.
Next day, I stood outside his courtyard. A moon gate arched over the entrance, plaque reading: "Serenity Haven."
My gut churned. What if he vetoes the plan? All that Buddha-forging—wasted?
The master spotted me instantly. White beard flowing, he lounged on a bamboo chair, studying me like a puzzle.
Trapped.
I blurted: "Greetings, Master. Just… curious. My family runs a noodle shop a mile ahead."
"Look around."
"Actually… I need a favor."
His eyes raked me head to toe: "Speak.
"Our spot's a migrant worker hub. Expanding could triple profits. But my sister's stubborn. She won't listen."
The master smirked, eyes piercing through me. "You want me to convince your sister, yes?"
"She worships masters like you."
He snorted. "A scheming brat. Business demands integrity. So does my craft."
I froze—slapped by his words.
After a theatrical pause, he drawled: "But… I'll inspect the site."
My stomach dropped. What if he exposes everything?
He fanned himself lazily.
I smelled opportunity. "Your fame precedes you, but we're small fry. Can't afford luxury fees."
Testing his price.
He chuckled at my squirming. "Signs reveal themselves before inspection."
"Signs?"I played dumb.
"Come."He beckoned toward his den.
I followed, knees jelly. A scroll hung on the wall: "The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao."
Then I saw it—a plaque on his desk:
NO HAGGLE ZONE.
Legend said his "feng shui consultation" cost a kidney. My legs vibrated under the table.
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