A small hut, as if watched over by gods. Inside, spring water trickled from a fissure in the stone. Incense smoldered, its smoke curling in the damp air. And there was an enigmatic old woman, muttering things you couldn't quite make out.
This was the first time Chen Yuan had ever sought out a fortune-teller on his own.
He didn't believe gods were watching from above; he was more inclined to believe it was a kind of art.
Fortune-tellers were often worldly and observant, able to make apt judgments based on a visitor's status, clothing, and manner of speaking. It was usually those who desired something that came to pray to the gods, so fortune-tellers could exploit that mindset.
Chen Yuan recalled the cramped little hut, cluttered with objects, and the old woman muttering in a barely audible local dialect.
It created a solemn, heavy atmosphere.
This solemnity was completely different from the feeling one got in a temple; it was more like a hazy dream.
