Last night, at midnight, I used the compass to pin down the White Tiger position, and sure enough, I intercepted a trace of the Breaking Army Star’s energy. (I take out a ceramic jar from the shadow of the antique shelf.) The obsidian, which I’ve been nurturing for exactly 49 days, has cracked into seven lines this morning. (My fingertips gently tap on the jar.) Listen, doesn’t it sound like the hailstorm that hit Mr. Han’s newly bought Mercedes last winter solstice?