Five traditions read you separately. None of them sees the others' answers. Then we measure how far they agree.
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Type your birth date and watch each tradition answer.
Your full reading opens five chapters, one per tradition, then puts all five side by side and scores how far they agree, including where they disagree.
Your first full reading is on us.
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A single reading has nothing in the room to disagree with it. So five traditions read the same moment, kept apart, and we publish how far they actually agreed.
Your date, hour and place. Nothing else is asked for, and nothing else is used.
Each tradition reads it alone. None of them is shown what another one said.
The figure is how closely they landed, never how good that part of your life is. Where they split, you see both sides.
Each tradition gets a chapter of its own and is taught from nothing, so you can judge it before you are asked to believe it. Tap any of them.
The old Chinese calendar names every year, month, day and two-hour block with a pair of characters, drawn from ten heavenly stems and twelve earthly branches. Your birth moment comes out as four pairs: eight characters, which is literally what 八字 means.
Each carries one of five elements, and one of the eight stands for you. Everything else in the chart is read against that one.
One operation does all the work: add the digits, then add them again, until a single digit is left. 1998 becomes 1+9+9+8 = 27, and 27 becomes 2+7 = 9. Nothing is looked up and nothing is chosen, which is why this is the one system you can check with a pen.
The same operation on the letters of your name gives more numbers. Where the date and the name disagree, that gap is the reading. Only 11, 22 and 33 are never reduced.
The only one of the five that reads a choice rather than a birth. Somebody picked your name after you arrived, and this tradition takes that seriously.
It counts brush strokes the way the 康熙字典 did in 1716, combines them into five numbers and reads each against a table of 81 meanings. If your name is in Latin letters, a Western name tradition runs in its place and we say so plainly.
The zodiac is not twelve personalities. It is a circle of 360 degrees cut into twelve slices of thirty, and where in the slice a planet sat matters, which is why your reading shows degrees and not only names.
Your placements will not all agree, and that is the point: the Sun says what you are for, the Moon what you need, the Rising how you arrive.
The one everybody can name, and almost nobody has been told what it is. Your animal is not a separate fortune: it is the lower character of your birth-year pair, one of the eight BaZi has already read.
On its own it is one twelfth of everyone alive. The stem above it and the 納音 image behind it narrow you to one in sixty.
Each tradition is put the same six questions about your life, and none of them sees another's answer. Where they land in the same place, that agreement is published as a figure.
Traditions that share roots count for less when they agree, so one shared fact cannot pass for two. A figure means how far the five agreed, and nothing else. It is never a grade for your life.
A percentage means one thing: how far the five agreed about that area of your life. It is not a score for the life itself.
Your animal comes from the pillar BaZi has already read. Overlapping traditions count as fewer voices than they appear to be.
Every figure is derived from the five readings and held to an evidence bar. Where the evidence is too thin, we print nothing.
Begin with your birth moment. Nothing is stored until you ask us to keep it.