Chapter 163: The Fake Taoist Priest

I was a bit upset and scolded, “What the hell have you been up to? Don’t tell me you got tricked in some brothel and got scammed!”

Uncle Jianguo sent me the detailed address of Green Harbor and said, “If you don’t come soon, once it gets dark, this half-immortal is done for.”

I had no choice but to return to the apartment, pack the jade ruler and compass, and grind the remaining spirit ghost stones left by Xie Lingyu to draw two ghost-catching talismans.

On the way, I stopped by a bookstore and bought a dictionary to bring along. The dictionary was as heavy as a brick, but the worst part was that it couldn’t even be used as a weapon in a real fight. Carrying it was a burden, making it hard to move quickly.

I hadn’t ridden my motorcycle in a while and was a bit rusty. The cold wind blew relentlessly, chilling me to the bone. Little Rascal shrank his head even further. The bumpy ride and two wrong turns delayed me, and I didn’t arrive at the small town called Green Harbor until 4 p.m.

The place was a three-story Western-style house with two stone balls guarding the entrance. The layout of the rooms subtly aligned with feng shui principles. The iron gate was slightly ajar. I called Uncle Jianguo and asked him to come out.

When he appeared, Uncle Jianguo was dressed in a Taoist robe bought off Taobao, wearing a bizarre hat that made it impossible to tell which sect he belonged to. Two men in sunglasses, looking fierce and intimidating, followed him. Both wore black jackets but only had thermal underwear underneath, shivering in the cold wind.

“My junior brother is here,” Uncle Jianguo said with a smile, stepping forward to greet me.

Little Rascal jumped off the bike. Uncle Jianguo picked him up and declared that the dog had the Yin-Yang Eyes, bestowed by Zhang Tianshan of Dragon-Tiger Mountain. When the dog barked twice, it meant he saw two little ghosts standing on their shoulders.

The sunglasses-wearing men exchanged glances, glared at Uncle Jianguo, and then stared at Little Rascal’s eyes. Perhaps out of fear, they reluctantly stepped aside.

Seeing Uncle Jianguo’s getup, I asked, “Uncle, what’s this all about? How did you turn into a Taoist in just a few days? What’s the matter you called me here for?”

Uncle Jianguo grimaced. “The nouveau riche here made some money and wanted to celebrate his late father’s birthday. He hired a Taoist to perform a ritual. Easy money, right? I thought it’d be no big deal—just killing time and making some cash. But then things went wrong.”

Uncle Jianguo had read a book on physiognomy called *The Ma Yi’s Divine Physiognomy* and could pass himself off as a Taoist from Dragon-Tiger Mountain. Outsiders wouldn’t know the difference. Performing rituals for the dead was easy money, especially since these nouveau riche types were generous.

I grew impatient. “Get to the point.”

Uncle Jianguo lowered his voice. “The old man I was supposed to help cross over… well, he didn’t leave. Instead, he stuck around.”

My heart sank. Normally, celebrating a dead person’s birthday involves three main activities:

First, burning offerings—hell banknotes, folded gold ingots, specially made clothes, paper houses, paper beauties, and nowadays, even paper laptops, phones, and cars. The more advanced the times, the more creative the offerings. I’ve even heard of people burning paper DVDs—just a piece of paper labeled with opera titles. Who knows if the dead can actually play them.

Second, making offerings—placing common foods like fruits, rice, cured meats, and fish on a table for the deceased to “enjoy.”

Lastly, performing the ritual. Buddhist monks usually chant the *Rebirth Mantra*, *The Earth Store Bodhisattva’s Fundamental Vows Sutra*, or *The Amitabha Sutra*. Taoists chant scriptures like *The Blood Lake Liturgy*, *The Lao Jun’s Decree*, or *The Tomb-Summoning Liturgy*. Each full recitation is called a “layer,” and usually, thirteen layers are performed.

There are Taoists who specialize in conducting these rituals for the dead—known as “Fire-Dwelling Taoists.” They’re hired to chant scriptures when someone dies but otherwise live ordinary lives—smoking, drinking, marrying, and having children. The successful ones build mansions and drive luxury cars. Technically, they don’t “chant” the scriptures but “sing” them, often in a rhythmic, four-word or single-word cadence. Many old Taoists sing in a way that’s hard to understand, yet listeners are often moved to tears.

I once heard an old Taoist sing so profoundly that even I—a usually cold-hearted person—almost cried.

Seeing me lost in thought, Uncle Jianguo began sweating profusely. “Master Xiao, what’s wrong? Did I offend the old man? Can’t he move on?”

I shook my head. “Taoist scriptures aren’t for amateurs to recite. Let’s go inside and take a look.”

Uncle Jianguo flourished his robe and led me in with big strides.

The moment I stepped inside, I surveyed the surroundings and immediately felt something was off. If the old man had just returned for his birthday, it shouldn’t feel like this.

The nouveau riche, seeing Uncle Jianguo bring in a young man, shouted, “You fake Taoist! Who’d you bring this time? I heard my old man crying! Can you even perform the ritual? Do you even know how to chant?”

The man wore a thick gold chain around his neck, seven or eight gold rings on his fingers, and a jade thumb ring.

“This is my junior brother. He’s exceptionally talented and was personally taught by our master—far surpassing me,” Uncle Jianguo said with perfect posture, looking every bit the reclusive Taoist even while praising me.

The nouveau riche spat out the betel nut he’d been chewing onto the table. “Oh yeah? If I hear crying again, you motherf—, each of you loses a hand.”

Uncle Jianguo smirked. “With both of us working together, we’ll get it done. But the price might be a bit higher.”

Seeing Uncle Jianguo’s disdainful expression, the man thumped his chest. “I’m so poor, all I have left is money.”

That line stung me deeply. *Poor with nothing but money?* What a blatant flex.

Damn it. If I don’t squeeze a fortune out of you after this, I’m not a real man.

I coughed twice. “We Taoists serve the people. Money isn’t our priority. After the job’s done, you can decide how much to give. We won’t complain if it’s little—your father in the afterlife will know your heart.”

I turned and asked Uncle Jianguo to take me to the ritual site. Little Rascal followed, wagging his tail and lifting his leg to pee.

“Wait! That’s useful!” I shouted. “Big bro, grab something to catch it. Quick!”

The nouveau riche stared at the black dog, puzzled. “You want to collect *that*?”

Out of curiosity, he handed over a metal basin. Soon, Little Rascal’s leg tapped rhythmically against it.

“This dog was blessed with Yin-Yang Eyes by a Dragon-Tiger Mountain master. His urine is a bane to ghosts. Carry some on you, and you could dance on graves at midnight without a worry,” Uncle Jianguo said solemnly. “If a regular person drinks it, it even boosts kidney energy.”

The man touched his waist. “Really?”

I poured the liquid into a small jar. “Senior brother, heaven’s secrets must not be revealed. Why did you say that?”

Uncle Jianguo laughed awkwardly and led me to the second-floor ritual site. The nouveau riche didn’t follow. As we climbed the stairs, I asked, “Aren’t you coming up, boss?”

He shook his head. “You two go ahead. I’ve got things to handle.”

The higher I went, the more uneasy I felt. The eerie sensation was worse than when I was in the five-story abandoned building. Though no terrifying eyes followed me, a chilling wind still crept up my spine.

I broke out in a sweat. “This place is off. It might be a haunted house.”

Uncle Jianguo glanced around. “Don’t scare me. Are we supposed to chop off our hands and tell the guy, ‘Sorry, we scammed you’?”

He explained that the nouveau riche owned several coal mines where deaths were frequent. The man was ruthless.

I sighed. “No choice. Let’s see what’s really going on.”

In a room on the second floor, a table was draped in yellow cloth, with a spirit tablet placed in the center. It read: “The Spirit Tablet of the Late Honorable Xia Gengtian,” with smaller characters below: “Erected by his son, Jinrong.”

The table was laden with chicken, duck, fish, and various fruits. Incense sticks filled the burner, and two paper figures with rosy cheeks stood nearby. A fire bucket was full of ashes from burned paper ingots.

Beside the tablet was a 30cm x 40cm frame holding a black-and-white photo of a man in a skullcap, his lips slightly upturned in a kind smile as he gazed at the world. The photo didn’t strike me as odd—just a gentle old man. Only someone with a good heart would smile like that.

The man in the photo was likely Xia Gengtian, and the nouveau riche was his son, Xia Jinrong. The skullcap looked well-worn, as if it had been used for decades.

I lit a cigarette and inspected the ritual room. “Nothing strange here. Did you mess up the chanting?”

Uncle Jianguo pointed to the scripture on the table. “I once traded a carton of cigarettes with a Taoist to photocopy his book. But there were a few characters I didn’t recognize, so I might’ve skipped them.”

*Skipped them?!*

I sucked in a sharp breath. “Couldn’t you have used a dictionary?!”

This whole thing was about humans fooling ghosts and ghosts fooling humans. But if you ran into a meticulous ghost standing beside you, checking the scripture line by line, and you skipped three out of seven characters, or worse, a bunch of ghosts gathered to listen and mocked, “Gengtian, this Taoist’s cutting corners! Did your son hire a fake to save money?”

Xia Gengtian, unable to save face, might just lose it and refuse to leave. Very possible.

“Half-Immortal, which characters didn’t you recognize? Tell me. I’ll annotate the pronunciation, and you’ll chant it properly thirteen times—a full thirteen layers. Maybe then Old Man Gengtian will calm down.” I pulled out the dictionary.

Uncle Jianguo quietly closed the door. “If Xia Jinrong sees us looking up characters, he’ll probably come in and chop our hands off.”

Once the door was shut, Uncle Jianguo tiptoed over. I annotated the characters I knew and had him look up the rest in the dictionary. After two grueling hours of marking up *The Blood Lake Liturgy*, night fell.

Someone knocked and brought in dinner. Uncle Jianguo grabbed the dictionary and tossed it into the fire.

“That cost dozens of yuan, Half-Immortal!”

“Our boss said if he hears crying tonight, you two lose your hands. Succeed, and you’ll drink with us downstairs,” the sunglasses-wearing man said before sneezing—probably catching a cold.

At the door were two cups of instant noodles—”Old Altar Pickled Cabbage” flavor.

“Damn it! We’re proper Fire-Dwelling Taoists of the Orthodox Unity Sect, and this is the respect we get? Half a day’s work, and we get one cup of noodles each?” Uncle Jianguo grumbled as he carried them in.

I checked the time—around 6 p.m. Pulling back the curtains, I saw it was already dark outside. “Stop complaining. Eat up, and let’s finish the thirteen layers properly. If Old Man Gengtian really shows up, I’m not saving you.”

After two bites of the noodles, I felt uneasy—the Wrinkled Granny had spat out old phlegm just like this. I gave up and decided to start chanting *The Blood Lake Liturgy* first.

As I approached the table, I suddenly noticed the eyes of Xia Gengtian in the black-and-white photo.

They were moving.

Left… then right…