Upon hearing that her sister had become her biological sister, Mother laughed and asked, “Are you hungry? There’s some leftover rice from dinner—I can fry it with eggs for you.”
My mind was weighed down with countless thoughts: “I’m exhausted today; I need to rest early.”
Lying in bed, I tossed and turned. Thoughts of Abe, Zuoshan, Shen Yihu, Liu Jun, Uncle Datan, and the 90,000 yuan my father had been swindled out of swirled in my head. Everything was tangled and overwhelming.
Uncle Datan said, “Hey, Xiao Qi, I’m not well-read and don’t know much about grand philosophies, but people need sleep. Save your worries for tomorrow.”
I replied, “If you were in the Qin Dynasty, Uncle Datan, you’d be Fan Kuai. If I were there, I’d be Fan Nao (Worrying Fan).”
Uncle Datan chuckled. “At your age, it’s natural to be troubled. When I was your age, I didn’t know where my next meal would come from. There were mouths to feed at home, and some nights, I’d cry myself to sleep, feeling like dawn would never come. The hardest time was when your aunt fell ill and lay bedridden. The kids were starving, and all we had left was one bowl of rice and five jiao in my pocket. But look—we made it through.”
His words were simple, but they carried deep wisdom.
A sick wife, hungry children, a single bowl of rice, five jiao to your name—your wife could die at any moment, your children could starve. The weight of it all could crush a family.
I asked, “How did you survive that?”
Uncle Datan said, “Before dawn, I told your aunt, ‘I won’t steal or rob. If I don’t come back tonight, it means I’ve jumped off a cliff. I won’t be your husband anymore. Sell one of the kids, cure your illness, and remarry. I won’t blame you.’ She said, ‘If you don’t return, I’ll die with the children.’ I cooked the last bowl of rice, ate my fill, and left. I went to a noodle shop owner and borrowed 150 jin of rice noodles. I took a bus to Jiangxi, bartered them for grain, and walked over 100 li without knowing the way. A family was celebrating their daughter’s wedding and needed rice noodles. I told them, ‘If I don’t make it back today, I won’t be going back at all.’ They said, ‘Guest, eat first. We’ll weigh the grain for you.’ They gave me a bowl of white rice with tofu. I ate half and said, ‘Take some grain off the scale to pay for this.’ I saved the other half to bring home to my wife. They gave me a jar filled with rice and asked if I could carry it. I nodded hard and said yes. By the time I finished, the grain was ready—200 jin in total. There was only one bus back. I rushed with the grain, terrified I’d miss it and find my wife and children dead. The driver waited for me, smoking. ‘I knew you’d come back,’ he said. Back in town, I sold the grain to the noodle shop, repaid the difference, and made eight yuan. Mutton was 1.1 yuan per jin, so I bought five jin and hurried home by three in the afternoon. I stewed the mutton, and miraculously, your aunt recovered after eating it. I worked hard carrying rice noodles for half a year, bought 200 jin of rice, and raised some piglets.”
Uncle Datan added, “I’ll never forget those three people. The noodle shop owner died a few years ago—I sent two pigs to his funeral. The bus driver—I never found him. The Jiangxi family—I tried to visit, but the roads had changed. With so many people in the world, I just hope their children are filial and their lives free of disaster.”
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened.
“Uncle Datan, thank you for the story,” I said.
…
Maybe it was the story or just a quieted mind, but I soon fell asleep.
Dark smoke coiled around me like blindfolds. Gigantic stones loomed, bound by thick vines as wide as arms. In the distance, lights blazed, but under my feet—no shoes. Ten toes, five on each foot, pressed against black pebbles. By the trees, shadowy figures watched, their eyes rolling in their sockets.
I didn’t know where I was, only that I’d been here before.
Walking forward, I saw a grand Western-style mansion. No one stopped me when I pushed the door open.
“Where is this?”
“Over here.” I looked up to see an old man lounging on a sofa. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
“Who are you? Who am I? Why am I meeting you here?”
The old man gnawed on two pig legs, grease dripping, and scowled. “Little rascal! Don’t you remember me? I’m your ancestor, Donglingzi!” I scratched my head. “Have we met before?”
“Damn fool! Last time, when those Japanese came—I was the one who told you!”
It took me a moment to recall. The scruffy old man, the greasy pig legs—it slowly came back.
“I remember now. I’m Xiao Qi. I’ve met you before. You’re Ancestor Donglingzi.” I dropped to my knees and kowtowed.
Donglingzi shook his head. “Last time, you were clever and quick-witted. Now you’re dull as a stump. None of my style left in you.”
I said, “No one can surpass your greatness, Ancestor. Why summon me so late? I’m busy—need to get back to sleep.”
Donglingzi laughed. “Now that sounds more like you. Stand up.”
Rising, I glanced around the mansion—the one I’d burned as an offering to him. A Gree air conditioner, Changhong TV, Midea rice cooker and induction stove, Siemens fridge, TOTO toilet, and a full set of mahogany furniture.
But something was missing.
“Where are the ten beauties?”
Donglingzi wiped his mouth with a rag. “You think visiting your dreams is easy? Last time, I won a card game against Lord Xie and Lord Fan to do it. This time, I had to gift them ten foreign beauties just to see you.”
Lord Xie was the White Impermanence; Lord Fan, the Black Impermanence.
I imagined White Impermanence, tongue lolling, holding a meeting with ten foreign beauties—what a sight that would be.
“Is Lord Xie really that powerful?”
Donglingzi smirked. “He doesn’t keep them for himself. He has many underlings—some still single. The beauties are for them. Only that could persuade him to let me call you here.”
I pictured White Impermanence presiding over a winter soul-reaping rally, urging his minions to meet quotas, compete for top honors among the ten great ghost kings. The thought was absurd—until it struck me how terrifying it would be if they really did “increase productivity.” The human world would be littered with corpses.
I gave a thumbs-up. “Ancestor, you really went all out. I’ll burn more offerings when I get back.”
Donglingzi waved a hand. “No need. Just send me that box of nice discs you got tonight. They’re all the rage down here now.”
I solemnly agreed.
Donglingzi continued, “The feud between our Ghost Sect and the Abe family runs deep. Since the Tang Dynasty, Japanese envoys came to study in China, taking back knowledge of the Five Elements, feng shui, divination, and shikigami. The Abe ancestors were among them. They founded Japan’s Onmyōji tradition, blending local Shinto and corpse-cutting cults into their own craft.”
“How did the conflict start?”
“One of their youngsters challenged me. I defeated him with one finger. He swore revenge.”
I frowned. “That’s it? Generations of vengeance over one loss?”
Donglingzi sighed. “Well… he tried poisoning me first. I was furious. Back then, male brothels were common. After he failed, I sold him to one. He suffered there for three months before escaping. A harsh lesson, but he deserved it.”
I was speechless. My ancestor’s mischief exceeded all reason.
“What happened next?”
“Endless feuds. The second-generation Ghost Sect master emerged during the Five Dynasties, when evil spirits ran rampant. The Abe family came—and lost. During the Song Dynasty, we lay low. By the Yuan and Ming, zombies, witchcraft, and ghost-raising flourished. Our disciples slaughtered countless undead and dark priests. When the Abe came again, they were crushed. In the Qing Dynasty, with the Manchus and Shamanism dominant, we hunted minor ghosts. By the late Qing, centuries after the Ming, new zombies arose. The thirteenth-generation master, Ye Guyu, appeared—just as our sect faced extinction.”
I said, “It wasn’t just the Ghost Sect in peril—it was all of China. The West and Japan were carving us up.”
Donglingzi nodded. “Exactly. Ye Guyu rose faster than any master before him.”
So this was a lesson on the Ghost Sect’s history.
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