The little-footed old woman was dressed in an old-fashioned dark blue outfit, with a scarf wrapped around her head. Her tiny three-inch golden lotus shoes were also dark blue, as were her trousers. She carried a bag in her hand.
After eating for a while, she put the pork back down, untouched. This kind of human offering—when ghosts come, they consume the essence of the food, leaving the physical form behind. That’s why, when people reheat sacrificial food, they usually add extra salt and seasonings. Otherwise, it would taste bland.
The little-footed, dark-blue-clad old woman finished the pork leg, then grabbed a nearby drink, took a few sips to cut the greasiness, patted her belly, and muttered to herself, “I’ll go cry some more, let my son know how that old man bullies me.”
Spotting the label on the bottle, she cursed, “What the hell? ‘Thunderbolt’ instead of ‘Sprite’!” I thought to myself, *Grandma, no wonder Old Man Xia wants to deal with you—you’re fooling around with Old Wang next door! If this were your time, you’d be drowned in a pig cage or ridden on a wooden donkey!*
*Has the underworld been influenced by the mortal world too? Has society become so open that little-footed women can dance and seduce the neighbor Old Wang? Is this really allowed now?*
Hearing the old woman’s words, I suddenly felt that times were indeed progressing, people’s lives were improving, and even the underworld was undergoing ideological reforms.
The little-footed, dark-blue-clad old woman whimpered twice before bursting into another round of dramatic weeping.
It was time for Little Rascal to step in. His pitch-black body and glowing eyes were especially noticeable in the dark. He barked twice, and as I entered the kitchen, I closed the door behind me.
Only when I got closer did I get a good look at the old woman. Her wrinkles weren’t too deep, and she was wearing Chanel perfume—probably burned as an offering by her son. The Hermès bag she carried clashed awkwardly with her traditional dark-blue outfit.
Neither modern nor traditional—it was hard to describe, especially with those tiny bound feet.
The old woman had a beauty mark between her eyebrows. Judging by her youthful appearance, she must have been the belle of the village back in the day—no wonder Old Wang next door fell for her.
“Granny, stop crying in the middle of the night. You’re disturbing the neighbors,” I said, suppressing a laugh.
The old woman glanced at me. “Oh, young man! You look just like Andy Lau! Well, except for that scar—adds a bit of rugged charm. But I don’t mind.”
*People who’ve compared me to Andy Lau could circle the Earth three times.*
I kept my composure. “Granny, you’ve eaten and drunk enough. Time to go back to sleep. If your son hears you crying like this, he’ll go on a rampage.”
Even though Old Man Xia had been invited back by his children to celebrate his birthday, he should’ve returned to the underworld by now. The dead shouldn’t linger too long among the living—just visit during holidays.
The old woman scowled. “I don’t want to go back! Every day it’s just arguing with that old ghost. I want to live with Old Wang! Move my grave next to his, or I’m not going back. And if I don’t want to leave, no force on earth can make me! Hmph.”
Her eyes gleamed with pride—the kind only a true beauty could have. Back in her day, her tiny bound feet had charmed countless men.
*Move her grave?* I almost burst into tears.
First of all, even if I *could* move her grave, Xia Jinrong would never agree to dig up his parents’ burial site, take out his mother’s coffin, and rebury her next to Old Wang. The only way he’d agree was if he’d been kicked in the head by a donkey or lost his mind—both highly unlikely.
Even if Xia Jinrong agreed, would Old Wang’s son consent? Who would let someone dig up their father’s grave just to add another coffin? Unless he’d fallen into a cesspool and lost his sanity, he’d never agree.
And even if Old Wang’s son agreed, would Old Wang’s wife allow it? No woman would tolerate another wife being buried next to her husband unless she’d eaten too many turtle eggs and lost her mind.
Even if *everyone* agreed, what about the Xia and Wang families? The Xias probably had seven or eight brothers and twenty-something uncles. The Wangs likely had thirty-something nephews and sons-in-law. If this escalated, it could turn into a full-blown feud—one that might even land me in trouble with the authorities for “superstitious activities.”
While I admired the old woman’s pursuit of happiness, the problem she’d handed me was nearly impossible to solve.
From a probability standpoint, multiplying the chances of success at each step gave the overall likelihood—and in this case, the odds were practically zero.
Having thought it through, I smiled. “Granny, you must be joking. If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to get rough.”
I pulled out my jade ruler. The old woman tightened her grip on her Hermès bag—a status symbol among ghosts.
“Listen here, young man. I’m a reasonable woman. Help me with this, and I’ll leave. If you don’t… well, I have friends. Good friends. And I won’t tell them you bullied me—I’m a kind soul, after all. But if they *find out*, they might visit you every night, crying in your ears. And there’s this blind old storyteller I know—he can go on for eight hours straight. If you like *Investiture of the Gods*, *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*, *Water Margin*, or *The Legend of Yue Fei*, he’d be happy to entertain you.”
She grinned at me, her eyes twinkling.
I took two steps back, bumping against the door. If ten old ghost women showed up—not to harm me, just to cry outside my window—my life would be ruined.
And a storyteller too? This was pure torture. Truly, age brings wisdom, vinegar tastes better with age, and old female ghosts are the fiercest of all.
I hoped she’d see reason. “Granny, that’s too cruel. I’m just here to celebrate your husband’s birthday. No need to trap me like this.”
She pulled out her perfume and spritzed it on her face. “Andy Lau, just help me out. If you do, I’ll reward you. I know plenty of young, unmarried female ghosts—I can introduce you to a couple.”
I waved my hands frantically. “Granny, I’m not Andy Lau. My name is Lin Danan. Andy Lau is my cousin. Honestly, I don’t even think he’s that handsome—my nephew Wang Baoqiang is way better-looking. And I don’t need any ghostly matchmaking. Let’s just talk this through.”
I put the jade ruler away.
This called for brains, not brawn. I regretted not bringing Mo Bai, the peachwood figurine—his wit could’ve easily handled this stubborn old ghost.
The old woman dusted off her bag and pointed at my pocket. “I’ll rest in your pocket for now. Once the job’s done, I’ll come out.” Helpless, I opened my pocket slightly, and she slipped inside.
Little Rascal whined twice, probably disappointed in me.
Returning from the kitchen, I checked the time—2 a.m. Xia Jinrong had dozed off on the prayer mat. Uncle Jianguo asked how things went, assuming a simple ghost shouldn’t be a problem.
I pulled him aside and explained the old woman’s demands.
Uncle Jianguo was stunned. “In all my years as a Taoist, I’ve never met such a ruthless woman. Truly a heroine of her time.”
I scowled. “Cut the nonsense, ‘Half-Immortal.’ What do we do now? Actually move her grave?”
He shrugged. “Not my problem. She didn’t ask *me*. You figure it out.”
I wanted to strangle him. Some help he was.
Seeing my anger, Uncle Jianguo quoted an old saying: “When the cart reaches the mountain, there’ll be a path; when the boat reaches the bridge, it’ll straighten itself. Don’t panic—there are always more solutions than problems. Even Einstein said genius emerges from solving problems.”
Silently, I turned and woke Xia Jinrong. “Mr. Xia, no need to kneel here. Take my senior brother downstairs to rest. I’ll talk to your father—no peeking.”
The living and the dead should remain separate. Though ghosts may linger out of attachment, meeting family can bring bad luck. So I sent Xia Jinrong away to have a proper chat with the man in the photo.
According to Buddhist and Taoist beliefs, after death, souls are guided by underworld officials to stand trial—good people rewarded, evil ones damned. On the Naihe Bridge, the toothless Granny Meng brews her amnesiac soup, tossing in cilantro, with two ghostly blades nearby for those who refuse to drink.
The three souls—heavenly, earthly, and mortal—split upon death. The mortal soul remains in the grave to receive offerings until it crosses the bridge and drinks the soup, reuniting for reincarnation.
But with underworld bureaucracy being slow, some mortal souls linger for years—especially if they’re forgotten, share a name, or have the same birthdate.
Old Man Xia and the little-footed old woman were likely such cases.
Xia Jinrong led Uncle Jianguo downstairs, reminding me that a room with bedding was ready if I needed rest.
Once they left, I shut the door. It was almost 2 a.m.—still some time before the rooster crowed.
The melon-cap-wearing Xia in the photo hadn’t moved his eyes.
I pulled out my jade ruler. “Listen here, you old bastard. I’m the 15th-generation disciple of the Ghost Sect—I’ve got ways to deal with stubborn ghosts like you. What’s your wife’s name?”
The eyes in the photo shifted. “Ah, such temper, young man. Fine, I’ll tell you. My wife’s name is Zhu Ruhua.”
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