Chapter 164: The Apricot Sprouts Over the Wall

Normally, it’s perfectly natural for a person’s eyes to move. But if the eyes of someone in a photograph start moving, that’s anything but normal.

What’s more, they were shifting left and right, even turning cross-eyed at times—I couldn’t keep my composure. If he wasn’t messing with me, he was definitely messing with himself.

In all my life, I’d never seen a person in a photo move.

If you happen to have an old black-and-white photo of a deceased elder lying around, take a look—see if the eyeballs move. If they do, let me know.

I quickly shouted, “Half-Immortal, come take a look! The eyes in this photo are moving!”

Uncle Jianguo set the bucket aside and stepped forward, staring at the melon-skull cap in the photo. After a long while, he still saw nothing. “No, they’re not. Are you seeing things? The eyes aren’t moving.”

I stared at the photo of Xia Gengtian—it seemed like they’d stopped again.

Damn, we’re dealing with an old ghost.

And old ghosts are always the trickiest.

“Just hurry up and recite the incantation,” I thought to myself. Maybe Xia Gengtian was getting impatient and rolling his eyes as a warning.

Uncle Jianguo scolded me, saying I’d seen ghosts before—why was I so terrified just because some eyeballs moved? There was no dignity left for the orthodox Zhengyi sect.

I forced a laugh, tossed a gold ingot into the fire bucket, and picked up the jade ruler, tucking it into my belt. If Xia Gengtian showed up, I wouldn’t hold back—the jade ruler would make quick work of a blinking Xia Gengtian.

Besides, I wanted to test how far my recent study of *The Compendium* had gotten me.

Uncle Jianguo put on his hat, unfurled the portraits of the Three Pure Ones, and began chanting. His recitation was truly unbearable—choppy, full of pauses, grating on the ears. If I were Xia Gengtian, I’d probably be furious listening to that.

I endured it once, watching the figure in the photo frame. Thankfully, it didn’t move. Little Rascal lay on the floor, playing a cross-eyed game—was he trying to imitate Xia Gengtian in the frame?

Uncle Jianguo took a sip of water midway and started reciting the thirteenth repetition.

Clasping his hands together, he addressed the photo and the memorial tablet: “Elder, I’ve sincerely redone everything for you. Rest easy now. I’ll charge you less this time—our order exists to help the world, not for money.”

Watching Uncle Jianguo’s reverent act, I stifled a laugh. He was so deep into his role, he practically believed he was a real Taoist priest.

Xia Jinrong arrived with his entourage. “Everything’s settled, right?” He stepped forward, lit incense for Xia Gengtian, and glanced around nervously.

Uncle Jianguo said, “My junior brother has taken care of it. Elder Xia simply didn’t have enough money to spend in the underworld—he wanted more. After burning some, he’ll be at peace. You know how it is—birthdays and celebrations call for generous red envelopes.”

Xia Jinrong paced back and forth, eyes darting around, before nodding. “Alright, fine. Good work. Let’s head down for dinner—instant noodles must’ve been tough on you.”

Following Uncle Jianguo to the dining table, I noticed he’d set up a special spot for Little Rascal, even giving him the biggest chicken leg.

Xia Jinrong opened two bottles of premium *Sigong* liquor, pouring us drinks while pulling Uncle Jianguo into conversation.

Xia Jinrong watched Uncle Jianguo’s actions curiously. “Why does this mutt get better treatment than you two? It’s just a stray.”

Uncle Jianguo replied, “Not just any stray—this one’s been blessed. Its eyes can discern the supernatural. Back in the Wanli era of the Ming Dynasty—ah, you know about that, right?”

Xia Jinrong nodded eagerly. “Of course! That’s when Emperor Qianlong toured the south seven times.”

Uncle Jianguo gave a thumbs-up. “Mr. Xia, your knowledge is impressive! There was a Taoist named Wang Mazi back then, constantly bullied by ghosts. But one day, he stumbled upon a blessed dog’s eyes and gained the power to see the unseen. He became a legendary exorcist, praised for generations. To this day, tales of his justice live on.”

Xia Jinrong listened in awe. “I remember a dish called Mapo Tofu—any relation to this Wang Mazi?”

Uncle Jianguo chewed on some kidney slices. “Ah, Mapo Tofu—that was invented by Priest Mazi’s wife.”

I barely held back my laughter.

*Emperor Qianlong during the Wanli era? Mapo Tofu and Wang Mazi as husband and wife?*

Uncle Jianguo tossed a chicken leg into my bowl. “Eat. Maybe that’ll shut you up.”

Xia Jinrong was a shrewd man with plenty of resources—his coal mines raked in money daily. But he had his struggles too. Inspectors from various departments showed up regularly. If the red envelopes weren’t thick enough after wining and dining, trouble followed. His brand-new Cayenne had been “borrowed” by some bureau chief within days.

I checked the time—it was already midnight.

Xia Jinrong was about seven-tenths drunk. “Stay the night. I’ll have someone drive you back to Jiangcheng tomorrow. The guest rooms upstairs are ready.”

Uncle Jianguo praised, “You’re too kind, Mr. Xia.”

As I helped Uncle Jianguo up, a faint, mournful weeping drifted from the darkness—soft, intermittent, sorrowful.

Xia Jinrong jolted awake, shouting. Two bodyguards in sunglasses rushed in, axes in hand, slamming us against the wall. Uncle Jianguo signaled for me to stay still.

Xia Jinrong roared, “You motherf— I treat you to drinks, and the crying *still* won’t stop! Didn’t you say you could shut the old man up?”

Xia Jinrong hadn’t feared his father in life, and death hadn’t changed that—but the weeping grated on his nerves.

Listening closely, I found it odd. Ghostly weeping differs from human cries, but male and female ghosts sound distinct.

In the mortal world, women cry more—it’s their way. Men, however, prefer to “bleed, not weep.” Even in dire straits, they rarely shed tears. This sorrowful sobbing didn’t sound like a male ghost at all.

It had to be a female ghost.

Uncle Jianguo interjected, “Mr. Xia, the weeping will stop by tomorrow—like medicine, it takes time to work.”

Xia Jinrong’s gold chain swung as he snapped, “Cut off one of their hands! And kill that damn dog—we’ll make hotpot with it tomorrow!”

Uncle Jianguo looked at me. “It’s up to you now, Master Xiao. You’re the ghost expert—can you tell what’s crying?”

I wasn’t sure, but it was strange that Xia Jinrong showed no fear at the ghostly weeping, assuming it was his father. In this house, if it wasn’t the old man, it had to be his mother.

As the bodyguard raised his axe, I muttered a spell. The man’s stomach twisted in agony, and he collapsed, writhing.

My voice deepened as I bellowed, “How dare you disrespect me! Xia Jinrong, it’s not your father weeping—it’s your mother! You unfilial wretch, what have you done to make her cry night after night, disturbing your father’s rest?”

Xia Jinrong paled as his bodyguards curled up in pain, sweat beading on their brows. “M-My mother? But… I’ve burned plenty of money for her! Extra during holidays!”

I stomped hard. Little Rascal barked in unison.

Xia Jinrong trembled, gripping the table as his legs gave out—almost kneeling.

“Xia Jinrong! Tonight, you’ll kneel before your father’s memorial. I’ll uncover why your mother weeps. My senior brother completed the thirteenth repetition, yet you showed no filial piety by kneeling before Xia Gengtian!” I scolded.

Xia Jinrong couldn’t take it—he collapsed to his knees.

A cold wind brushed my ears. Peering through the door, I glimpsed the shadow of a woman with bound feet.

I shivered. The shoes and socks of bound-footed women were potent tools against ghosts.

These old ladies were sharp. Back in Baishui Village, a tofu-making granny had swindled me out of twenty bucks for half a jar of rancid brine.

If this really was an old ghost crying at night, she must’ve suffered some grave injustice. Unless her demands were met, she’d never rest.

As a great philosopher once said, the most terrifying beings in the world are women—especially fierce old women in their seventies or eighties. They could curse on street corners all day without repeating themselves, still full of energy afterward, ready to torment their husbands at home.

Faced with such a formidable ghostly granny, all I could do was pray her demands weren’t too outrageous.

Uncle Jianguo patted Xia Jinrong’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Xia. When you kneel before your father, just don’t look at the photo—the eyes might move.”

As we headed upstairs, Xia Jinrong seemed oddly relieved—almost smug.

Another icy breeze swept through.

Xia Jinrong knelt before Xia Gengtian’s memorial.

The eyes in the photo shifted.

Xia Jinrong yelped, “Father! Your unfilial son should’ve brought Huifang and the kids to kneel before you! But they’re busy with school in the city—exams are coming up!” He sobbed theatrically, snot and tears flowing.

I smirked. “Mr. Xia, I’ll take the dog for a walk. Keep kneeling.”

Xia Jinrong kowtowed like a madman. “Master, save me! Please!”

I nudged Little Rascal, who darted into the kitchen.

Amid clattering noises, I peeked through the door crack. The rice on the table twitched, then stilled. A pork leg on the chopping board jerked.

Crouching, I looked between my legs. A tiny, bound-footed old woman stood by the board, muttering as she ate, “That deadbeat Xia Gengtian! Our son gives you such fine offerings, yet you won’t share! Well, this old lady will help herself! You old turtle, always bullying me. I’ll dance with Old Wang next door if I want—what can you do? You’ve got pretty maids our son burned for you, but I can’t have a little fun?”

After watching and listening, I finally understood what was really going on.