Chapter 1:
The Ghostly Scholar
DURING A WINTER MONTH that same year in Ningyang County, Huizhou Prefecture, a gong rang, heralding that dawn was near. The sky was still dark, but faint murmurs of activity were already drifting through Xingtang Street. A waiter from Jiuwei House carried out several large steamers of fresh buns to set up a breakfast stall in front of the building.
The night watchman jogged over, his head tucked against the cold as he rubbed his hands together. He bought three buns, wolfed one down in a few bites, and gulped before he winked at the waiter. “Hey! Did you prepare the order we talked about?”
“We did. It’s right here.” The waiter frowned as he patted the takeout box beside the steamers.
The night watchman was astonished. “You really did? What if he…that thing doesn’t show up today?”
“Oh, ancestors above, please don’t let him come,” the waiter said with a shudder.
Jiuwei House was a moderately famous eatery in Ningyang County with a head chef known as “Three-Specialties Liu.” His reputation and livelihood rested on his three signature dishes: peach-braised pork belly, clay-pot roast pheasant, and civet simmered with pears. The pork belly was skin-on and beautifully marbled; the pheasant, sourced from Lishan, was neither too fat nor too lean; and the civet could only be caught on days when fresh snow blanketed the ground.
Thanks to these dishes, Jiuwei House was always packed with customers. However, Three-Specialties Liu also loved to put on airs. He only cooked ten pots of each dish per day and not one more. Those who wished to enjoy his food had to rush to the restaurant early. Still, to order such a hearty meal at the crack of dawn? Anyone who would do that couldn’t be right in the head, and this mad fellow had already shown up two days in a row!
The first day, he’d appeared before the waiter and ordered the three dishes. After that, he fell silent, wasting not a single breath more—literally not a single breath. It was the dead of winter; whenever people opened their mouths, streams of white vapor poured forth. But the air before this man remained clear, devoid of the slightest hint of mist.
The next day, his demands increased. He wanted the clay-pot roast pheasant without the star anise and fennel, and also not served in a clay pot. Then he ordered the dish of civet and pears without the pears. These demands didn’t sound like the requests of someone who’d come to genuinely enjoy the food. If anything, they seemed more like an attempt to ruin the restaurant’s reputation.
However, the waiter hadn’t thrown out the malicious customer. Instead, he’d faithfully and fearfully served him for two days. Today, he’d even prepared the takeout box in advance. He glanced at the sky, his legs quivering like a knock-kneed chicken’s.
“It’s almost time for him to arrive. Wh-why aren’t you shaking?” he asked, craning his neck toward the watchman.
“I patrol the streets every night. Why would I be shaking?” The watchman dropped his voice. “Besides, it’s been an unsettling year. A couple of ghostly encounters is no big deal. Did you hear about that incident in June where they sighted a real dragon in Guangdong? It was lying on the shore. They said someone had ripped out its bones! The dragon’s bones! You tell me, what kind of omen is that? And just a few months ago, they said the state preceptor almost perished—”
The watchman was still speaking when the waiter weakly slid downward, practically vanishing beneath the stall. “He’s here, he’s here… H-h-he really came…”
A scholarly-looking man appeared in front of the stall. His appearance was unremarkable, but he wore an expression of deep fatigue. The skin of his cheeks also bore an unusual flush, as if they had been warmed for too long by a flame. He was wearing an ash-blue robe, and both the man and the clothes were thin and ephemeral, like a branch draped with fabric, ready to be swept away by the wind at any moment.
By the glow of his white paper lantern, the watchman stared at the scholar’s face for a long time. So long, in fact, that the last bite of his bun grew cold in his mouth. The thought of swallowing had completely fled his mind.
“I’m here,” muttered the scholar to himself. Then, he slowly raised his head. His midnight-black eyes stared, unblinking, at the waiter.
The stricken waiter squeezed his legs together, on the verge of wetting himself in terror.
“Excuse me, I’d like the peach-braised pork belly.”
Now that he was speaking properly, the scholar’s voice was surprisingly pleasant, refreshing as green bamboo or a burbling stream—a far cry from his earlier mumbling. However, the sound matched neither his face nor the movements of his mouth.
Seeing this, the waiter grew even more terrified. He avoided the scholar’s gaze, picked up the takeout box with quivering hands, and shoved it at him. “I-it’s all here. In a porcelain jar, and there’s no lard, star anise, or fennel. Fresh from the pot, still steaming.”
The scholar seemed to choke. He stared at the box for a moment before he slowly nodded and said, “Thank you.” His voice bore a faint hoarseness this time.
When he took it, the takeout box seemed a bit heavy in the scholar’s hands; it was as if a thousand-pound weight had been piled onto a branch. He left, walking much more slowly than when he’d arrived. After a very long time, his figure faded into the distance.
Returning to his senses, the watchman shivered.
The waiter’s face was ashen as he whispered, “You saw him, right? His face—Hey, where are you rushing off to?”
“Toilet!” said the watchman.
The waiter watched the watchman go in silence, but he didn’t get very far before he came running back, still holding his copper gong.
Before the waiter could speak, the watchman patted him on the shoulder, then winked at a spot not too far away. “Look over there!”
Across the street, a whisper-silent white silhouette materialized out of the night.
The waiter had just gone through a scare. When he thought he was seeing yet another malevolent entity, his legs almost buckled. Fortunately, upon giving the newcomer a proper look, the waiter realized he was a monk dressed in a thin acolyte’s robe that was white with wide sleeves. From head to toe, his clothes carried not a hint of color, as though he were a man in mourning—an ominous sight so early in the morning.
The waiter was perplexed. “I see him. So? It’s just a monk.”
“When I passed by him earlier, I glanced at his waist,” the watchman whispered. “He’s got Wudi coins on him!”