According to legend, yang energy was strongest during the day, meaning ghosts could only come out at night.
With such intense yang energy in broad daylight, ghosts appearing under the sun risked being melted away by the blazing rays.
Yet looking at the pitch-black lump squatting on the altar table, Nan Zhi couldn't detect even the slightest hint of weakness.
As the entity moved into the shadows, its outline grew sharper, gradually revealing the figure of an ordinary middle-aged man:
He was of average build with a round face, small eyes, and a slight potbelly. His gray suit jacket was spattered with blood, and his spine was twisted at a grotesque, unnatural angle.
His forearms and shins were snapped in half, the torn flesh barely holding the limbs together as they dragged messily along the ground.
【Chen Ping】
A yellow name signifying neutrality hovered above the ghost's head, which caught Nan Zhi somewhat by surprise.
No one else present seemed able to see this.
Even Master He appeared completely oblivious to the black mist that was presumably Chen Ping, simply carrying on with burning his yellow talisman paper.
Just as Chen Ping was ravenously devouring the eggs, Master He's granddaughter suddenly shuddered violently.
Master He glanced at her, turned back to the altar table, and said unhurriedly:
“Now that you're here, things are much easier.
Today, the host has prepared tofu, cilantro, and phoenix eggs, along with good wine and good food. Forgive our humble hospitality—please eat and drink your fill.”
With that, he produced an empty bowl and cracked the raw eggs Chen Ping's ghost had just consumed into it one by one:
“Plop.”
“Plop.”
“Plop.”
Everyone present craned their necks to look, expressions stirring with intense excitement.
—Inside every raw egg Master He cracked, there was no yolk at all, only runny egg white.
Manager Huang, who was standing closest, was already getting frightened.
Carrying the poised demeanor of an expert, Master He calmly waved his hand:
“There is no need to fear. There are many of us here, and our yang energy is strong. I will summon him first to negotiate and see if we can reach an agreement.”
He picked up the bowl of rice from the altar table once more, meticulously picked out forty-five grains of white rice with the tip of his pinky, and dropped them into the bowl of clear water one by one.
With every grain he dropped, he asked a question.
“Are you Chen Ping?”
The grain of rice, which should have sunk, floated steadily on the water's surface.
It worked!
A look of delight surfaced on Master He's face, and he dropped another grain of rice:
“Is the one causing trouble here recently the Chen Ping who died in April 20**?”
This grain also floated steadily.
“Is there someone here you are attached to?”
The rice grain hesitated for a moment before sinking to the bottom of the bowl.
What does this mean?
Master He steadied his nerves and continued dropping rice into the bowl:
“Did someone in this office accidentally offend you?”
“Is there some Yin artifact here binding you so that you cannot leave?”
“Are there other ghosts causing trouble here?”
“If we burn more offerings for you, would you be willing to leave?”
“If we burn more gold and silver ingots, paper villas, and paper figures for you, would you be willing to leave?”
“If we burn more paper oxen and paper horses to carry you to the Yellow Springs, would you be willing?”
After several questions in a row, the rice grains all sank to the bottom.
Master He's movements slowed down, and his breathing grew slightly heavy.
The others were baffled, having no idea what was going on.
All they saw was Master He dropping rice into the bowl of water, his expression turning exceedingly grim with each grain.
—Nan Zhi, however, saw everything with perfect clarity.
Every time Master He dropped a grain, Chen Ping's ghost would reach out and poke the rice in the bowl.
If the answer was “yes,” the rice grain would float.
Otherwise, Chen Ping would do nothing, and the rice grain would sink.
She didn't know what kind of spell this was, but it actually allowed Master He, who couldn't see spirits, to communicate with Chen Ping's ghost.
Watching this spectacle today had certainly been worth it.
...
While Nan Zhi was admiring the technique, Master He was breaking out in a frantic sweat.
Scattering Rice to Question Spirits was a genuine skill passed down from his ancestors.
They would select freshly harvested rice of the year, soak it in well water, rainwater, and river water, then seal it in jars and store it away in a sunless corner for three years.
Rice prepared this way was prime material for questioning spirits and traveling to the Underworld.
Those of the He family possessed unique constitutions, enabling them to communicate with ghosts by tossing rice to question spirits; those with greater mastery could even use the spirit rice to drive away ghost gods, demons, and monsters.
Yet as the generations passed down to Master He, all he knew was how to toss rice and question spirits.
After all, spiritual energy was depleted in modern times, compounded by the iron decree that "nothing may become a spirit after the founding of the nation."
Let alone formidable ghosts, even the Five Immortals of the Northeast had to file reports in advance before manifesting.
Thus, for half his life, Master He had coasted by smoothly without danger, never having encountered a particularly ferocious ghost.
Yet the one today—
He had scattered rice so many times in succession, yet the entity couldn't be sent away.
Just how vicious was this ghost?!
Despite being in an air-conditioned room, Master He's forehead was dripping with sweat.
For an ordinary ghost, scattering a few grains of rice and promising some gold and silver ingots, paper clothes, and paper money would usually send them on their way.
For slightly more vicious or stubborn spirits, promising offerings on the first and fifteenth of each lunar month, along with extra paper money during festivals, would barely suffice to see them off.
It wasn't as though Master He had never encountered victims of violent death before.
However, most of those spirits were dazed and confused; at most, they would cause a brief disturbance before dissipating.
How could they compare to Chen Ping, who not only manifested despite the strong yang energy of the Dragon Boat Festival, but stubbornly refused to leave?
He had committed suicide by jumping from the roof, and only because his malice was temporarily suppressed by the yang energy of the Dragon Boat Festival could Master He even manage to communicate with him.
Yet after dropping more than thirty grains of rice, exhausting every pleasantry, and offering ever more generous terms, the spirit remained completely unmoved, adamantly refusing to depart.
This couldn't go on.
Master He glanced at the few remaining grains of rice, hardened his resolve, spat into his palm, and shouted at the empty air:
“Courtesy before force! Since you refuse to listen to reason, don't blame me for getting rough!”
With that, he tossed the rice in his hand into another bowl of clear water and grabbed the willow broom hidden beneath the table:
“A strike from a willow branch shrinks a ghost by three inches. Since you refuse a toast only to drink a forfeit, I have no choice but to use force!”
With that, the master raised the willow broom and lashed out in Chen Ping's direction as if he could see him—
“Whoosh!”
The willow branches sliced through the air with a grating whistle, as though striking something solid.
Pressing his advantage, Master He swept the willow broom across every corner of the office, thrashing inside and out.
Still uneasy, he untied the large rooster and led it around the office for three full laps.
The rooster stopped and started intermittently; every time it halted, Master He scattered rice where it stood and burned yellow paper.
Once this entire cycle was finished, Master He looked back into the bowl.
Every single grain of rice had floated to the top, clustering together into a dense layer.
We finally reached a deal.
Master He broke into a satisfied smile.
Standing to the side, Manager Huang hadn't understood a thing. He leaned in and asked in a low voice:
“Master, i-is it done already?”
This was way too fast.
Could tossing some rice, flailing a willow branch, and thrashing around the office like performing a shamanic dance really send a ghost away?
Either way, he couldn't make heads or tails of it.
Rate on N.U.
