Chapter One

Night added an oppressive, terrifying air to the cemetery. The wind swept up fallen leaves and carried them to the main gate.

A handful of teenagers, backpacks slung over their shoulders, hid behind a tree, craning their necks to peer into the security booth. The television screen flickered, while the chubby guard, legs propped up on the table, snored with his mouth wide open.

The leader made a gesture and whispered, “Let’s climb over the wall while he’s asleep.”

A few days ago, they’d played basketball with boys from Class Two, betting that the losers would have to spend a night in the Southern City Cemetery.

By an unlucky twist of fate, they were the ones who lost.

Nimbly, the boys climbed the iron gate and made their way to the northwest corner of the cemetery.

It was a wide, open space, perfect for setting up tents, and remote enough that the guard rarely patrolled there.

“No wonder it’s a cemetery—the temperature here really is cooler than outside.”

“It’s definitely creepy.”

“Alright, stop scaring yourselves. Let’s unpack our stuff.”

Out came all their camping gear—phones, tablets, power banks, flashlights. Then, one boy in a black baseball jacket dug deeper into his bag and, under the astounded gaze of the others, produced a large bulb of garlic, a well-aged peachwood sword, a fierce-faced image of Zhong Kui, and three sweet potatoes, each the size of a hand.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“Well, my family’s in the funeral supplies business. We’re a bit superstitious, don’t mind me.”

“Fair enough, but are sweet potatoes supposed to ward off ghosts, too?”

“Not really. My grandma brought these from the village today. She says they’re especially sticky and delicious. I wanted to try roasting them.”

“Why not bring a grill while you were at it?”

“I would have if I could carry it. But I did bring some cold dishes and a few cans of beer.”

“……”

Their chatter filled the quiet night air as the tent quickly took shape, and the previously scorned sweet potatoes became the focus of interest again.

“Honestly, I don’t see why we can’t roast the sweet potatoes.”

“Wouldn’t that be disrespectful? This is a cemetery, after all.”

“Then we’ll share a portion with the residents.”

“That actually makes sense.”

The boys exchanged glances, meaningful smiles curling on their faces.

The boy in the baseball jacket took charge of roasting the sweet potatoes. He took the military shovel from a friend, pressed his index and middle fingers together before his brow, closed his eyes, and spun in place, putting on a show before finally picking the ideal spot to dig.

“This spot is perfect—guaranteed safe.”

He dug a pit, stacked some bricks into a small tower, gathered branches for fire, and tossed in the three sweet potatoes. Brushing off his hands, he smiled, “All done.”

As he returned with the shovel, his friends teased, “You do look pretty professional at this.”

In front of the tent, the camping lantern cast a soft yellow glow. The boys sat in a circle, sharing school stories as they ate, their laughter pushing back the cemetery’s oppressive gloom.

“Let’s play cards?”

“Sure, but I’ll go check on the sweet potatoes first.”

“No need, I’ve already brought them over.”

In the glow of the lantern, two hands reached forward, palms lined with broad leaves, upon which lay the charred sweet potatoes. One was split on the side, revealing golden flesh. A breeze wafted the rich aroma straight to their noses.

But in an instant, every boy—including the one in the baseball jacket—went pale.

They were absolutely certain that this voice belonged to none of them, and those hands, too, belonged to no one in their group.

The boy in the baseball jacket stiffened, his eyes fixed on the faces of his friends. In a flash, he scrambled up like a startled monkey, snatched the peachwood sword and the garlic, hurled them at the stranger’s voice, and shouted, “Run!”

In a whirl of dust and wind, the boys vanished, leaving only Rong Jing, who quickly shut his eyes to shield them from the dust.

When he opened them again, everyone was gone without a trace, and the head of garlic that had struck him rolled into his lap.

Rong Jing: “……”

He rubbed his forehead, thinking to himself:

That actually hurt.

Five minutes earlier, he had been roused from sleep by the smell of roasted sweet potatoes. At first, he tried to ignore it, but his stomach growled so fiercely he couldn’t resist and opened his eyes.

Feeling a tickle on his forehead, he reached up and brushed off a yellow talisman.

Some hazy, long-buried memories resurfaced in his mind.

Rong Jing remembered that night—he’d suddenly developed a high fever, his body burning up as if aflame. The old Taoist who raised him stroked his head with rough hands, smiling gently, “Ah Jing, you’re going to sleep for a very long time. Don’t be afraid, everything will be fine when you wake.”

But when he awoke and pushed open the coffin lid, there was no sign of the old Taoist, nor of Xie Changshi. Only a pit for roasting sweet potatoes above his coffin, and a few young boys.

He hadn’t meant to frighten them—he just couldn’t resist the tantalizing aroma of roasted sweet potatoes… Xie Changshi had once told him it was wrong to take without asking, so if he wanted to eat, he needed permission. That was why he’d approached them.

With a sigh, Rong Jing took a bite of the abandoned sweet potato, broke off a piece of garlic, and chewed. The pungency made his face scrunch up.

He quickly ate all three sweet potatoes to overpower the taste. Then, inside the tent left behind, he found some paper and a pen. He wrote: Sorry for eating your roasted sweet potatoes. As compensation, I can do something for you. If you need anything, meet here next Saturday.

Now, it was time to find Xie Changshi.

Rong Jing brushed the dirt and dust from his clothes, picked up the tortoiseshell, copper coins, and talismans stored in the coffin, and left the cemetery.

…

He circled the cemetery three times before finally finding the exit.

Standing at the northeast side gate, he blinked in confusion.

Where was Xie Changshi?

How was he supposed to find him?

And it seemed he’d been asleep for a long time. What if Xie Changshi no longer remembered him?

Questions bounced around in his mind with no clear answers.

He looked down at the tortoiseshell in his hand, his eyes lighting up. He sat cross-legged, placed the copper coins inside the shell, aimed the tortoise’s head at his brow, and shook it gently.

The first hexagram: Earth below, Heaven above, the line of Nine at the Top—the darkest hour before the dawn.

So, if he kept searching for Xie Changshi, there would be difficulties, but after hardship, hope would return?

What if he searched for the old Taoist instead?

He shook the tortoiseshell again.

Heaven above, Heaven below, the line of Nine at the Start—the dragon remains hidden, not yet to act.

This hexagram felt odd. The timing wasn’t right, it suggested he should lie low and wait. Could something be wrong with the old Taoist?

Rong Jing ruffled his messy hair, hesitated a few seconds, then decided to heed his ancestor’s advice. He put away the tortoiseshell and followed the road signs down the mountain, intending to find Xie Changshi.

He walked at a leisurely pace, pausing to check his reflection in a roadside wide-angle mirror.

Though he was a little zombie, he looked just like a regular human—his two little fangs no different than ordinary canines.

Pleased that his appearance wouldn’t cause panic, Rong Jing quickened his pace.

Reading the road signs, he saw that at the foot of the mountain lay a county called Changxi. He could ask for directions there. He remembered that before he fell asleep, he and Xie Changshi had lived in a communal building in Sui County.

By his logic, Changxi County and Sui County couldn’t be too far apart. Surely Xie Changshi and the old Taoist wouldn’t have carried his coffin over mountains and rivers just to bury him somewhere remote.

It was around nine in the morning when he entered the county town, the busiest street now thinning with people.

Rong Jing twitched his nose.

It had been so long since he’d smelled such delicious steamed buns.

He had never had much money, nor did Xie Changshi, but Xie Changshi would always buy him buns if he pleaded hard enough.

He stared wistfully at the bun shop, patted his empty pockets with regret, and slumped down on the steps nearby.

Beside him sat an elderly woman selling vegetables. She eyed him, amused by his sighs. “Young man, you’re good-looking for your age. Why so glum?”

Her comment about his looks made him blush. He edged closer and whispered, “Grandma, is Sui County far from here?”

“Sui County? That’s in the neighboring Tingyang City. It takes over an hour by bus, I think.”

Even by bus, it was over an hour away—how long would it take on foot?

Rong Jing thought the hexagram hadn’t lied: difficulties indeed.

He held up his tortoiseshell, smiling, “Thank you, Grandma. Let me read a divination for you. Ask me anything; I’ll give you the answer.”

“……”

Such a well-behaved child, suddenly turning into a little trickster fortune-teller.

The old woman’s expression grew odd.

After some hesitation, she asked, “Do you charge money?”

Rong Jing shook his head. “No charge. Ask whatever you like.”

Hearing “no charge,” she relaxed, dismissing his offer as a child’s game. After all, Rong Jing looked so young it was hard to tell if he was even grown.

She smiled, “Then tell me about my son’s career.”

Rong Jing agreed, put the coins in the shell, and shook it six times to form a hexagram.

“What does that mean?” interrupted the neighboring bun shop owner, who had stepped out for a break. He noticed Mrs. Fang and a little boy huddled together, the boy holding an old-looking tortoiseshell.

As a native, he immediately recognized it as a fortune-telling tool.

With hands clasped behind his back, he watched Rong Jing’s practiced motions with interest, then couldn’t resist asking as the last coin was picked up.

Rong Jing replied, “Thunder below, Lake above—the Following hexagram.”

The owner looked baffled. “I don’t get it.”

Rong Jing explained, “It means you have to seize the moment and act accordingly. But the divined line is the fourth Nine… hmm.”

He turned to the old woman. “Has your son been troubled at work lately? He’s probably facing a tough choice between two options.”

The owner was still lost, but Mrs. Fang’s expression changed, her gaze toward Rong Jing transforming as well.

Just this weekend, her son had brought his wife and child to visit her in the countryside. As his mother, she noticed his distracted mood at dinner and, worried, pressed him for details.

Her son wasn’t the type to brush her off with a “You wouldn’t understand.” He’d explained, in simple terms, that he’d discovered his boss was up to no good and didn’t know whether to report it.

Though he’d only called it “not very good,” Mrs. Fang could tell from his face that it was far more serious.

Wasn’t this exactly the dilemma Rong Jing had mentioned?

Forgetting her reservations, she gripped Rong Jing’s fingers, asking urgently, “Young man, what should he do?”

He smiled gently, reassuring her, “It’s simple. He just needs to stick to his principles.”

Relieved, Mrs. Fang hurriedly gathered her scattered vegetables, thanked him, and left briskly, her step so lively it was hard to tell she was over sixty.

The bun shop owner was stunned. Watching Mrs. Fang’s reaction, he grew more curious about Rong Jing.

Changxi County wasn’t large; most residents knew each other. Mrs. Fang set up her stall beside his shop almost daily—he was well acquainted with her. Seeing her expression change, the owner wondered:

Could this kid really have gotten it right?

Clearing his throat, he edged closer, grinning, “Hey, kid, can you do a reading for me too?”

Rong Jing’s smile blossomed. “Of course.”

The owner rubbed his hands excitedly, only to hear Rong Jing add, “Five hundred per reading.”

“……”

Sorry for bothering you.