Among the vicious ghosts living in this mansion, who wouldn’t want to devour Zhong Jiudao’s flesh and spiritual power?

 

The entertainment industry is never short of handsome men and beautiful women, but a temperament as distinctive as Qi Wanlian’s was still quite rare. “She” was not breathtakingly beautiful, yet she looked like a delicate white flower, with eyes full of emotion. Even when gazing at a pair of chopsticks, “she” seemed deeply affectionate. And just when you were touched by “her” tenderness, you would inadvertently sense a faint hint of danger lurking within “her” expression.

Pang Xinhao, who had once been popular and had seen countless beauties in his early years, was still momentarily dazed when he saw Qi Wanlian. His soul was drawn to the dimly glowing candle in “her” hand. Not only Pang Xinhao—two female actors sitting beside him were also transfixed. As women admiring a beautiful woman, they had no need to be reserved; the two stared unabashedly at Qi Wanlian’s slender waist, then couldn’t help comparing it to their own.

Qi Wanlian noticed their gazes, smiled faintly, and directly sat down between the two female actors and Pang Xinhao.

Pang Xinhao felt overwhelmed by such unexpected favour and immediately straightened his posture, his heart nearly jumping into his throat.

Zhong Jiudao noticed where Qi Wanlian had seated herself and lightly tapped the tabletop twice with his fingers.

Qi Wanlian instantly rose with an aggrieved and pitiful expression and slowly shuffled over to Zhong Jiudao’s side, looking reluctant. Before leaving, she even blinked at Pang Xinhao.

Next to appear was Fu Yue, dressed in a retro Western-style gown. At first glance, she was the “bossy girlfriend” type—somewhat willful, but strikingly beautiful, and indeed had the capital to be willful.

Unlike Qi Wanlian, Fu Yue was extremely rude. After stating her name, she ignored the human actors altogether, walked over to Qi Wanlian, and kicked her without ceremony. “Get lost! I’m the real protagonist.”

Qi Wanlian, light as a feather, was kicked over by Fu Yue. Fu Yue then sat directly beside Zhong Jiudao, greedily sweeping her gaze over the director’s carotid artery. Back when they divided up the Heavenly Master’s spiritual power, Fu Yue had struck first and seized the most; among the ghosts, her cultivation was the highest—and she was also the most unwilling to give up.

With Zhong Jiudao’s immense power, if she could monopolize it, Fu Yue would be able to cultivate a flesh-and-blood body and walk through the human world without restraint.

Despite the huge disparity between her strength and Zhong Jiudao’s, Fu Yue was still refusing to give up, always lying in wait for an opportunity to strike.

Acting was merely a pretext—to get close to Zhong Jiudao and gain more chances to ambush him. It was never about filming at all! Fu Yue thought darkly.

Though Fu Yue was beautiful, she was far too domineering, and Pang Xinhao felt no fondness toward “her.”

After the two female leads appeared, veteran performers like Aunt Yang followed. Then a handsome man with a refined, scholarly aura walked in.

In old ghost stories, there is always a foolish scholar archetype—handsome and elegant, with a stubborn streak of pedantry. Having read the Four Books and Five Classics, he possesses a cultivated literati temperament and depth that ordinary people cannot imitate. Such scholars often make female ghosts fall in love, betraying their ghostly allegiance to help the scholar instead.

The handsome man before them, who called himself Shen Leshan and claimed to be the male lead, was precisely this kind of person.

Even a plain-colored long robe could not conceal Shen Leshan’s overall bearing. After politely introducing himself, “he” moved to Zhong Jiudao’s other side, lightly lifted his robe, and sat down with elegant composure.

As a former popular celebrity, Pang Xinhao inevitably compared himself to the male lead before he appeared, wondering where he fell short. But upon seeing Shen Leshan, Pang Xinhao couldn’t help feeling that he had lost.

Shen Leshan politely greeted the human actors. One of the actresses, Xiao Yan, was extremely curious and asked, “Why are you wearing gloves?”

From the moment he appeared, Shen Leshan had been wearing white gloves, with his collar tightly fastened. Aside from his face, not an inch of skin was exposed.

Hearing Xiao Yan’s question, “he” smiled modestly and explained, “In my youth I was overly radical and once took part in street protests. Before I died, warlord lackeys peeled my skin. Apart from my face, which is still passable, everything below my neck is a bloody mess. Director Zhong was afraid I might frighten people, so he had me wear gloves. These gloves were made by Ms. Fu Yue—my thanks.”

As Shen Leshan spoke, cold gusts of yin winds swept through the hall. The candle in Qi Wanlian’s hand flickered, casting the actors seated beside Zhong Jiudao into shadowy relief. The dim hall instantly became thick with ghostly, sinister energy. Though it was a summer night, the human actors rubbed their arms from the cold.

Hearing this, Zhong Jiudao couldn’t help pressing a hand to his forehead. No matter how many contracts he made, these ghosts always couldn’t resist stirring up trouble or mischief.

Before Zhong Jiudao could explain, Luo Huai came up with an answer for Shen Leshan: “I get it—you died that way before becoming a ghost in the movie, right? Your acting is amazing; you almost scared me just now. Your hands must be covered in special-effects makeup, so you’re wearing gloves to avoid frightening us.”

The atmosphere in the hall instantly eased. Pang Xinhao felt some warmth return to his frozen fingers and subconsciously scooted closer to Luo Huai, feeling that it was warmer beside him.

Zhong Jiudao smiled slightly at Luo Huai in thanks.

Luo Huai, this silly sweet guy, was not only easy to deceive but also had his own internal logic for being deceived. Often, Zhong Jiudao didn’t need to say anything—Luo Huai would supply an explanation himself. That he had survived this long could only be attributed to how peaceful the modern era was.

A film’s runtime is limited and cannot accommodate too many main characters. The three ghost leads of this movie were Qi Wanlian, Fu Yue, and Shen Leshan. The remaining ghosts, including Aunt Yang, were all supporting roles with limited screen time and little presence on set. Zhong Jiudao kept them confined to the screening hall, releasing them one by one only when needed.

If Aunt Yang hadn’t needed to clean rooms daily and appear before Qian Duoqian and Luo Huai, she would have been locked in the screening hall as well.

“The rest of the cast isn’t on set for now. They’ll come when it’s their turn to film. The main crew is just us,” Zhong Jiudao said, pointing at the pitifully small group. “Everyone, introduce your roles.”

The human actors began their introductions. Luo Huai said, “I’m an ordinary college student. Xiao Yan and I are a couple, and I love my girlfriend very much. One day, Xiao Yan invites me to her friend’s house, so I bring along my best friend.”

Naturally, Pang Xinhao played that friend. He glanced at the script and said, “I’m Xiao Luo’s friend. Xiao Yun is my girlfriend, but my ex-girlfriend is actually Xiao Yan. There’s still some lingering emotional ties between us, which Xiao Yun and Xiao Luo don’t know about. Also, Fu Yue—the one who invited us—is my ex too… Why is my character such a scumbag?”

“In dramas, things have to be a bit more dramatic,” Luo Huai said, patting Pang Xinhao’s shoulder in comfort. “And this role has more layers—it’ll help sharpen your acting.”

Pang Xinhao had only arrived at the set today. He had been dragged into signing contracts, fingerprinted, and photographed at the opening ceremony. Only now did he finally get a chance to read his role—and upon doing so, he nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation, thinking that he would probably be scolded by netizens again.

Although Pang Xinhao had faded so badly that he had no roles left, he still had a group of devoted haters who followed him around to criticize him. Sometimes, hatred lasts longer than love; his fans had all left, but his haters remained, chasing him to his social media accounts every time he appeared on screen.

“You’re a scumbag, and I’m not much better,” said Xiao Yan, who played Luo Huai’s girlfriend. “I clearly have a gentle, considerate, kind boyfriend, yet I’m always thinking about my cheating ex and secretly jealous of Xiao Yun. Oh—and this boyfriend was something I stole from Fu Yue back then. Fu Yue calls me her friend, but in reality, we’re enemies.”

Xiao Yun said, “I’m no better either. I knowingly got together with Pang Xinhao while he hadn’t broken up with Xiao Yan yet, and afterward pretended I didn’t know he had a girlfriend. Back when Pang Xinhao hadn’t broken up with Fu Yue, I even sent her threatening letters and secretly stalked her, scaring her into a mental breakdown.”

The portion involving the human actors followed the original script settings, and Zhong Jiudao did not make many changes there. What he focused on revising was the ghosts’ storyline, which resulted in the relationships among the four characters becoming intricately tangled and complicated, with emotional arrows connected into a spiderweb. Only Luo Huai remained innocent and kind.

The three human actors all turned to look at Luo Huai in unison. Pang Xinhao even grabbed Luo Huai’s script and asked, “No way—do you really not have even a shred of darkness in you?”

Luo Huai smiled sheepishly. “Maybe my acting isn’t very good. I can’t handle such complex roles, so they just gave me the simplest one.”

The three actors: “……”

So our acting is that good, then? If we were really so amazing that people praised us to the skies, wouldn’t we have been picked by big-name directors for major productions long ago?

Fu Yue sneered coldly. “We’re all supporting roles—what’s there to fight over? This is a rebirth-and-revenge, female-led, empowerment-focused film centered on me! Your actions led to my death. I turned into a ghost and returned for revenge—none of you will escape! You’ll all die here!”

Her expression twisted into something ferocious, eyes filled with hatred. In an instant, her eyes transformed into vivid crimson, reflecting the faces of every human present, as if the human actors truly had wronged her.

It was only a script table read, yet it already frightened the actors so badly that they were trembling with fear. Xiao Yan and Xiao Yun clung tightly to each other. Under the scrutiny of those eyes, they couldn’t help seriously reflecting on whether they might truly have harmed someone unintentionally in the past.

Pang Xinhao couldn’t help thinking, ‘Back when I was popular, I did date a few girlfriends… I didn’t cheat, right? No, wait—every time, I was the one who got dumped. They said they thought I was a potential stock and only dated me for that, but who knew I was just an incompetent good-for-nothing with no future, so they dumped me. Luckily I’m a good-for-nothing—I didn’t even have the ability to cheat.’

At that thought, he couldn’t help lightly pinching himself. What am I thinking—actually being glad I’m useless?

Luo Huai, meanwhile, stared at Fu Yue’s eyes for a long time, unable to figure out when she had put in coloured contact lenses. The speed was way too fast.

Fu Yue’s strength was astonishing. With just one line, she had raised the hatred meter of all the non-human beings present.

Qi Wanlian covered her face and laughed softly, speaking in a gentle, delicate voice. “Xiao Yue, you must be joking. How could you be the protagonist? The protagonist is clearly me. I am a kind and gentle mother who loves rescuing lost young girls. Although your skin is loose and you are old and faded—hardly a ‘young girl’—since you’ve come before me, how could I not save you? Right, my poor ‘daughter’?”

With that, she raised the small round fan in her hand to lightly cover her face. When she lowered it again, her face remained the same in features—but had aged twenty to thirty years.

She stood up and walked over to Xiao Yan, wrapping her slender arms around Xiao Yan’s shoulders, and said in the gentlest, most considerate tone, “Don’t be afraid, Xiao Yue. One day, you too will become my ‘daughter.’”

Xiao Yan felt a wave of cold spread from her shoulder throughout her body, as if she were being frozen solid. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Before filming had even begun, she was already experiencing the agony of being frightened nearly out of her wits.

“That’s enough for now. We’ll stop here,” Zhong Jiudao said at the right moment, stopping Qi Wanlian.

“Alright.” Qi Wanlian’s hand slid off Xiao Yan’s shoulder and dropped beneath the table.

With the tabletop blocking Zhong Jiudao’s view, she took the opportunity to casually give Pang Xinhao’s thigh a squeeze.

Pang Xinhao immediately shuddered. A sensation he couldn’t tell was cold or tingling shot from his thigh straight to the top of his head. He turned to look at Qi Wanlian.

Qi Wanlian raised her round fan, covering the half of her face facing Zhong Jiudao, and gave Pang Xinhao a faint smile. Only then did she sway gracefully back to her seat, propping her cheek with one hand and gazing elegantly at Zhong Jiudao.

Among the vicious ghosts living in this mansion, who wouldn’t want to devour Zhong Jiudao’s flesh and spiritual power?

They had been restrained by the previous generation of Heavenly Masters for far too long. To leave this deadly house where even birds wouldn’t defecate (NT: idiom meaning an utterly desolate and cursed place), they needed another, stronger Heavenly Master to break the former’s bindings.

Zhong Jiudao was a once-in-a-generation genius. He absolutely had the ability to lead the ghosts away from here. The difference lay in the choice: submit to his command, become his bound spirits, and leave—or turn on the Heavenly Master, absorb all his power, and gain freedom?

Of course it was the latter. No ghost would ever choose the former.

Qi Wanlian, however, was far smarter than Fu Yue. Relying solely on the ghosts’ strength—even thirty-three of them combined—weren’t they still just backup batteries being used by Zhong Jiudao? Ghost power alone was insufficient; they had to start with humans.

Either silently possess a woman to seduce Director Zhong, or confuse a man into going mad and attacking him to obtain his blood. Either method was far superior to Fu Yue’s crude, direct ambush.

Zhong Jiudao had placed too many restrictions on them. They couldn’t actively harass humans—but there was no rule saying humans couldn’t come looking for them on their own.

With the two female leads each showing off their own tricks, Shen Leshan seemed somewhat faded by comparison. All he could do was say plainly, “I play the head of the household, married to Qi Wanlian. I don’t have many hobbies—just a fondness for tender, smooth skin. After all, I have no skin myself, so I can only prepare a few extra ‘outfits.’ Gender doesn’t matter.”

He slowly swept his gaze over the exposed skin of the human actors. Just that look alone made them feel as if their skin were being flayed alive.

“That’s enough,” Zhong Jiudao said. “Everyone go rest. From now on, we’ll try to film during the daytime.”

At night, ghosts grew much stronger, posing too great a danger to the human actors. This mansion was dark enough that by simply drawing the curtains to block sunlight, daytime could pass for night scenes. If true nighttime filming was unavoidable, they could shoot at dusk. In any case, filming had to end before nine every night, and all lead actors had to be locked back into the screening hall.

As everyone stood up, Zhong Jiudao heard a “click.”

Turning his head, he saw Qian Duoqian—dutifully seated in the corner, recording everything—taking photos of the lead actors.

“Why are all these photos so blurry?” Qian Duoqian said worriedly. “Is it too dark? We don’t need to turn off all the lights just for atmosphere and only use candles, right? Turn on the lights—I’ll take a few more shots.”

“What are you taking photos for?” Zhong Jiudao asked, looking at the DSLR (NT: Digital Single-Lens Reflex) in Qian Duoqian’s hands. Without manifestation talismans, any ghosts photographed would just appear as blurry blobs—Qi Wanlian would be nothing more than a vague white shadow.

“Costume stills, behind-the-scenes shots, leaked photos, promotion!” Qian Duoqian said. “You focus on filming, I’ll handle publicity. With so many handsome men and beautiful women, it’d be a waste not to put them online. Stop staring at the camera—it’s mine. Didn’t cost a cent.”

Qian Duoqian had been involved in many industries and used his connections to take on-site photos of celebrities, retouch them, and post them online to harvest fan traffic and money.

Their film had zero official promotion, and there was no chance of external fan-sites releasing material. They could only rely on Qian Duoqian’s self-sufficiency.

“Even the best wine fears a deep alley (NT: no matter how good something is, it still needs promotion). Film and television can’t survive without publicity. Even if Fu Yue and Qi Wanlian start hyping up a yuri pairing online, we need to build heat before filming! Otherwise, what do you think will attract audiences to a movie that’s guaranteed to be shown in midnight screenings?” Qian Duoqian slammed the table.

Zhong Jiudao glanced at the sinister-looking ghosts and thought that since filming required them to appear on camera anyway, a bit of advance promotion probably wouldn’t hurt.

“Is there something wrong with the camera? Let me take a look,” Zhong Jiudao said, reaching out.

“How could my camera be broken? And can you even fix it? Don’t break it,” Qian Duoqian said cautiously, handing it over.

Without drawing attention, Zhong Jiudao traced a manifestation talisman onto the camera, lightly tapped the body, and said, “It should be fine.”

Qian Duoqian took it back. “You really think tapping it fixes everything—eh? It actually works. It can shoot now. Fu Yue and Qi Wanlian, stand together and strike a pose. I’ll take a group photo.”

“Take photos with her?” Fu Yue said angrily. “Impossible!”

Zhong Jiudao said, “The lighting is a bit dark. Turn on all the lights.”

Fu Yue immediately changed her tune: “Well… having dimmer lighting that makes faces a bit blurry isn’t completely unacceptable either. Shoot.”

“Click,” “click”—under Qian Duoqian’s not-quite-professional camera work, Qi Wanlian and Fu Yue leaned close together and took several photos that didn’t even need retouching, already thick with an eerie, ghostly atmosphere.

 

Translator : DarNan