“Prepare well, and strive to leave the electrical panel as soon as possible,” Zhong Jiudao encouraged.

 

Zhong Jiudao was a decisive man — once he made up his mind, he would act immediately.

He tore three blank pages from his notebook, held his pen in his left hand, and drew mysterious symbols on them. Then, skillfully, he rolled the three sheets into strips, formed a spell gesture with his fingers, and lightly tapped the paper strips. Tiny flames instantly sprang up on each of them.

The group of ghosts, who had just been fiercely fighting over the movie roles, suddenly stopped. They sniffed the air, drooling involuntarily. “This incense smells so fragant!”

Ever since he stopped taking exorcist jobs, Zhong Jiudao had returned all the talismans and Taoist tools he used to carry with him since childhood — cinnabar, yellow talisman paper, incense, peach wood sword, and the like — back to his family, leaving not a single item behind.

But as the most gifted member of the Zhong family in hundreds of years, Zhong Jiudao hardly needed such external aids. With his spiritual pen and innate power, he could draw talismans in the air and fold paper into swords.

Although the “incense” was not made from formal ritual materials, the paper carried a psychic communication talisman drawn with Zhong Jiudao’s magic, allowing it to function as a medium for offering and transmission.

After lighting the paper incense, Zhong Jiudao picked up the script. While the incense still burned, he quickly set the entire script on fire.

Distributing the script to over thirty ghosts would waste an absurd amount of paper and ink. But with spiritual transmission, three sheets of notebook paper were enough — far more efficient.

Besides, most of these old-society ghosts were illiterate. If he actually handed them physical scripts, he would have to teach them to read — a task both time-consuming and exhausting. By burning the script through a spirit-communing rite, the information within the screenplay could be converted into something the ghosts could instinctively understand, allowing them to absorb it at their own pace.

Once he confirmed that all the ghosts had received the script, Zhong Jiudao said: “In this film, I only need five ghost roles. The rest must be played by living actors. Choose the role that suits you best. You have one full day to prepare. Auditions will be held tomorrow night.”

It was already past three in the morning, and even an iron body (NT: of exceptional endurance) couldn’t hold out much longer. Zhong Jiudao, feeling slightly drowsy, decided to return to his room to sleep. As for how the ghosts would compete for their roles — that was their own problem.

As he walked from the third floor down to the second, he heard the sound of pages rustling from the first floor.

Taking a few more steps, Zhong Jiudao glanced down and saw that in front of the Western-dressed female ghost floated a copy of the script as well. She was painstakingly turning the pages.

Sensing Zhong Jiudao’s gaze, the female ghost weakly raised her head and said: “Master, I also wish to audition. If I can become an actress… would that mean I no longer have to suffer this torment?”

Zhong Jiudao was not a cruel man. Even toward the most vicious and malevolent ghosts, he rarely inflicted torture. Normally, he would simply beat them until their soul and spirit scattered, or perform rites to send them peacefully into reincarnation.

His use of the Western-dreseds ghost today was merely a temporary expedient. Otherwise, he would have already strengthened the Five Thunder Talisman and sent her off to blissful reincarnation.

In the end, saving electricity and saving actor wages weren’t all that different.
Zhong Jiudao nodded and said to the ghost, “If you pass the audition, you will be spared your suffering.”

“Th-thank you, Master. I will do my utmost,” the Western-dressed ghost said, her eyes shining with a determined light.

Zhong Jiudao was moved by her spirit. Indeed, there was a role in the script that perfectly suited this obsessive and slightly deranged female ghost. So he decided to release her — at least for now.

“Prepare well, and strive to leave the electrical panel as soon as possible,” Zhong Jiudao encouraged.

The Western-dressed female ghost nodded furiously, hugging the script and studying it with great determination.

After returning to his room, Zhong Jiudao slept until nine in the morning, when the ringing of his phone woke him.

“Director Zhong, where’s the location you rented? Send me the pin — I’ve brought the props,” a voice came through the receiver.

The caller was Qian Duoqun, the prop Master, production assistant, and producer of Zhong Jiudao’s new film — all rolled into one. He didn’t charge a fee, only asking for a small cut of the future box-office revenue.

Zhong had met Qian during his internship on a film crew. Qian came from a poor background; after graduating high school, he went straight to a film base to work, doing all kinds of odd jobs — running errands, handling props, assisting on set. After ten years in the industry, he still wasn’t famous, but he knew a lot of insiders and could rent equipment and locations at very low prices.

Years ago, Qian had suffered from a supernatural affliction, his forehead darkened between the brows (NT: in Chinese superstition, indicating imminent bad luck or death). Zhong saw that within a few days Qian would encounter an unexpected disaster. He casually offered a few words of guidance, helping Qian dispel the evil energy.

Because of family pressure, Zhong Jiudao refused to take any payment and never admitted to being a Taoist exorcist. He only said that he’d read some old superstitious remedies in books — it was sheer coincidence that they worked.

But Qian became convinced that Zhong was a deeply hidden expert. From that day on, he addressed him as Director Zhong every time, fully believing Zhong would one day become a great film maker.

However, his faith wasn’t based on Zhong’s directing skill — Qian believed Zhong knew fortune-changing arts and would one day use his spells to make them both rich and famous.

So this time, his eagerness to help Zhong solve his production troubles was mainly an investment move. Qian believed in Zhong’s potential and was waiting to rise to fame and fortune together with him.

Half-asleep, Zhong Jiudao sent him the location pin. Knowing it would take Qian some time to drive to the villa, he lay back down, hoping to nap for another half hour.

But just as he closed his eyes, Zhong’s body stiffened — and he sprang up from bed.

He wasn’t the only one in this villa — there were over thirty fierce resident ghosts. Zhong himself could suppress them, but that didn’t mean Qian Duoqun could.

Having lived among the common folk for many years, Qian carried heavy worldly energy. Though he’d never committed serious sins, he’d taken plenty of small advantages — enough to weaken his own fortune.

With that kind of constitution, even if the ghosts didn’t intentionally harm him, their yin energy would gradually seep into his body, making him sickly and weak.

And since Qian played too many roles in this underfunded film crew, Zhong couldn’t afford to let him fall ill.

Zhong rose, intending to wait for Qian outside. Once he saw him, he’d draw a protective talisman on his back to temporarily ward off the villa’s yin energy. Then he would drive into the city to buy food rich in yang energy, enhance it with talismanic blessings, and brew it into soup. Everyone in the crew would have to drink a bowl daily to prevent yin energy from invading their bodies and shortening their lifespan.

Just as he stepped out of his bedroom, a delicious aroma hit his nose. Having skipped breakfast, Zhong’s stomach began growling loudly.

The smell came from the first-floor dining room. Following it, Zhong found the table laid out with buns, porridge, and boiled eggs.

A kind middle-aged woman — Auntie Yang — stood in the corner, beaming. Upon seeing Zhong, she said, “I didn’t know what Master likes to eat, so I made some traditional dishes. If they don’t suit your taste, just tell me — I’ll prepare something else right away.”

Zhong frowned at the beautiful, fragrant breakfast on the table. This wasn’t a matter of whether he liked it — it was a question of where these ingredients had come from!

“Where did you get these ingredients?” Zhong asked.

Auntie Yang answered respectfully, “Two years ago, when the previous owners moved in, they bought lots of rice, flour, meat, and eggs. When they moved out, they left them behind, so I used what was here to make breakfast.”

Zhong Jiudao: “……”

Rice and flour can last a long time, so maybe — maybe — they were still edible. But meat and eggs? After two years?

“Master need not worry,” said Auntie Yang. “The steward preserved the ingredients with yin energy. Ancient corpses nourished by yin energy can remain lifelike for a thousand years — this is merely two-year-old animal flesh; it’s still perfectly fresh.”

Zhong Jiudao: “……”

Excellent. With that one explanation, Auntie Yang had not only made him lose his appetite, but also ensured he might never look at meat the same way again.

“Can you appear in daylight too? And you can see fire?” Zhong asked, deciding not to dwell on the “yin-energy preservation” issue — better to change the subject before breakfast forever haunted his thoughts.

Auntie Yang replied modestly, “We’ve been ghosts for many years, and we have some protective methods. As long as we don’t stand under the noonday sun when the yang energy is strongest, we’re fine. This house is heavy with yin energy, shaded by trees and rarely touched by sunlight. Except for the rooftop, we can move about freely in all rooms.”

In this way, the ghosts he had hired could film even during the daytime — and the other crew members wouldn’t grow suspicious.

“Master? Aren’t you having breakfast?” Auntie Yang looked up and asked.

Every ghost had some lingering obsession. Zhong Jiudao vaguely sensed that Auntie Yang’s obsession was connected to food. He didn’t know how she had died, or what had happened to her while cooking in life, but somehow she had become fixated on making people eat her dishes.

Naturally, Zhong Jiudao wouldn’t touch the breakfast. Under Auntie Yang’s disappointed gaze, he left the dining room and stood in the front hall, saying loudly: “Soon, some people will come here. They’re also part of the film crew — your colleagues. For the next two or three months, they’ll live and work here. You must behave according to the rules and decorum (NT: to act with discipline and restraint), and under no circumstances may you harm them.”

Several gusts of cold wind swirled through the hall — the ghosts’ way of promising compliance.

“And if anyone can’t control themselves…”

Zhong’s eyes swept over the electrical panel on the first floor, and he gave a cold smile. “Filming consumes a lot of electricity.”

A dozen cold gusts shivered at once, each ghost hastily promising obedience.

After giving his warnings, Zhong Jiudao finally stepped outside. The flowers that had bloomed the night before had all withered, leaving the garden in decay and desolation.

Only the stone path at the entrance remained spotless, not a single fallen leaf upon it.

Zhong waited by the gate for over ten minutes before Qian Duoqun arrived, driving a small truck that pulled up before the villa.

Qian was an ordinary-looking man of medium build, twenty-eight years old, yet appearing closer to forty. Years of hard struggle at the bottom rung of society had carved fatigue into his face.

He wasn’t alone in the truck. A tall, long-legged, handsome young man with a pure gaze and fresh, sunny demeanour stepped down as well. Upon seeing Zhong Jiudao, he greeted him politely: “Hello, Director. My name is Luo Huai. Brother Qian introduced me — I came to audition. I hope you’ll give me a chance.”

Zhong looked at Qian Duoqun. “And he is…?”

Qian quickly pulled Zhong aside and whispered: “I tricked him into coming. He’s a silly, fair and sweet type. Three months of filming, and he only asked for ten thousand yuan. That’s cheaper than a background extra.”

“…How did you manage that?” Zhong asked.

Luo Huai was strikingly good-looking, and — more precious still — he had the unpolished freshness of youth. That natural aura couldn’t be taught.
An actor with such looks and presence could easily land a decent role in a popular youth drama. His pay might not be high, but it certainly wouldn’t be that low.

“I told him you’re a powerful director with strong backing, and this film is going to be a huge hit — he followed me right away,” Qian said proudly. “Even a horror movie needs a pretty face for the poster. With his looks, a few close-ups alone will draw in the audience.”

Zhong Jiudao, who could be ruthless with vengeful spirits, was rather kind toward good-hearted people. Seeing Luo Huai’s naïve, earnest face — and knowing he’d been duped into working for almost nothing — Zhong felt a pang of guilt.

“The pay really is too low,” he said softly.

“Hey, he’s lucky to be here at all!” Qian argued quickly, seeing Zhong’s hesitation. “When I found him, he was about to be scammed into an ‘audition’ by one of those notorious casting pimps. That guy—tsk, tsk—he ruins every actor he touches. Bringing Luo Huai here actually saved his life! So the low pay is his thank-you fee.”

With that, Qian left Zhong and went over to Luo Huai.

“Director Zhong says you’re too young, your acting’s too raw, and he doesn’t want to use you. I had to beg and plead to convince him. So you’d better perform well. Be alert, use your eyes, and don’t look dull, understand?”

As expected of a silly sweet, Luo Huai beamed with gratitude and bowed deeply to Zhong Jiudao. “Thank you, Director Zhong, for giving me this opportunity!”

Then he ran back to the truck, lifted down two large crates, and asked earnestly, “Director Zhong, where should I put these props?”

Zhong Jiudao sighed. “...No need to move the props yet. Just drive the truck into the courtyard.”

 

Translator : DarNan