Thanks to Luo Huai’s foolishness, the awkward situation was finally eased.

Everyone said he was a fool, but Luo Huai didn’t think so. He believed he could still tell who was a good person and who was a bad one.

Earlier, Brother Liu — the one who’d said he would give him a role — had asked him out for dinner. Luo Huai hadn’t really wanted to go, but he wasn’t very good at turning people down. Just when he was fretting about it, Brother Qian helped him out of the situation. Luo Huai was very happy and deeply grateful to Brother Qian, so he readily accepted his invitation and decided to take part in Director Zhong’s film.

Although the pay was a bit low, and Director Zhong was just a newly graduated rookie with no fame, Luo Huai was also a fresh graduate himself. Having food and lodging provided along with a modest salary was already quite good.

Of course, Luo Huai knew that the pay was even lower than what background actors earned, but he had worked as an extra when he was in school, so he knew how exhausting that job was — long hours, heavy work, finding one’s own accommodation, and never getting a single line. So, he already felt very grateful being able to get this job.

After Brother Qian drove the truck into the courtyard, Luo Huai took the initiative to carry the boxes to the spot Director Zhong had designated.

The villa was huge — the first floor alone covered over a thousand square meters. In the centre was a grand hall, with several doors and corridors leading to rooms like the study, kitchen, and small sitting room.

Down the hallway past the kitchen was the storage room. Brother Qian had him put the cheaper and longer-lasting props in the storeroom, while Director Zhong himself carried the more valuable props upstairs, using one of the bedrooms as a storage room for important items.

“Put it here,” said someone after Director Zhong left.

Following the voice, Luo Huai saw a middle-aged man dressed in clothes that looked like they came from the Republican era. His skin was very pale, slightly plump, giving off an impression of smoothness and shrewdness.

“Who are you…?” Luo Huai asked, holding the box, his breath clouding in the chilly storeroom.

“I’m Steward Lin. There may be more props delivered later. Don’t pile things near the door — they’ll block the way. Keep everything organized,” said the man.

Luo Huai hadn’t read the script yet; he’d only heard Brother Qian mention the story briefly on the way. He knew there were indeed some Republican-era characters, and since Steward Lin was wearing a costume, Luo Huai naturally assumed this man was an actor playing the butler from the script.

This senior actor was truly professional — already in costume and in character even before filming had begun. His gestures and expressions perfectly embodied a butler from an old, wealthy family of that era. Impressive!

Feeling respect, Luo Huai followed the newcomer’s principle of “speak less, do more”, and went “hey hey,” carrying the boxes from the truck into the storeroom.

“Are you one of the actors in this film?” he asked curiously after setting down the last box where Steward Lin had directed, wiping his sweat with his sleeve.

“Not necessarily,” Steward Lin replied anxiously. “I haven’t auditioned yet. There are many competitors. I don’t know if the master will choose me.”

“Master?” Luo Huai tilted his head, thinking that by master he must mean Director Zhong.

In his mind, the fact that Steward Lin could blend his role into daily life meant his acting must be excellent. He hadn’t expected such a skilled senior to still need to audition — Director Zhong must have very high standards.

If even Steward Lin had to audition, while he himself had been cast directly, that made Luo Huai feel even more grateful to Brother Qian. Without him, he might never have gotten this chance.

He felt a bit embarrassed to admit that he was already a confirmed cast member.

The air in the storeroom suddenly became awkward. Luo Huai wanted to leave but didn’t know what excuse to make. Just then, he heard a faint sound of crying.

“Someone’s crying?” Luo Huai looked toward Steward Lin.

Earlier he hadn’t dared to look directly at the man, but when he lifted his head now, he got a fright — Steward Lin was standing right in front of him, his hand raised above Luo Huai’s head, his face pale-blue and corpse-like.

Luo Huai stumbled back two steps, thinking — how did Steward Lin walk so silently? And why was he standing so close?

“Caught me, huh?” Steward Lin smiled eerily. “I was just thinking of giving you a scare.”

“Oh, so it was a joke!” Luo Huai patted his chest in relief. “You nearly scared me to death. What role are you auditioning for, Steward Lin?”

“A ghost,” said Steward Lin.

“No wonder you walk without making a sound! You’re getting into character for the audition, right? With acting that good, I’m sure Director Zhong will pick you!” Luo Huai said sincerely.

“Is that so?” Hearing Luo Huai mention Director Zhong, Steward Lin stopped moving closer.

The woman’s sobbing grew louder, more sorrowful. Luo Huai’s heart twisted with sympathy, and he couldn’t help asking, “Steward Lin— no, that sounds too formal. I’ll call you Brother Lin instead. Brother Lin, who’s crying?”

“It’s the Third Concubine and the Fifth Concubine. Their business isn’t something I can interfere with,” Steward Lin said.

Within the sobbing came a soft, delicate female voice: “Elder sister, with acting like yours, the master will never pick you. Just obediently become the power source instead. The lead role will surely be mine. After all, I’ve never offended the master.”

Then came a sharp scream — two women seemed to have started fighting.

Hearing that it was a quarrel about competing for roles, Luo Huai felt it wasn’t his place to intervene, so he stopped asking questions.

While he was listening closely to the cries, Steward Lin stood behind him, his hand hovering over Luo Huai’s neck several times, withdrawing it each time as if struggling intensely.

After several moments of struggle, Steward Lin could no longer suppress the urge rising from deep within his spirit — he finally reached determinedly toward Luo Huai’s heart.

“What are you doing here?” came a voice from the doorway.

Luo Huai turned and saw Director Zhong — tall and imposing — standing there, watching him.

“I came to put away the props. Brother Lin told me to put them here,” Luo Huai answered obediently. “Strange — where did Brother Lin go? He was here just now.”

“The villa’s electrical voltage isn’t stable. He’s probably gone to fix the power.”
Director Zhong’s left hand hung at his side, index and middle fingers pressed together — if one looked closely, faint threads of lightning flickered around his fingertips.

“Brother Lin can do that too? What a versatile actor!” Luo Huai said admiringly.

“Don’t stay in the storeroom too long. The yin qi (NT: cold or ghostly energy) is heavy… I mean, it’s cold and damp down here; you might get sick. Your room is upstairs — I’ll take you there,” said Director Zhong.

“You’ve prepared a room for me? Then, Director Zhong, does that mean I can really take part in the filming? That I’m officially confirmed?” Luo Huai pointed to himself, face glowing with excitement.

Zhong Jiudao nodded. “You have excellent looks and presence. It’s actually our honour to have you participate in my low-budget film.”

“No, no, my acting is pretty average. I still need to learn from you, Director Zhong,” Luo Huai said cheerfully. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity!”

Zhong Jiudao: “…”

This silly young man was exactly as Qian Duoqun had described — he’d probably thank the person even after being sold by them.

(NT: from the idiom: “被卖了还在给人数钱”, literally “even after being sold, he’s still helping the seller count the money”; meaning someone so naïve or good-natured that they remain grateful even when deceived or taken advantage of).

If he hadn’t arrived in time just now, Luo Huai’s vital energy might have already been drained away by that “Steward Lin.”

The character Huai (槐) in Luo Huai’s name meant “locust tree,” which in Daoist lore was associated with spirits and the underworld (NT: certain woods like locust or willow are traditionally believed to attract or house spirits).
Having that name naturally made him more susceptible to “unclean” entities.

After reading Luo Huai’s résumé, Zhong Jiudao also discovered that his Eight Characters were extremely “light” — meaning he was born with weak yang energy (NT: ‘warm’, life energy. He has a vulnerable consitution) and was therefore the kind of person most likely to encounter ghosts.

(NT: Eight characters: elements such as one’s birth date and hour used in Chinese astrology to determine fate and fortune)

Even though Zhong Jiudao had already warned the villa’s “power sources” (NT: ie. the ghosts who are literally powering the place), there were still spirits who couldn’t resist the temptation that Luo Huai’s presence posed.

To be safe, it was best to add another layer of protection.

Walking behind Luo Huai, Zhong Jiudao quietly drew a protective talisman in the air.

For such a talisman to take effect, it had to be affixed to the person’s chest or to the middle of their back, near the heart. Zhong Jiudao quickened his pace to catch up to Luo Huai, planning to touch his back with the lightest, most imperceptible pat — gentle enough that Luo Huai wouldn’t even notice it.

Just as his palm came to rest lightly on Luo Huai’s back, the young man walking ahead suddenly stopped, turned his head, and said, “Director Zhong, I’m not familiar with the layout of the villa — you should walk in front.”

Because he stopped and turned so suddenly, Zhong Jiudao’s hand — which had meant only to brush lightly against his back — ended up pressed firmly there, and since the distance between them was so small, his lips almost touched the tip of Luo Huai’s nose.

Luo Huai was 181 cm tall — a very advantageous height in the entertainment industry, already taller than most people.
But Zhong Jiudao happened to be a full ten centimeters taller, and by sheer coincidence, their positions ended up just so.

Luo Huai’s body instantly froze, and an embarrassed expression crossed his face.

Despite the awkward posture, Zhong Jiudao dutifully pressed the protective talisman onto his back before stepping away and saying calmly, “You were walking too slowly, I must have unconsciously caught up to you.”

Luo Huai, still shaken, said, “Good thing, good thing — I thought Director Zhong was testing my ability to react when startled on set, and I was worried I didn’t perform well enough.”

Zhong Jiudao: “…”

It was thanks to Luo Huai being stupid that this awkward moment eased up.

With the talisman in place, as long as Luo Huai didn’t actively touch a ghost or make any promises to one (NT: traditionally, making verbal promises to spirits forms binding karmic contracts), he wouldn’t be harmed.

Earlier, when they were moving props, Zhong Jiudao had also secretly attached one to Qian Duoqun. Now, both of them were safe…

“Sluuurp, sluurp—” As they passed by the dining room, the sound of someone drinking porridge came from inside.

“This porridge is amazing!” Qian Duoqun was sitting at the table, happily eating a bowl of meat porridge.
Aunt Yang stood behind him with a kindly smile on her face.

“You must be the chef Director Zhong hired! That’s way better than ordering boxed lunches — cheaper and tastes better too.”
Qian Duoqun gave her a thumbs-up. “Aunt Yang, I’ll be counting on you to handle all our meals from now on!”

Zhong Jiudao: “…”

Even a hundred protective charms couldn’t stop the disaster of someone actually eating food made by a ghost.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Aunt Yang said, gazing fondly at Qian Duoqun as though looking at a piglet ready for slaughter “I was worried Director Zhong didn’t like my cooking when he didn’t eat any earlier.”

“What’s there not to like?” Qian Duoqun said cheerfully. “Our production is broke — being able to hire a cook as skilled as you, Auntie, is really—”

Before he could finish, he collapsed face-first into his bowl, foam bubbling from his mouth.

“Brother Qian!” Luo Huai cried out anxiously, rushing over. “Brother Qian, what’s wrong? Is it food poisoning? I’ll call an ambulance right now!”

He pulled out his phone, but Zhong Jiudao pressed his hand down firmly.

“It’s fine. He won’t die,” Zhong Jiudao said through gritted teeth. “He just drank cold porridge.”

“But he’s passed out and foaming at the mouth!” Luo Huai said in alarm.

“His stomach’s just chilled, causing reflux,” Zhong Jiudao said, turning on the induction stove to boil water. “A bit of hot water will fix it.”

“Really?” Luo Huai asked, doubtful.

Zhong Jiudao pulled out a sheet of paper, wrote something on it, burned it, and tossed the ashes into the boiling water.

He poured the water into a bowl, then expertly held Qian Duoqun’s jaw open and poured the mixture down his throat.

“Why are you feeding him ash in water?” Luo Huai asked.

“Plant ash is an herbal medicine ingredient — it can cure illnesses,” Zhong Jiudao said with a perfectly straight face.

“But that’s paper, not plants!” Luo Huai remarked.

“Paper’s made from plants. Burn it, and it’s the same effect. See? He’s waking up already.”

Sure enough, after drinking the talisman water, Qian Duoqun slowly opened his eyes, wiped the foam from his mouth, and said in confusion, “Huh? How’d I fall asleep while eating?”

Zhong Jiudao was still trying to come up with an explanation when Luo Huai added earnestly,
“Brother Qian, you really shouldn’t drink cold porridge anymore. It’s bad for your stomach — you’ll get reflux and start foaming at the mouth.”

Zhong Jiudao: “…”

Perfect. Thank heavens Luo Huai was such an innocent, sweet person.
This actor was a keeper — even if it cost extra, Zhong Jiudao was definitely going to hire him!

 

Translator : DarNan