Chapter 11: The Old Temple and the Strange Mist

Throughout the meal, Shang Lu maintained his usual manner of devouring food, head down and focused solely on eating. In contrast, Shang Mingqiu and Wu Guizhi ate with some restraint. Though the dishes on the table appeared perfectly normal, the thought that they were prepared by a ghost left them uneasy. They feared that, once in their mouths, the food might transform into poisonous insects, toads, or mere stones. If it weren’t for their own son’s carefree appetite—his relish unmistakable—they might not have dared to touch a single bite.

Shang Lu, engrossed in his meal, noticed their apprehension but chose to remain silent. In the Kingdom of Ba, the arts of shamanism and ghosts were widespread, yet people still harbored deep-seated prejudices against spirits; Shang Mingqiu and Wu Guizhi were no exception. Their fears, suspicions, and worries were only to be expected. The very fact that they were willing to eat a meal prepared by Sanniang marked a significant change in attitude.

When Sanniang first arrived at their home in search of her husband, the entire household had been on high alert, all but wishing to smear human excrement and black dog’s blood over every door and wall to ward off evil. Just as rice is eaten one mouthful at a time, so too must beliefs change step by step—there could be no rushing such things.

Of course, Shang Lu’s silence did not mean he did nothing at all. While his right hand wielded chopsticks, his left reached for the oiled-paper umbrella resting on his stool—a silent gesture to comfort Sanniang, assuring her that, regardless of others’ opinions, she was his wife, not some evil spirit. He would find a way for his parents to accept and acknowledge her.

Suddenly, he felt a soft, cool little hand slip into his. He turned, but saw no trace of that graceful figure; the sensation in his palm, however, only grew more distinct. Sanniang had understood his intention and was responding in kind.

Shang Lu smiled and squeezed the delicate hand, even giving it a playful pinch. The little hand, bashful, tried to pull away, but his grip was firm; after a brief struggle, she resigned herself, allowing him to toy with her fingers. At the same time, Shang Lu felt another invisible hand lightly pummel him a few times—Sanniang, it seemed, was feigning annoyance.

Rather than being frightened, Shang Lu was secretly delighted. Oh, pretending to be shy and angry, are you? If you truly didn’t want me to hold your hand, you could simply vanish—instead of this half-hearted struggle and feigned outrage. The more she resisted, the more he wished to tease her, growing bolder in his mischief. To be fair, Sanniang’s hand was truly delightful to hold—icy cool, a soothing relief from the summer heat.

Little did Shang Mingqiu and Wu Guizhi imagine that, while they sat at one end of the table too tense to lift their chopsticks, their son was at the other end flirting with a ghost. Thankfully, this ghost was his lawful wife, so he could hardly be accused of impropriety.

After the meal, Wu Guizhi made to wash the dishes, but Sanniang was quicker and beat her to it. Once Sanniang had finished the household chores, Shang Lu prepared to depart for the county seat.

Shang Mingqiu and Wu Guizhi tried to persuade him to stay the night, but he declined. Partly, he wished to return home to cultivate his skills. Although he could train at their ancestral home in Shuanggui Village, it was too easy for neighbors—or even members of the Black Wind Gang—to spot him. Should word spread and reach the likes of Sun Ying, who knew what trouble might ensue if they learned his abilities were returning.

Moreover, Shang Lu understood that if he remained, his parents would likely spend a sleepless night. Even if they said nothing, they still harbored a measure of fear toward Sanniang.

“Father, Mother, remember what I said: if anything happens, come find me in the county at once. That’s enough, there’s no need to see me off—go back now.” Though Shang Lu insisted there was no need, Shang Mingqiu and Wu Guizhi nonetheless accompanied him all the way to the village entrance.

After bidding his parents farewell, Shang Lu had just set off along the village path when he felt a tug at his sleeve. Turning in the direction of the pull, he saw a small shrine, resembling a miniature temple, built beneath the two ancient osmanthus trees at the village gate.

This was the Old Master Shrine worshipped by Shuanggui Village. Though humble, it had stood for many years. No one in the village could say for certain which deity it honored—some claimed it was the Earth God, others the City God, still others the Dragon King. Nevertheless, its incense was ever-burning, with villagers paying homage daily.

Gazing at the little shrine beneath the osmanthus trees, Shang Lu guessed, “Do you want me to offer incense at the Old Master Shrine?”

“Yes…” came the faint, gentle reply.

I can actually hear Sanniang’s voice now! Is it because she’s learned to speak, or has my cultivation reached the Bone-Shedding stage? Shang Lu was both excited and delighted, tinged with curiosity. Although Sanniang’s voice was still indistinct, and she spoke only a word or two at a time, the fact that he could hear her at all was progress. Perhaps soon, he would be able to see her clearly. Perhaps, in time, he could even embrace her and share the intimacies of husband and wife. If Ning Caichen could do it, why couldn’t he?

Elated, Shang Lu practically skipped toward the shrine. He didn’t know why Sanniang wished him to offer incense, but since she had made the request, he would obey. His guiding principle: be attentive and spoil his wife.

At the shrine, he realized he hadn’t brought any incense. He was about to ask his parents to fetch some when, suddenly, something appeared in his hand—three sticks of incense, their tips already glowing, pressed into his palm by Sanniang. She truly was as thoughtful as ever.

Holding the incense reverently, Shang Lu bowed before the crude idol within the shrine. The statue was roughly hewn, barely human in shape, let alone identifiable as any particular deity. After his prayers, he placed the incense in the burner.

Only then did Shang Mingqiu and Wu Guizhi approach, faces puzzled, to ask what he was doing. Not wanting them to overthink, Shang Lu smiled, “I’ve been away for some days; I thought I should offer incense to the Old Master and ask him to watch over you both.”

Satisfied with his explanation, his parents asked no more. After one final farewell, Shang Lu slung his ox-tail saber over his shoulder and left Shuanggui Village. Only when he was some distance away did he ask, with curiosity, “Did you want me to offer incense because the deity in the shrine is truly effective, able to protect my parents?”

He waited a long time, but Sanniang gave no reply. Shang Lu wasn’t embarrassed; in the past month he’d grown accustomed to these one-sided conversations.

He continued, “I plan to visit the shaman’s temple in Baichuan Town—it’s your ancestral place, after all. I’ll offer incense there too, to thank them for giving you to me. According to my calculations, even with the detour, I’ll make it back to the county seat before nightfall.”

Still, Sanniang remained silent, though the oiled-paper umbrella swayed a few times, as if in agreement.

The shaman’s temple in Baichuan Town was dedicated to the Mother Earth, Lady Hou Tu. Inside the main hall, apart from her statue, stood seven or eight small wooden plaques. Each bore a name, place of origin, birth and death dates—details of those in neighboring towns who had died unmarried. Their parents, wishing to arrange posthumous marriages but having yet to find suitable matches, would place these plaques in the temple, awaiting fate.

Had Shang Lu not been matched with Sanniang, his own details might have ended up on such a plaque. In a sense, the shaman’s temple was a matchmaking market—albeit one for the dead.

After offering incense, Shang Lu thanked the temple keeper and donated some money in gratitude for their help in arranging his marriage. The elderly keeper, somewhat forgetful, scarcely remembered officiating Shang Lu’s ghost wedding just a month prior, though he counted the donation with practiced ease.

When Shang Lu departed, the keeper checked the sky, closed the temple doors and knelt before Lady Hou Tu’s statue, mumbling scriptures under his breath.

Leaving Baichuan Town, Shang Lu saw the sun sinking low and a faint mist rising with the night. He quickened his pace. Nightfall would have meant little to him. Ordinary folk would have been unable to enter the city after dark, but Shang Lu was a constable, well-acquainted with the city guards. Even if the gates were shut, they could lower a basket from the walls and haul him up with no trouble at all.

The real concern was the night fog; if it thickened, it could obscure the path and lead to getting lost. Yet, to his surprise, Shang Lu found himself lost before the fog had even thickened. After leaving Baichuan Town and walking more than ten miles, he stopped at a fork in the road, astonished.

“I’ve already passed this junction—I’ve come full circle?”

“Did I take the wrong path? But even if I did, I shouldn’t have looped back—I haven’t taken any turns or detours.”

As Shang Lu hesitated, darkness suddenly fell—not the coming of night, but a strange mist, billowing down from Yunhua Mountain, blanketing the area and blotting out the last rays of the setting sun.