At the foot of the mountain lay Yilong County, with a population of less than five thousand households. The Zhang and Wang families were the largest clans, and among the Zhangs, the most famous was the Benjamin Bolton residence in the south of the county. The reason was not that his family was the wealthiest, but because his wife was the daughter of the prominent Xianyu family from Xinzheng County. The clan leader, Xianyu Shijian, had two sons, both serving as officials elsewhere. With such powerful backing, the The Bolton Residence naturally became the gathering place for the county’s gentry and officials.

Benjamin Bolton was henpecked, which led to his family having few descendants; he had only one son, named Brian Bolton. In his youth, Brian Bolton was fond of cockfighting and horse riding, and as he grew older, he became infatuated with brothels, spending his days with courtesans and earning quite a reputation as a playboy in Yilong County.

But in the past two days, the The Bolton Residence had been thrown into chaos. The young master Brian Bolton had suddenly become dull-witted and drooling, looking completely deranged—clinging to his mother and calling her “wife,” tugging at his father and calling him “servant.” Mr. Bolton urgently summoned renowned doctors for treatment, but after a long examination, the diagnosis was: possessed by evil spirits.

Since it was a case of possession, it was no longer a matter for doctors. Benjamin Bolton went everywhere seeking monks and Taoists with magical powers. Two days ago, a monk arrived, looking like a bodhisattva, smiling like Maitreya, holding a flower mudra and chanting the Diamond Sutra, claiming to be a Bodhi Master from the South Sea, here to save all beings in the Central Plains. Mrs. Bolton truly believed he was a bodhisattva incarnate and served him with the best food and drink. In the end, however, Brian Bolton dumped a whole jar of excrement on his bald head, sending him fleeing in panic.

Although Brian Bolton's illness was severe, everyone in the household except the distressed Zhang couple knew the real cause. It all started because Brian Bolton's maternal uncle, who was an official elsewhere, had some connections. Seeing that the county constable of Xinzheng was nearing retirement age, he wanted to secure a position for his nephew, so he could also look after his own family. But there was only one condition: the candidate had to have an official degree, at least be a “juren.” When the message reached the The Bolton Residence, Benjamin Bolton was overjoyed. Although a county constable was a low-ranking official, it was still an official post. But then he became disheartened—his son didn’t even qualify as a “tongsheng,” let alone a “juren.” Fortunately, there was still a year or two before the constable retired, so there was time to study. After tactfully explaining to his son that he needed to work hard at his studies from now on, Brian Bolton was so shocked that he suddenly became “possessed.”

Although Benjamin Bolton also found this “possession” rather suspicious, he was old and couldn’t withstand his wife’s rolling pin, so he had no choice but to send people everywhere to seek out immortals and Taoists.

……

“Damn it, where am I supposed to find some plague-ridden Taoist to catch ghosts?”

Charles Bolton rubbed the swollen bump on his forehead and cursed angrily. This was already the third time in two days he’d been knocked on the head. It was obvious the young master was faking it, but the master and mistress just couldn’t see through it, and had driven all the servants out to look for monks and Taoists. In this freezing winter, wouldn’t monks and Taoists rather be snuggled up in bed thinking about nuns and priestesses?

“Amitabha! Are you looking for a Taoist, benefactor?”

Charles Bolton was startled and spun around, as if he’d seen a ghost, stumbling back several steps. He had just been thinking about Taoists, and now two had appeared behind him. In front of him stood an old and a young Taoist, both grinning at him. The old Taoist wore a blue hemp robe covered in bristles and stains of unknown origin, held a horsetail whisk in his left hand, and clutched a coarse cloth sack tightly in his right, as if afraid someone would snatch it away—his knuckles were white from gripping it. The young Taoist beside him was covered in twigs and grass, his fists clenched tightly. Though he was also smiling, there was clearly something sinister in his grin.

Charles Bolton felt a wave of anxiety and stammered, “Yes, but…” He hesitated. These two looked less like Taoists and more like beggars—could he really bring them back to the residence?

“But what? We are orthodox Taoists from Mount Qingcheng, with official credentials.” The young Taoist patted himself down for a long time but couldn’t find anything, then laughed, “Maybe it’s in the bundle!” and started to open the huge luggage bag to search carefully.

“All right! Stop looking.” Charles Bolton’s forehead throbbed with pain, and he sighed inwardly, then stopped the young Taoist.

“My household is indeed seeking Taoists to exorcise evil spirits. Please, both of you, come with me.”

The two Taoists exchanged a glance, unable to hide the joy in their eyes: “If they asked us to explain Daoist classics, we might not be able to fool them, but exorcising ghosts and spirits—now that’s our specialty!”

When it comes to exorcising ghosts, the first thing is to size up the client. The family’s clothes were made of fine, almost-new linen, and their shoes were silk-faced with cloth soles, though washed to a faded white. With just a glance at Charles Bolton’s attire, Arthur Coleman made a preliminary judgment about the The Bolton Residence’s situation: a wealthy household, but probably a bit stingy.

“Brother, how long have you been out? In this freezing winter, have you had dinner yet?”

Charles Bolton glanced at them and said coolly, “Don’t worry! Since you’re here to exorcise evil, you’ll be well fed.” Suddenly remembering something, he lowered his voice and said urgently, “You’re here to exorcise evil for the young master, but remember this: the evil is all in his mind, it’s nothing serious, understand?”

The two were overjoyed. The implication was that the young master wasn’t really possessed at all. Arthur Coleman quickly pulled out a handful of coins from his sack and quietly slipped them to Charles Bolton, saying, “Thanks for the tip, brother. Take this and have a bowl of wine to warm yourself up.”